See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions- why? for rent! They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant To die for England — why then live? — for rent ! ITALY. (BEPPO, Stanzas 41-45.) WITH all its sinful doings, I must say, Who love to see the sun shine every day, And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France. I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sure Because the skies are not the most secure; I also like to dine on becaficas, To see the Sun set, sure he 'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning, twinkling weak as A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, not be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. I like the women too (forgive my folly), From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, And large black eyes that flash on you a volley Of rays that say a thousand things at once, To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, ENGLAND. (BEPPO, Stanzas 47-49.) "ENGLAND! with all thy faults I love thee still," I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill; I like the Habeas Corpus (when we 've got it); I like a parliamentary debate, Particularly when 't is not too late; I like the taxes, when they 're not too many; That is, I like two months of every year. Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we are free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, WANTED—A HERO. (DON JUAN, Canto i. Stanzas 1-5.) 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, Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; 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, With many of the military set, 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. Brave men were living before Agamemnon A good deal like him too, though quite the same none; Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. |