IV. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet Less from disgust of life than dread of death. V. "T is round him, near him, here, there, every where; And there's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it-when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,-you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it. VI. T is true, you don't-but, pale and struck with terror, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, XI. But why then publish?»-There are no rewards I ask in turn,—why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read?-To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink-I have had at least my dream. I think that were I' certain of success, I hardly could compose another line : And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your chusing- Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, To plunge with all your fears-but where? You know not, And were her object only what 's call'd glory, VII. But what's this to the purpose? you will say. This narrative is not meant for narration, You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind And such a straw, borne on by human breath, A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: The world is all before me-or behind; X. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke With more ease too, she 'd tell a different story. XIV. Love, war, a tempest-surely there's variety; A bird's-eye view too of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. XV. The portion of this world which I at present XVI. With much to excite, there's little to exalt; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were still But when of the first sight you have had your fill, XVIII. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score; Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There's litte left but to be bored or bore. Witness those « ci-devant jeunes hommes » who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. XIX. T is said indeed a general complaint That no one has succeeded in describing The monde exactly as they ought to paint. Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; And that their books have but one style in commonMy lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. XX. But this can't well be true, just now; for writers Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, Especially when young, for that 's essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? T is that, in fact, there's little to describe. XXI. «Haud ignara loquor:» these are nugæ, « quarum Pars parva fui,» but still art and part. Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, « Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit,» And therefore what I throw off is ideal Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of Freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real, As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated. XXIII. Alas! worlds fall-and woman, since she fell'd Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins, Have shaving too entailed upon their chins, XXIV. A daily plague which, in the aggregate, May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate The real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. XXV. All this were very well, and can't be better; XXVI. «Petticoat influence » is a great reproach, Which even those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, I for one venerate a petticoatA garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. XXVII. Much I respect, and much I have adored, In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, XXVIII. And when upon a silent, sullen day With a sirocco, for example, blowing,— We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun— XXX. And in-door life is less poetical; And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. But be it as it may, a bard must meet XXXI. Juan-in this respect at least like saints- And lived contentedly, without complaints, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires; Such were his trophies;-not of spear and shield, To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,— Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd, next day, «if men ever hunted twice ?» XXXVI. He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,He did not fall asleep just after dinner. XXXVII. But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue: Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret-cunoing rogue! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer; In short, there never was a better hearer. XXXVIII. And then he danced;-all foreigners excel A thing in footing indispensable: He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. XXXIX. Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, Which might defy a crotchet-critic's rigour. XL. Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, In Guido's famous fresco, which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The « tout ensemble» of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for, to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. XLI. No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved « tracasserie,⟫ Began to treat him with some small << agacerie.»> XLII. She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, For several winters in the grand, grand monde. XLIII. This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licenses must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 'T will but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on woman. XLIV. The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd; But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair. True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took But small concern about the when, or where, XLVI. But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line! Began to think the duchess' conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, And, waxing chiller in her courtesy, Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, There's nought in this bad world like sympathy: And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with-« Would you had thought twice! Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!» XLVIII. Oh, Job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : XLIX. But this is not my maxim : had it been, Some heart-aches had been spared me; yet I care not— I would not be a tortoise in his screen Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. T is better on the whole to have felt and seen That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. L. Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, «I told you so,» Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what yon now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst «bonos mores,» With a long memorandum of old stories. LI. The Lady Adeline's serene severity Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend; But Juan also shared in her austerity, But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, LII. These forty days' advantage of her years- And noble births, nor dread the enumeration Gave her a right to have maternal fears For a young gentleman's fit education, Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters, Admired, adored; but also so correct, Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand; I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; I hate it, as I hate an argument, A laureate's ode, or servile peer's « content.»> LIX. T is sad to hack into the roots of things, LX. That Juan was unlikely to resist- In England ranks quite on a different list The Lady Adeline resolved to take Such measures as she thought might best impede She thought with some simplicity indeed; And simple in the world, and doth not need It was not that she fear'd the very worst: Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere; One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt A lover with caprices soft and dear, That like to make a quarrel, when they can't Find one, each day of the delightful year; The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile Firstly, he said, «he never interfered In any body's business but the king's:» LXVII. And, therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth And being of the council call'd « the privy,» To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; It is because I do not know them yet, But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between my epic and its index. LXIX. But ere he went, he added a slight hint, And pass, for want of better, though not new: He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing: A goodly spirit for a state divan, A figure fit to walk before a king; Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van On birth-days, glorious with a star and string; The very model of a chamberlainAnd such I mean to make him when I reign. LXXI. But there was something wanting on the whole- A handsome man, that human miracle; LXXII. Still there was something wanting, as I've said- LXXIII. There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved By turns the difference of the several sexes: Neither can show quite how they would be loved. The sensual for a short time but connects usThe sentimental boasts to be unmoved; But both together form a kind of centaur, Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. |