CXXIV.

If here and there some transient trait of pity,
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through
Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty
Child, or an aged helpless man or two-
What's this in one annihilated city,

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow?
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.

CXXV.

Think how the joys of reading a gazette

Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or, if these do not move you, don't forget

Such doom may be your own in after times. Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt,

Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. CXXVI.

But still there is unto a patriot nation,

Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation,

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throneThough Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. CXXVII.

But let me put an end unto my theme:

There was an end of Ismail-hapless town!
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream

Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some hundreds breathed-the rest were silent all!

CXXVIII.

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise
The Russian army upon this occasion,

A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,

And therefore worthy of commemoration: The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, Had made them chaste;-they ravish'd very little.

CXXIX.

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line;-but not to such excess

As when the French, that dissipated nation,
Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,

Except cold weather and commiseration;
But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
Were almost as much virgins as before.
CXXX.

Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark,
Which show'd a want of lanthorns, or of taste-
Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark
Their friends from foes,-besides such things from

haste

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark

Of light to save the venerably chaste:But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.

CXXXI.

But on the whole their continence was great;
So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state
Of a single blessedness,» and thought it good
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate,

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.
CXXXII.

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
Were also heard to wonder in the din
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged)

« Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!»
But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness-I can only hope they did.
CXXXIII.

Suwarrow now was conqueror-a match
For Timor or for Zinghis in his trade,
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd,
With bloody hands he wrote his first dispatch;
And here exactly follows what he said :-
Glory to God and to the Empress!» (Powers
Eternal! such names mingled!)«<< Ismail 's ours '>9

CXXXIV.

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since « Mene, Menè, Tekel,» and « Upharsin,> Which hands or pns have ever traced of swords. Heaven help me! I'm but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations;-but this Russ, so witty, Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.

CXXXV.

He wrote this polar melody, and set it,

Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it-
For I will teach, if possible, the stones
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it

Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones;-
But ye-our children's children! think how we
Show'd what things were before the world was free'
CXXXVI.

That hour is not for us, but 't is for you;

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, You hardly will believe such things were true

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you em, But may their very memory perish too!

Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em, More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

CXXXVII.

And when you hear historians talk of thrones,
And those that sate upon them, let it be

As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones,

And wonder what old world such things could see: Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,

The pleasant riddles of futurityGuessing at what shall happily be hid As the real purpose of a pyramid.

CXXXVIII.
Reader! I have kept my word,-
-at least so far
As the first canto promised. You have now
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war-

All very accurate, you must allow,
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar:
For I have drawn much less with a long bow
Than my fore-runners. Carelessly I sing,
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,
CXXXIX.

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What further hath befallen or may befal

The hero of this grand poetic riddle,

I by and by may tell you, if at all:
But now I chuse to break off in the middle,

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall,
While Juan is sent off with the dispatch,
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.
CXL.

This special honour was conferr'd, because

He had behaved with courage and humanity;Which last men like, when they have time to pause From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gain'd him some applause, For saving her amidst the wild insanity

Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St Vladimir.

VI.

I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,

And send the sentinel before your gate,

A slice or two from your luxurious meals:* He fought, but has not fed so well of late. Some hunger too they say the people feels: There is no doubt that you deserve your rationBut pray give back a little to the nation.

VII.

I don't mean to reflect-a man so great as
You, my Lord Duke! is far above reflection.
The high Roman fashion too of Cincinnatus

With modern history has but small connexion: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,

You need not take them under your direction; And half a million for your Sabine farm

Is rather dear!--I'm sure I mean no harm.

VIII.

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses; Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,

Not leaving even his funeral expenses:

George Washington had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.

IX.

Never had mortal man such opportunity,
Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity
Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore;
And now-what is your fame? Shall the muse tune it ye?
Now that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?
Go, hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
Behold the world! and curse your victories!

X.

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,
To you the unflattering muse deigns to inscribe
Truths that you will not read in the gazettes,

But which, t is time to teach the hireling tribe
Who fatten on their country's gore and debts,

Must be recited, and-without a bribe.

You did great things; but, not being great in mind,
Have left undone the greatest-and mankind.
XI.

Death laughs-Go ponder o'er the skeleton

With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun

Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring: Death laughs at all you weep for;-look upon

This hourly dread of all whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath! Mark! how its lipless mouth grins without breath! XII.

Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
And yet was what you are: from ear to ear

It laughs not-there is now no fleshy bar

So call'd; the antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far

He strips from man that mantle-far more dear
Than even the tailor's,-his incarnate skin,
White, black, or copper-the dead bones will grin.
XIII.

And thus Death laughs-it is sad merriment,
But still it is so; and with such example
Why should not Life be equally content,
With his superior, in a smile to trample
Upon the nothings which are daily spent

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample
Than the eternal deluge, which devours
Suns as rays-worlds like atoms-years like hours?

XIV.

To be, or not to be! that is the question,» Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion,

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion, Than Bonaparte's caucer:-could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame, Without a stomach-what were a good name? XV.

«Oh, dura ilia messorum!»-« Ob,

Ye rigid guts of reapers!»-1 translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is-that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow, A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate; Let this one toil for bread-that rack for rent,He who sleeps best may be the most content.

XVI

«To be, or not to be!»-Ere I decide,

I should be glad to know that which is being. T is true we speculate both far and wide,

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing For my part, I'll enlist on neither side,

Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

XVII.

«Que sais-je ? » was the motto of Montaigne,
As also of the first academicians:
That all is dubious which man may attain,
Was one of their most favourite positions.
There's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain
As any of mortality's conditions:

So little do we know what we 're about in
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.
XVIII.

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
Your wise men don't know much of navigation,
And swimming long in the abyss of thought
Is apt to tire; a calm and shallow station
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gather
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

thropy

I comprehend; for, without transformation,
Men become wolves on any slight occasion.
XXI

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
Like Moses, or Melanethon, who have ne'er
Done any thing exceedingly unkind,—

And though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)

Have always had a tendency to spare,—
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because
They hate me, not I them :- And here we 'll pause.
XXII.

Tis time we should proceed with our good poem,
For I maintain that it is really good,
Not only in the body, but the proem,

However little both are understood

Just now, but by and by the truth will show 'em
Herself in her sublimest attitude:

And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.
XXIII

Our hero and, I trust, kiud reader! yours)-
Was left upon his way to the chief city

Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors,

Who still have shown themselves more brave then

witty;

I know its mighty empire now allures

Much flattery-even Voltaire's, and that's a pity

For me. I deem an absolute autocrat

Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

XXIV.

XXV.

It is not that I adulate the people:

Without me there are demagogues enough,
And infidels to pull down every steeple,

And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,
As is the christian dogma rather rough,
I do not know;-I wish men to be free
As much from mobs as kings-from you as me.
XXVI.

The consequence is, being of no party,

I shall offend all parties:-never mind!
My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.

He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind

May still expatiate freely, as will I,
Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.

XXVII

That's an appropriate simile, that jackal;

I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl By night, as do that mercenary pack all,

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
However the poor jackals are less foul
(As being the brave lions' keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.
XXVIII.

Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say--
(Or rather peoples)—go on without pause!
The web of these tarantulas each day

Increases, till you shall make common cause:
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

XXIX.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the dispatch,
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter

Fair Catherine's pastime-who look'd on the match
Between these nations as a main of cocks,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

XXX.

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,

And orders, and on all that he had done

And wishing that post-horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

XXXIV.

Oh ye! or we! or she! or he! reflect,
That one life saved, especially if young

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd
With all the praises ever said or sung:
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within
Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din.
XXXV.

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us!
Whether you 're paid by government in bribes,
prove the public debt is not consuming us—
Or, roughly treading on the « courtier's kibes»>
With clownish heel, your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation.—

Το

XXXVIII

So Cuvier says; and then shall come again
Unto the new creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt:
Like to the notions we now entertain

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.
XXXIX.

Think, if then George the Fourth should be dug up!
How the new worldlings of the then new east
Will wonder where such animals could sup!
(For they themselves will be but of the least:
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
And every new creation hath decreased

In size, from overworking the material

Men are but maggots of some huge earthi's burial.)—

XL.

How will-to these young people, just thrust out
From some fresh paradise, and set to plough,
And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,

And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about,

Especially of war and taxing,-how,

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,
Look like the mousters of a new museum!

XLI.

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:

«The time is out of joint,»-and so am I; I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry.

I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this call Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next.

XLII.

So on I ramble, now and then narrating,

Now pondering. It is time we should narrate: I left Don Juan with his horses baitingNow we 'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating

His journey-we've so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows;

XLIII.

Suppose him in a handsome uniform;
A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm,

Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room,
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,
Of yellow kerseymere we may presume,
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk,
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk:
XLIV.

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand,
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor-
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command
Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler,
Seeing how art can make her work more grand,
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailor)-
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery!

XLV.

Ilis bandage slipp'd down into a cravat;
Ilis wings subdued to epaulets; bis quiver
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at

His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever;
His bow converted into a cock'd hat;

But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.

XLVI.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and

The empress smiled; the reigning favourite frown'd

I quite forget which of them was in hand
Just then, as they are rather numerous found,
Who took by turns that difficult command,

Since first her majesty was singly crown'd:
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous,

XLVII.

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless
There was a something in his turn of limb,
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express,
That though he look'd one of the seraphim,

There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.
Resides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi:
XLVIII.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momon off,
Or Scherbatoff, or any other off.

Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough
Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough
Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough,
Of him who, in the language of his station,
Then held that « high official situation.»

XLIX.

Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know
The import of this diplomatic phrase,
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess 5 show
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
Of that odd string of words all in a row,

Which none divine, and every one obeys,
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning,
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.
L.

I think I can explain myself without

That sad inexplicable beast of preyThat sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each dayThat monstrous hieroglyphic-that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight.

LI.

An English lady ask'd of an Italian,

What were the actual and official duties
Of the strange thing some women set a value on,
Which hovers oft about some married beauties,
Call'd << Cavalier Servente?»-a Pygmalion

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, Said- Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.»