And, like some other things, won't do to tell

VIII.

Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;

But though your years as man tend fast to zero, In fact your Grace is still but a young hero.

penses :

Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses :

George Washington had thanks, and nought beside,

(is) Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's 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: [unity You might have freed fallen Europe from the Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now-what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye? [o'er?

Now that the rabble's first vain shouts are Behold the world! and curse your victories! Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!

X.

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,

Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe

But which 'tis 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 fleshly 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

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 common 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] He who has nought to gain can have small art; 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 lion's keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.

XXVIII.

Raise but an arm, 'twill 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 despatch,
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;
And carcases, that lay as thick as thatch
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter

Fair Catharine'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.

ΧΧΧ.

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

* In Greece, I never saw or heard these animals: but amorg the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them in hundreds.

Of Pegasus, or, at the least, post-chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is

XXXI.

At every jolt-and they were many-still
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill,
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into His own hand.

XXXII.

At least He pays no rent, and has best right

To be the first of what we used to call

Gentlemen farmers,' -a race worn out quite, Since lately there have been no rents at all, And gentlemen' are in a piteous plight,

And 'farmers' can't raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte-what strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

XXXIII.

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter-what a
O ye who build up monuments defiled
trophy!

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,

And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;

XXXIV.

O ye! or we! or he! or she! 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.

O 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, To 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 starva

tion!

XXXVI.

O ye great authors!-Apropos des bottes,—
I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots:
'Twas something calculated to allay

He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had been exasperated by his extreme costivity to a degree of inSanity.

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
Certes it would have been but thrown away;
And that's one comfort for my lost advice;
Although, no doubt, it was beyond all price.
XXXVII.

But let it go it will one day be found
With other relics of a former world,'

When this world shall be former, underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd,

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or drown'd, [hurl'd Like all the worlds before, which have been First out of, and then back again to, chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us.

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 materialMen are but maggots of some huge Earth'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 monsters 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 I 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 baiting-

Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate.