CCVIII

If, after all, there should be some so blind
To their own good this warning to despise,
Led by some tortuosity of mind,

Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
And cry that they « the moral cannot find,»
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies-
Should captains the remark, or critics, make,
They also lie too-under a mistake.

CCIX.

The public approbation I expect,

And beg they'll take my word about the moral, Which I with their amusement will connect

So children cutting teeth receive a coral); Meantime, they'll doubtless please to recollect My epical pretensions to the laurel :

For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, I've bribed my grandmother's review-the British.

CCX.

I sent it in a letter to the editor,

Who thank'd me duly by return of postI'm for a handsome article his creditor;

Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, And break a promise after having made it her, Denying the receipt of what it cost,

And smear his page with gall instead of honey. All I can say is-that he had the money.

CCXI.

I think that with this holy new alliance
I may insure the public, and defy
All other magazines of art or science,

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly; I
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,

Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

CCXII.

«Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa Consule Planco,» Horace said, and so Say I, by which quotation there is meant a

Hint that some six or seven good years ago (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta), I was most ready to return a blow, And would not brook at all this sort of thing In my hot youth-when George the Third was King.

CCXIII.

But now, at thirty years, my hair is grey

(I wonder what it will be like at forty?

I thought of a peruke the other day),

My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I

Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

CCXIV.

No more no more-Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o the bee:
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power,
To double even the sweetness of a flower.

CCXV.

No more no more-Oh! never more, my heart,
Caust thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse;
The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse;
And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment,
Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment
CCXVI.

My days of love are over-me no more 7

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made beforein short i must not lead the life I did do: The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er; The copious use of claret is forbid, too; So, for a good old gentlemanly vice,

I think I must take up with avarice,

CCXVII

Ambition was my idol, which was broken

Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure; And the two last have left me many a token

O'er which reflection may be made at leisure: Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken.

<<Time is, time was, time's past,» a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimesMy heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

CCXVIII.

What is the end of fame? 't is but to fill

A certain portion of uncertain paper; Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kiil; And bards burn what they cail their «midnight taper.» To have, when the original is dust,

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

CCXIX.

What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's king, Cheops, erected the first pyramid

And largest, thinking it was just the thing

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other, rummaging,

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid;

Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

CCXX.

But I, being fond of true philosophy,

Say very often to myself, « Alas!

All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass.
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,

And if you had it o'er again—'t would pass-
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse. »
CCXXI

But for the present, gentle reader! and

Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that 's I— Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, And so your humble servant, and good bye! We meet again, if we should understand

Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample'T were well if others follow'd my example.

CCXXII.

« Go, little book, from this my solitude! I cast thee on the waters; go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,

The world will find thee after many days.»> When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, I can't help putting in my claim to praiseThe four first rhymes are Southey's, every line; For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.

CANTO II.

I.

On ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,

It mends their morals; never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations,

In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain, Since in a way, that's rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty.

II.

Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,

At least had he been nurtured in the north.

Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth :
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
III.

I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd : first there was
His lady mother, mathematical,

A-, never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman-(
(that's quite natural,

Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife-a time, and opportunity.
IV.

Well-well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust-perhaps a name.

V.

I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz-
A pretty town, I recollect it well—

"T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel);
And such sweet girls-I mean such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;

I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it-I never saw the like:

VI.

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb

New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle,
No-none of these will do: and then their garb!
Their veil and petticoat-Alas! to dwell
Upon such things would very near absorb

A canto; then their feet and ancles!—well,
Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready
(And so my sober Muse-come, let's be steady-
VII.

Chaste Muse!-well, if you must, you must)—the veil Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, Flashes into the heart.-All sunny land

Of love! when I forget you, may I fail

To-say my prayers-but never was there plann'd A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

VIII.

But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
Her son to Cadiz only to embark;

To stay there had not answer'd her intent;

But why?-we leave the reader in the dark:

T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,

To wean him from the wickedness of earth,
And send him like a dove of promise forth.

IX.

Don Juan bid his valet pack his things

According to direction, then received

A lecture and some money for four springs He was to travel; and, though Inez grieved (As every kind of parting has its stings),

She hoped he would improve-perhaps believed: A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice-and two or three of credit.

X.

In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school
For naughty children, who would rather play
(Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool;
Infants of three years old were taught that day,
Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool :
The great success of Juan's education
Spurr'd her to teach another generation.
XI.

Juan embark'd-the ship got under weigh,
The wind was fair, the water passing rough;
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,

As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough; And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray

Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough:
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first-perhaps his last-farewell of Spain.
XII.

I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters-it unmans one quite;
Especially when life is rather new :

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,
But almost every other country's blue,
When, gazing on them, mystified by distance,
We enter on our nautical existence.

XIII.

So Juan stood bewilder'd on the deck:

The wind sung, cordage strain`d, and sailors swore, And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck,

From which away so fair and fast they bore.
The best of remedies is a beef-steak

Against sea-sickness; try it, sir, before
You sucer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it auswer-so may you.
XIV.
Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,
Beheld his native Spain receding far:
First partings form a lesson hard to learn,

Even nations feel this when they go to war.
There is a sort of unexpress'd concern,

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar:
At leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.
XV.

But Juan had got many things to leave-
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,
So that he had much better cause to grieve
Than many persons more advanced in life;
And, if we now and then a sigh must heave
At quitting even those we quit in strife,
No doubt we weep for those the beart endears-
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

XVI.

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews

By Babel's water, still remembering Sion:
I'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse,
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;
Young men should travel, if but to amuse

Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,
Perhaps it may be lined with this
my canto.

XVII

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought,
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea,

« Sweets to the sweet;» (I like so much to quote :
You must excuse this extract, 't is where she,
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought
Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he
Reflected on his present situation,
And seriously resolved on reformation.
XVIII.

Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!» he cried,
Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,

But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, Farewell, too, dearest Julia »-(here he drew Iler letter out again, and read it through.)

XIX.

« And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear-
But that's impossible, and cannot be-
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, oh! my fair!
Or think of any thing, excepting thee;
A mind diseased no remedy can physic»—
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick`.

XX.

«Sooner shall heaven kiss earth-(here he fell sicker

Oh, Julia! what is every other woe!— (For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquorPedro! Battista! help me down below.) Julia! my love!-(you rascal, Pedro, quicker)— Oh, Julia!-(this cursed vessel pitches so)Beloved Julia! hear me still beseeching»(Here he Grew inarticulate with retching).

XXI.

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,
Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,
Beyond the best apothecary's art,

The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
Or death of those we doat on, when a part

Of us dies with them, as each foud hope ends. No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

XXII.

Love's a capricious power; I've known it hold
Out through a fever caused by its own heat,
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
And find a quinsy very hard to treat.
Against all noble maladies he 's bold,

But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh;
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.
XXIII

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain

About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein,

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?

XXIV.

The ship, called the most holy « Trinidada,» Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; For there the Spanish family Moncada

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born; They were relations, and for them he had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

XXV.

His suite consisted of three servants and
A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
Who several languages did understand,

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land,

His head-ache being increased by every billow; And the waves oozing through the port-bole made liis birth a little damp, and him afraid.

XXVI

'T was not without some reason, for the wind
Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And thought was not much to a naval mind,
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale,
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:

At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset;
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,
And made a scene men do not soon forget;

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,
Or any other thing that brings regret,

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. XXXII.

Immediately the masts were eut away,

Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay Like a mere log, and bafiled our intent. Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted), And then with violence the old ship righted. XXXIII.

It may be easily supposed, while this

Was going on, some people were unquiet; That would find it much amiss passengers

To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; That even the able seaman, deeming his

Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,

As upon such occasions tars will ask

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

XXXIV.

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
As rum and true religion; thus it was,
Some plunder d, some drank spirits, some sung psalins,
The high wind made the treble, and as bass
The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the
qualms

Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.
XXXV.

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before

It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
As if Death were more dreadful by his door
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,
Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.
XXXVI.

« Give us more grog,» they cried,« for it will be
All one an hour hence.» Juan answer'd, «No!
'Tis true that death awaits both you and me,
But let us die like men, not sink below
Like brutes:»-and thus his dangerous post kept he,
And none liked to anticipate the blow;
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

XXXVII.

The good old gentleman was quite aghast,
And made a loud and pious lamentation;
Repented all his sins, and made a last

Irrevocable vow of reformation;
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)
To quit his academic occupation,

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,

To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca.

XXXVIII.

But now there came a flash of hope once more;
Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone,
The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
They tried the pumps again, and though before
Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown,
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale-
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.
XXXIX.

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd,
And for the moment it had some effect;
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast

Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect'
But still 't is best to struggle to the last,

"T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd: And though 't is true that man can only die once, Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

XL.

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence,
Without their will, they carried them away;

For they were forced with steering to dispense,
And never had as yet a quiet day

On which they might repose, or even commence
A jury-mast or rudder, or could say

The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,
Still swam-though not exactly like a duck.

XLI.

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope
To weather out much longer; the distress

Was also great with which they had to cope,
For want of water, and their solid mess

Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
Was used-nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight,
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

XLII.

Again the weather threaten'd,-again blew
A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew

All this, the most were patient, and some bold,
Until the chains and leathers were worn through

Of all our pumps :-a wreck complete she roll'd,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings' during civil war.
XLIII.

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more: he was a man in years,

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea;
And if he wept at length, they were not fears
That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children—
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

| Aad first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek-the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

LiV.
The boats, as stated, had got
off before,
And in them crowded several of the crew;
And yet their present hope was hardly more

Than what it had been, for so strong it blew,
There was slight chance of reaching any shore;
And then they were too many, though so few-
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in then when they got afloat