I say, Don Juan, rapt in contemplation,
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit,
And lost in wonder of so great a nation,
Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it.
And here, he cried, «is freedom's chosen station;
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it
Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection
Awaits it, each new meeting or election.
<< Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay
But what they please; and if that things be dear,
'Tis only that they love to throw away
Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay
Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear: Here » he was interrupted by a knife,
With,-« Damn your eyes! your money or your
These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
In which the heedless gentleman who gads
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.
Juan, who did not understand a word
Of English, save their shibboleth, « God damn!»
And even that he had so rarely heard,
He sometimes thought 't was only their « salam,»
Or « God be with you!»-and 't is not absurd
To think so: for half English as I am
(To my misfortune) never can I say
I heard them wish « God with you,» save that way;—
Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,
And being somewhat choleric and sudden,
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture,
And fired it into one assailant's pudding—
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture,
And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
« Oh Jack! I'm floored by that 'ere bloody Frenchman! »
On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,
And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed,
As if his veins would pour out his existence,
Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
And wish'd he 'd been less hasty with his flint.
Perhaps,» thought he, « it is the country's wont
To welcome foreigners in this way: now
I recollect some innkeepers who don't
Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
But what is to be done? I can't allow
The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
So take him up; I'll help you with the load.»
But ere they could perform this pious duty,
The dying man cried, « Hold! I've got my gruel!
Oh! for a glass of max! We 've missed our booty;
Let me die where I am!» And as the fuel
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
His breath, he from his swelling throat untied
A kerchief, crying «Give Sall that!»-and died.
The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down
Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell
Exactly why it was before him thrown,
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled,
His pockets first and then his body riddled.
Don Juan, having done the best he could
In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as « crowner's quest» allow'd, pursued
His travels to the capital apace!—
Esteeming it a little hard he should
In twelve hours' time, and very little space,
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
In self-defence: this made him meditative.
He from the world had cut off a great man,
Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
Booze in the ken, or at the spelken hustle?
Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban)
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sall (his blowing)
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?'
But Tom's no more— -and so no more of Tom.
Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 't is
Not long before the most of them go home.
Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum
In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, Through Kennington and all the other « tons,» Which make us wish ourselves in town at once;—
Through « groves,» so called as being void of trees,
(Like lucus from no light;) through prospects named
Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please,
Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,
With «To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd;
Through « rows, most modestly called « Paradise, »
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;—
Through coaches, drays, chok'd turnpikes, and a whirl Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion;
Here taverns wooing to a pint of « purl,»
There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl
In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion Slowly distilled into the glimmering glass, (For in those days we had not got to gas ;-)
Through this, and much, and more, is the approach
Of travellers to mighty Babylon:
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,
With slight exceptions all the ways seem one. I could say more, but do not choose to encroach Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun Had set some time, and night was on the ridge Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge.
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