1 IV. And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion" And may appear so when the dog-star rages; V. You, Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion That Poesy has wreaths for you alone: [ocean. Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for VI. I would not imitate the petty thought, Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought, Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary: was 't for that you wrought? And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. You're shabby fellows-true-but poets still, And duly seated on the immortal hill. VII. Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows Perhaps some virtuous blushes;-let them goyou I envy neither fruit nor boughs To And for the fame you would engross below, The field is universal, and allows Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow; Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 'Gainst you the question with posterity. VIII. For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, you 1 And recollect a poet nothing loses In giving to his brethren their full mee Of merit, and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise. IX. He that reserves his laurels for posterity To-God knows where-for no one else can know. X. If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, And makes the word "Miltonic" mean "sublime," XI. Think'st thou, could he-the blind Old Man-arisc Or be alive again-again all hoar With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? XII. Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! 1 XIII. An orator of such set trash of phrase That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, XIV. A bungler even in its disgusting trade, And botching, patching, leaving still behind Something of which its masters are afraid, States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, Conspiracy or Congress to be made— Cobbling at manacles for all mankind— A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, XV. If we may judge of matter by the mind, Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, XVI. Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er theeThy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, Have voices-tongues to cry aloud for me. Europe has slaves-allies-kings-armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill. XVII. Meantime-Sir Laureate-I proceed to dedicate, My politics as yet are all to educate: To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean; VENICE, Sept. 16, 1818. DON JUAN. CANTO THE FIRST. I. I WANT a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one; Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don JuanWe all have seen him, in the pantomime, Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. II. Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow: France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier Recorded in the "Moniteur" and "Courier." III. Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, Were French, and famous people, as we know; And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau, With many of the military set, Exceedingly remarkable at times, But not at all adapted to my rhymes. IV. Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, V. Brave men were living before Agamemnon,' A good deal like him too, though quite the same none; VI. Most epic poets plunge "in medias res' (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), Beside his mistress in some soft abode, VII. That is the usual method, but not mine- Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, And therefore I shall open with a line (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, VIII. In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, So says the proverb-and I quite agree; |