LXII.

This is the literary lower empire,
Where the Prætorian bands take up the matter;--
A 64 dreadful trade," like his who "gathers sam-
The insolent soldiery to sooth and flatter, [phire,"
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire.

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I'd try conclusions with those janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual war is.

LXIII.

I think I know a trick or two, would turn

Their flanks-but it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern: Indeed I've not the necessary bile;

My natural temper's really aught but stern,

And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile; And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy, And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. LXIV.

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril

Among live poets and blue ladies, pass'd With some small profit through that field so sterile. Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, Left it before he had been treated very ill; And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd Among the higher spirits of the day, The sun's true son-no vapor, but a ray.

LXIX.

Thrice happy he who, after a survey

Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way,

Where he may fix himself, like small "Jack And let the Babel round run as it may, [Horner," And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later

LXX.

But this won't do, save by and by; and he
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share,
Must steer with care through all that glittering tes
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to wher
He deems it is his proper place to be;

Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,
Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill,
Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.

LXXI.

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride,
Let him take care that that which he pursues
Is not at once too palpably descried.
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues

His haste: impatience is a blundering guide,
Amongst a people famous for reflection,
Who like to play the fool with circumspection.
LXXII.

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;
Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle.-
Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,
Which sits forever upon memory's crupper,

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Can tender souls relate the rise and fall

Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

LXXIII.

But these precautionary hints can touch

Only the common run, who must pursue,
And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much
Or little overturns; and not the few
Or many (for the number's sometimes such)
Whom a good mien, especially if new,
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since
LXXIV.

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger,
Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom,
Before he can escape from so much danger
Some
As will environ a conspicuous man.
Talk about poetry, and "rack and manger,"
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;-
I wish they knew the life of a young noble.
LXXV.

They are young, but know not youth-it is anticipated;

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous; Their vigor in a thousand arms is dissipated; [Jew; Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a Both senates see their nightly votes participated

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and The family vault receives another lord. [whored

XC.

Is yet within the unread events of time.
Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back
Against the same given quantity of rhyme,

For being as much the subject of attack

As ever yet was any work sublime,

By those who love to say that white is black.

So much the better!-I may stand alone,

VI.

CANTO XII.

I.

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that
Which is most barbarous is the middle age
Of man; it is-I really scarce know what;

But when we hover between fool and sage,
And don't know justly what we would be at-
A period something like a printed page,
Black-letter upon foolscap, while our hair
Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;-
II.

Too old for youth-too young, at thirty-five,
To herd with boys, or hoard with good threscore-
I wonder people should be left alive;

But, since they are, that epoch is a bore:
Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive;
And as for other love, the illusion's o'er;
And money, that most pure imagination,
Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.

VII.

Why call the miser miserable? as

I said before: the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was

The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-same cause,

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial:Then there's more merit in his self-denial.

VIII.

He is your only poet;-passion, pure

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;

On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.

IX.

The lands on either side are his: the ship

From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip; Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip;

His very cellars might be kings' abodes; While he, despising every sensual call, Commands-the intellectual lord of all.

X.

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,
To build a college, or to found a race,
A hospital, a church-and leave behind
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face:
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind

Even with the very ore which makes them base;
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
Or revel in the joys of calculation.

XI.

But whether all, or each, or none of these
May be the hoarder's principle of action,
The fool will call such mania a disease:—
What is his own? Go-look at each transaction
Wars, revels, loves-do these bring men more ease
Than the mere plodding through each" vulgar
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! [fraction?"
Let spendthrift's heirs inquire of yours-who's
wiler?

XII.
How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines
But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests
Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:-
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

XIII. 'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove;" for love Is heaven, and heaven is love:"-so sings the bard; Which it were rather difficult to prove,

(A thing with poetry in general hard.) Perhaps there may be something in "the grove," At least it rhymes to "love; " but I'm prepared To doubt no less than landlords of their rental) If "courts" and "camps "be quite so sentimental. XIV.

But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone:

Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides : Without cash, camps were thin and courts were none; Without cash, Malthus tells you, "take no brides."| So cash rules love the ruler, on his own

High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides; And, as for "heaven" being "love," why not say Is wax? Heaven is not love, 'tis matrimony. [honey

Why, I'm posterity-and so are you;

And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. Were every memory written down all true, [der'd: The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunEven Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few,

XX.

Good people all, of every degree,

Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers,
In this twelfth canto 'tis my wish to be
As serious as if I had for inditers
Malthus and Wilberforce: the last set free

The negroes, and is worth a million fighters; While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes XXI.

I'm serious-so are all men upon paper:

And why should I not form my speculation,
And hold up to the sun my little taper?
Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation
On constitutions and steamboats of vapor;
While sages write against all procreation,
Unless a man can calculate his means
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans
XXII.

That's noble! that's romantic! For my part,
I think that "philo-genitiveness" is-
(Now here's a word quite after my own heart,
Though there's a shorter a good deal than this,
If that politeness set it not apart:

I

But I'm resolved to say nought that's amiss)say, methinks, that "philo-genitiveness' Might meet from men a little more forgiveness.

XXIII.

And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan! Thou art in London-in that pleasant place Where every kind of mischief's daily brewing, Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ;

Thou art no novice in the headlong chaso Of early life; but this is a new land, Which foreigners can never understand.

XXIV.

What with a small diversity of climate,
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate,

I could send forth my mandate like a primate,
Upon the rest of Europe's social state;
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at,

All countries have their "lions," but in thee
Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate
There is but one superb menagerie.

XXV.

But I am sick of politics. Begin

"Paulo majora." Juan, undecided Among the paths of being "taken in,"

Above the ice had like skater glided:

When tired of play, he flirted without sin
With some of those fair creatures who have prided
Themselves on innocent tantalization,

And hate all vice except its reputation.

XXVI.

But these are few, and in the end they make
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows
That even the purest people may mistake
Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snow
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows

thought it?"