You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,

And be the only Blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,

And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob!

IV.

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion,"
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages,)
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages
'Tis poetry-at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star rages-
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

* Mr. Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria " appeared in 1817.

V.

You-Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds, at last have grown
To deem as a most logical conclusion,

That Poesy hath wreathes for you alone:
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for
VI.

ocean.

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 boldness of your brows-
Perhaps some virtuous blushes:-let them go-
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs-
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal, and allows

Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow: [try Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will 'Gainst you the question with posterity. VIII.

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged steed,

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy, and the skill you need ;

• Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs-it is, I think, in that of the Excise-besides another at Lord Lonsdale's table, where this poetical charla tan and political parasite licks up the crumbs with a hardened alacrity; the converted Jacobin having long subsided into the lownish sycophant of thi worst prejudices of the aristocracy.

VII.

DON JUAN.

CANTO I.

1.

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 Juan: We all have seen him in the pantomine Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II.

Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, [Howe, 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, Dessaix, 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,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,

'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd; Because the army's grown more popular,

At which the naval people are concern'd: Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V.

Brave men were living before Agamemnon,'
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none,
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten ;-I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem, (that is, for my new one ;)
So, as I have said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
VI.

Most epic poets plunge in "medias res,"

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road,)
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
What went before-by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,

Beside his mistress in some soft abode,

Palace or garden, paradise or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

That is the usual method, but not mine

My way is to begin with the beginning : The regularity of my design

Forbids all wanderings 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, And also of his mother, if you'd rather.

VIII.

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous for oranges and women-he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
So says the proverb-and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see:
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.

IX.

His father's name was Jose-Don, of course
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain,
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,

Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
Than Jose who begot our hero, who
Begot-but that's to come-Well, to renew

X.

His mother was a learned lady, famed

For every branch of every science knownIn every Christian language ever named,

With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded In their own way by all the things that she did.

XI.

Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart
All Calderon and greater part of Lopé,

So that if any actor miss'd his part,

She could have served him for the prompter's copy For her Feinagle's were an useless art,

And he himself obliged to shut up shop-he
Could never make a memory so fine as
That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez.

XII.

Her favorite science was the mathematical,

Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy-her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.

XIII.

She knew the Latin-that is, "the Lords prayer,"
And Greek, the alphabet, I'm nearly sure;
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure:
For native Spanish she had no great care,
At least her conversation was obscure;
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.

XXI.

This was an easy matter with a man

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; And even the wisest, do the best they can,

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared. That you might "brain them with their lady's fan," And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands. XXII.

'Tis a pity learned virgins ever wed

With persons of no sort of education,
Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred,
Grow tired of scientific conversation:

I don't choose to say much upon this head,
I'm a plain man, and in a single station,
But-oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not henpeck'd you all?

XXIII.

Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd—why
Not any of the many could divine,
Though several thousand people chose to try,
'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine;

I loathe that low vice, euriosity;

But if there's any thing in which I shine, 'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs, Not having, of my own, domestic cares.

XXIV.

And so I interfered, and with the best

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;

I think the foolish people were possess'd,
For neither of them could I ever find,
Although their porter afterwards confess'd—
But that's no matter, and the worst's behind,
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs.
A pail of housemaid's water unawares.

XXV.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth ;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;
Instead of quarrelling had they been but both in
Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home
To teach him manners for the time to come.

XXVI.

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led

For some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; They lived respectably as man and wife, Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,

And gave no outward signs of inward strife, Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, And put the business past all kind of doubt.

XXVII.

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians,
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad,
But as he had some lucid intermissions,
She next decided he was only bad;
Yet when they ask'd her for depositions,
No sort of explanation could be had,
Save that their duty both to man and God
Required this conduct-which seem'd very odd