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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116894" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Canto the Ninth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>Oh, Wellington! (or "Villainton" -- for Fame<br> Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;<br>France could not even conquer your great name,<br> But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase --<br>Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),<br> You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:<br>Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,<br>Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay!"</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> II<br>I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well<br> In Marinet's affair -- in fact, 't was shabby,<br>And like some other things won't do to tell<br> Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.<br>Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,<br> Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;<br>But though your years as man tend fast to zero,<br>In fact your grace is still but a young hero.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> III<br>Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,<br> Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:<br>You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,<br> A prop not quite so certain as before:<br>The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,<br> Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;<br>And Waterloo has made the world your debtor<br>(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IV<br>You are "the best of cut-throats:" -- do not start;<br> The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:<br>War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,<br> Unless her cause by right be sanctified.<br>If you have acted once a generous part,<br> The world, not the world's masters, will decide,<br>And I shall be delighted to learn who,<br>Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> V<br>I am no flatterer -- you've supp'd full of flattery:<br> They say you like it too -- 't is no great wonder.<br>He whose whole life has been assault and battery,<br> At last may get a little tired of thunder;<br>And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he<br> May like being praised for every lucky blunder,<br>Call'd "Saviour of the Nations" -- not yet saved,<br>And "Europe's Liberator" -- still enslaved.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VI<br>I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate<br> Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,<br>And send the sentinel before your gate<br> A slice or two from your luxurious meals:<br>He fought, but has not fed so well of late.<br> Some hunger, too, they say the people feels: --<br>There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,<br>But pray give back a little to the nation.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VII<br>I don't mean to reflect -- a man so great as<br> You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:<br>The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,<br> With modern history has but small connection:<br>Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,<br> You need not take them under your direction;<br>And half a million for your Sabine farm<br>Is rather dear! -- I'm sure I mean no harm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VIII<br>Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses:<br> Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,<br>Not leaving even his funeral expenses:<br> George Washington had thanks and nought beside,<br>Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is)<br> To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,<br>And as a high-soul'd minister of state is<br>Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IX<br>Never had mortal man such opportunity,<br> Except Napoleon, or abused it more:<br>You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity<br> Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:<br>And now -- what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?<br> Now -- that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?<br>Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!<br>Behold the world! and curse your victories!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> X<br>As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,<br> To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe<br>Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,<br> But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe<br>Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts,<br> Must be recited, and -- without a bribe.<br>You did great things; but not being great in mind,<br>Have left undone the greatest -- and mankind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XI<br>Death laughs -- Go ponder o'er the skeleton<br> With which men image out the unknown thing<br>That hides the past world, like to a set sun<br> Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring --<br>Death laughs at all you weep for: -- look upon<br> This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting<br>Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath:<br>Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XII<br>Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!<br> And yet was what you are: from ear to ear<br>It laughs not -- there is now no fleshy bar<br> So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,<br>But still he smiles; and whether near or far,<br> He strips from man that mantle (far more dear<br>Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin,<br>White, black, or copper -- the dead bones will grin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XIII<br>And thus Death laughs, -- it is sad merriment,<br> But still it is so; and with such example<br>Why should not Life be equally content<br> With his superior, in a smile to trample<br>Upon the nothings which are daily spent<br> Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample<br>Than the eternal deluge, which devours<br>Suns as rays -- worlds like atoms -- years like hours?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XIV<br>"To be, or not to be? that is the question,"<br> Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion.<br>I am neither Alexander nor Hephæstion,<br> Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;<br>But would much rather have a sound digestion<br> Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on<br>Through fifty victories to shame or fame --<br>Without a stomach what were a good name?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XV<br>"O dura ilia messorum!" -- "Oh<br> Ye rigid guts of reapers!" I translate<br>For the great benefit of those who know<br> What indigestion is -- that inward fate<br>Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.<br> A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:<br>Let this one toil for bread -- that rack for rent,<br>He who sleeps best may be the most content.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XVI<br>"To be, or not to be?" -- Ere I decide,<br> I should be glad to know that which is being?<br>'T is true we speculate both far and wide,<br> And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:<br>For my part, I'll enlist on neither side,<br> Until I see both sides for once agreeing.<br>For me, I sometimes think that life is death,<br>Rather than life a mere affair of breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XVII<br>"Que scais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne,<br> As also of the first academicians:<br>That all is dubious which man may attain,<br> Was one of their most favourite positions.<br>There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain<br> As any of Mortality's conditions;<br>So little do we know what we're about in<br>This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XVIII<br>It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,<br> Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;<br>But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?<br> Your wise men don't know much of navigation;<br>And swimming long in the abyss of thought<br> Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station<br>Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers<br>Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XIX<br>"But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all --<br> No more of this, then, -- let us pray!" We have<br>Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall,<br> Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,<br>Besides fish, beasts, and birds. "The sparrow's fall<br> Is special providence," though how it gave<br>Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd<br>Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XX<br>Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?<br> Oh, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy?<br>Oh, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony?<br> Some people have accused me of misanthropy;<br>And yet I know no more than the mahogany<br> That forms this desk, of what they mean; Lykanthropy<br>I comprehend, for without transformation<br>Men become wolves on any slight occasion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXI<br>But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,<br> Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er<br>Done anything exceedingly unkind, --<br> And (though I could not now and then forbear<br>Following the bent of body or of mind)<br> Have always had a tendency to spare, --<br>Why do they call me misanthrope? Because<br>They hate me, not I them. -- and here we'll pause.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXII<br>'T is time we should proceed with our good poem, --<br> For I maintain that it is really good,<br>Not only in the body but the proem,<br> However little both are understood<br>Just now, -- but by and by the Truth will show 'em<br> Herself in her sublimest attitude:<br>And till she doth, I fain must be content<br>To share her beauty and her banishment.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXIII<br>Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours)<br> Was left upon his way to the chief city<br>Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors<br> Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.<br>I know its mighty empire now allures<br> Much flattery -- even Voltaire's, and that's a pity.<br>For me, I deem an absolute autocrat<br>Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXIV<br>And I will war, at least in words (and -- should<br> My chance so happen -- deeds), with all who war<br>With Thought; -- and of Thought's foes by far most rude,<br> Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.<br>I know not who may conquer: if I could<br> Have such a prescience, it should be no bar<br>To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation<br>Of every depotism in every nation.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXV<br>It is not that I adulate the people:<br> Without me, there are demagogues enough,<br>And infidels, to pull down every steeple,<br> And set up in their stead some proper stuff.<br>Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,<br> As is the Christian dogma rather rough,<br>I do not know; -- I wish men to be free<br>As much from mobs as kings -- from you as me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXVI<br>The consequence is, being of no party,<br> I shall offend all parties: never mind!<br>My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty<br> Than if I sought to sail before the wind.<br>He who has nought to gain can have small art: he<br> Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,<br>May still expatiate freely, as will I,<br>Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXVII<br>That's an appropriate simile, that jackal; --<br> I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl<br>By night, as do that mercenary pack all,<br> Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,<br>And scent the prey their masters would attack all.<br> However, the poor jackals are less foul<br>(As being the brave lions' keen providers)<br>Than human insects, catering for spiders.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXVIII<br>Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away,<br> And without that, their poison and their claws<br>Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say<br> (Or rather peoples) -- go on without pause!<br>The web of these tarantulas each day<br> Increases, till you shall make common cause:<br>None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,<br>As yet are strongly stinging to be free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXIX<br>Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,<br> Was left upon his way with the despatch,<br>Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;<br> And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch<br>O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter<br> Fair Catherine's pastime -- who look'd on the match<br>Between these nations as a main of cocks,<br>Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXX<br>And there in a kibitka he roll'd on<br> (A curséd sort of carriage without springs,<br>Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone),<br> Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,<br>And orders, and on all that he had done --<br> And wishing that post-horses had the wings<br>Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises<br>Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXI<br>At every jolt -- and they were many -- still<br> He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge,<br>As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill<br> Than he, in these sad highways left at large<br>To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill,<br> Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge<br>On her canals, where God takes sea and land,<br>Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXII<br>At least he pays no rent, and has best right<br> To be the first of what we used to call<br>"Gentlemen farmer" -- a race worn out quite,<br> Since lately there have been no rents at all,<br>And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight,<br> And "farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall:<br>She fell with Buonaparte -- What strange thoughts<br>Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXIII<br>But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child<br> Whom he had saved from slaughter -- what a trophy!<br>Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled<br> With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy,<br>Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,<br> And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee<br>To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!<br>Because he could no more digest his dinner; --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXIV<br>Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,<br> That one life saved, especially if young<br>Or pretty, is a thing to recollect<br> Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung<br>From the manure of human clay, though deck'd<br> With all the praises ever said or sung:<br>Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within<br>Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXV<br>Oh! ye great authors luminous, voluminous!<br> Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!<br>Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us!<br> Whether you're paid by government in bribes,<br>To prove the public debt is not consuming us --<br> Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes"<br>With clownish heel, your popular circulation<br>Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation; --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXVI<br>Oh, ye great authors! -- "Apropos des bottes," --<br> I have forgotten what I meant to say,<br>As sometimes have been greater sages' lots; --<br> 'T was something calculated to allay<br>All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:<br> Certes it would have been but thrown away,<br>And that's one comfort for my lost advice,<br>Although no doubt it was beyond all price.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXVII<br>But let it go: -- it will one day be found<br> With other relics of "a former world,"<br>When this world shall be former, underground,<br> Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd,<br>Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd,<br> Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd<br>First out of, and then back again to chaos,<br>The superstratum which will overlay us.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXVIII<br>So Cuvier says; -- and then shall come again<br> Unto the new creation, rising out<br>From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain<br> Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt:<br>Like to the notions we now entertain<br> Of Titans, giants, fellows of about<br>Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,<br>And mammoths, and your wingéd crocodiles.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XXXIX<br>Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!<br> How the new worldlings of the then new East<br>Will wonder where such animals could sup!<br> (For they themselves will be but of the least:<br>Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,<br> And every new creation hath decreased<br>In size, from overworking the material --<br>Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XL<br>How will -- to these young people, just thrust out<br> From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough,<br>And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,<br> And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,<br>Till all the arts at length are brought about,<br> Especially of war and taxing, -- how,<br>I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,<br>Look like the monsters of a new museum?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLI<br>But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:<br> "The time is out of joint," -- and so am I;<br>I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical,<br> And deviate into matters rather dry.<br>I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call<br> Much too poetical: men should know why<br>They write, and for what end; but, note or text,<br>I never know the word which will come next.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLII<br>So on I ramble, now and then narrating,<br> Now pondering: -- it is time we should narrate.<br>I left Don Juan with his horses baiting --<br> Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate.<br>I shall not be particular in stating<br> His journey, we've so many tours of late:<br>Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose<br>That pleasant capital of painted snows;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLIII<br>Suppose him in a handsome uniform, --<br> A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,<br>Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm,<br> Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room,<br>And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,<br> Of yellow casimere we may presume,<br>White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk<br>O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLIV<br>Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand,<br> Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor --<br>That great enchanter, at whose rod's command<br> Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler,<br>Seeing how Art can make her work more grand<br> (When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler), --<br>Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He<br>Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery: --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLV<br>His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat;<br> His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver<br>Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at<br> His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever;<br>His bow converted into a cock'd hat;<br> But still so like, that Psyche were more clever<br>Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid),<br>If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLVI<br>The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and<br> The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd --<br>I quite forget which of them was in hand<br> Just then; as they are rather numerous found,<br>Who took by turns that difficult command<br> Since first her majesty was singly crown'd:<br>But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,<br>All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLVII<br>Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,<br> Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless<br>There was a something in his turn of limb,<br> And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express,<br>That though he look'd one of the seraphim,<br> There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.<br>Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,<br>And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLVIII<br>No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,<br> Or Scherbatoff, or any other off<br>Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough<br> Within her bosom (which was not too tough)<br>For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough<br> Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough,<br>Of him who, in the language of his station,<br>Then held that "high official situation."</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> XLIX<br>O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know<br> The import of this diplomatic phrase,<br>Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show<br> His parts of speech; and in the strange displays<br>Of that odd string of words, all in a row,<br> Which none divine, and every one obeys,<br>Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning,<br>Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> L<br>I think I can explain myself without<br> That sad inexplicable beast of prey --<br>That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt,<br> Did not his deeds unriddle them each day --<br>That monstrous hieroglyphic -- that long spout<br> Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!<br>And here I must an anecdote relate,<br>But luckily of no great length or weight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LI<br>An English lady ask'd of an Italian,<br> What were the actual and official duties<br>Of the strange thing some women set a value on,<br> Which hovers oft about some married beauties,<br>Called "Cavalier servente?" -- a Pygmalion<br> Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is)<br>Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them,<br>Said -- "Lady, I beseech you to suppose them."</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LII<br>And thus I supplicate your supposition,<br> And mildest, matron-like interpretation,<br>Of the imperial favourite's condition.<br> 'T was a high place, the highest in the nation<br>In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion<br> Of any one's attaining to his station,<br>No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders,<br>If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LIII<br>Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy,<br> And had retain'd his boyish look beyond<br>The usual hirsute seasons which destroy,<br> With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond<br>Parisian aspect which upset old Troy<br> And founded Doctors' Commons: -- I have conn'd<br>The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd,<br>Calls Ilion's the first damages on record.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LIV<br>And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord,<br> Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much<br>Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd)<br> Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch<br>Of sentiment; and he she most adored<br> Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such<br>A lover as had cost her many a tear,<br>And yet but made a middling grenadier.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LV<br>Oh thou "teterrima causa" of all "belli" --<br> Thou gate of life and death -- thou nondescript!<br>Whence is our exit and our entrance, -- well I<br> May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt<br>In thy perennial fountain: -- how man fell I<br> Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript<br>Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises<br>Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LVI<br>Some call thee "the worst cause of war," but I<br> Maintain thou art the best: for after all<br>From thee we come, to thee we go, and why<br> To get at thee not batter down a wall,<br>Or waste a world? since no one can deny<br> Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small:<br>With, or without thee, all things at a stand<br>Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LVII<br>Catherine, who was the grand Epitome<br> Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what<br>You please (it causes all the things which be,<br> So you may take your choice of this or that) --<br>Catherine, I say. was very glad to see<br> The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat<br>Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel<br>With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LVIII<br>Then recollecting the whole empress, nor<br> Forgetting quite the woman (which composed<br>At least three parts of this great whole), she tore<br> The letter open with an air which posed<br>The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore,<br> Until a royal smile at length disclosed<br>Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious,<br>Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LIX<br>Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first<br> Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain.<br>Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst,<br> As an East Indian sunrise on the main.<br>These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst --<br> So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain:<br>In vain! -- As fall the dews on quenchless sands,<br>Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LX<br>Her next amusement was more fanciful;<br> She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw<br>Into a Russian couplet rather dull<br> The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.<br>Her third was feminine enough to annul<br> The shudder which runs naturally through<br>Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best<br>To kill, and generals turn it into jest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXI<br>The two first feelings ran their course complete,<br> And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth:<br>The whole court look'd immediately most sweet,<br> Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth.<br>But when on the lieutenant at her feet<br> Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth<br>Almost as much as on a new despatch,<br>Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXII<br>Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,<br> When wroth -- while pleased, she was as fine a figure<br>As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,<br> Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.<br>She could repay each amatory look you lent<br> With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour<br>To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount<br>At sight, nor would permit you to discount.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXIII<br>With her the latter, though at times convenient,<br> Was not so necessary; for they tell<br>That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient,<br> And always used her favourites too well.<br>If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went,<br> Your "fortune" was in a fair way "to swell<br>A man" (as Giles says); for though she would widow all<br>Nations, she liked man as an individual.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXIV<br>What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger<br> Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,<br>And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger<br> Is all the rest about her! Whether wed<br>Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her<br> Mind like the wind: whatever she has said<br>Or done, is light to what she'll say or do; --<br>The oldest thing on record, and yet new!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXV<br>Oh Catherine! (for of all interjections,<br> To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right<br>In love and war) how odd are the connections<br> Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight!<br>Just now yours were cut out in different sections:<br> First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite;<br>Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch;<br>And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXVI<br>Shakspeare talks of "the herald Mercury<br> New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;"<br>And some such visions cross'd her majesty,<br> While her young herald knelt before her still.<br>'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high,<br> For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill<br>Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing<br>With youth and health all kisses are "heaven-kissing."</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXVII<br>Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up --<br> And so they fell in love; -- she with his face,<br>His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup<br> With the first draught intoxicates apace,<br>A quintessential laudanum or "black drop,"<br> Which makes one drunk at once, without the base<br>Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye<br>In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXVIII<br>He, on the other hand, if not in love,<br> Fell into that no less imperious passion,<br>Self-love -- which, when some sort of thing above<br> Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion,<br>Or duchess, princess, empress, "deigns to prove"<br> ('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one,<br>For one especial person out of many,<br>Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXIX<br>Besides, he was of that delighted age<br> Which makes all female ages equal -- when<br>We don't much care with whom we may engage,<br> As bold as Daniel in the lion's den,<br>So that we can our native sun assuage<br> In the next ocean, which may flow just then,<br>To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is<br>Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXX<br>And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine),<br> Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing<br>Whose temporary passion was quite flattering,<br> Because each lover look'd a sort of king,<br>Made up upon an amatory pattern,<br> A royal husband in all save the ring --<br>Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony,<br>Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXI<br>And when you add to this, her womanhood<br> In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray<br>(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,<br> Or better, as the best examples say:<br>Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should<br> Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;<br>And Pallas also sanctions the same hue,<br>Too wise to look through optics black or blue) --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXII<br>Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,<br> Her plumpness, her imperial condescension,<br>Her preference of a boy to men much bigger<br> (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension),<br>Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,<br> With other extras, which we need not mention, --<br>All these, or any one of these, explain<br>Enough to make a stripling very vain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXIII<br>And that's enough, for love is vanity,<br> Selfish in its beginning as its end,<br>Except where 't is a mere insanity,<br> A maddening spirit which would strive to blend<br>Itself with beauty's frail inanity,<br> On which the passion's self seems to depend:<br>And hence some heathenish philosophers<br>Make love the main spring of the universe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXIV<br>Besides Platonic love, besides the love<br> Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving<br>Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove,<br> That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving<br>'Gainst reason -- Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove<br> With rhyme, but always leant less to improving<br>The sound than sense) -- beside all these pretences<br>To love, there are those things which words name senses;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXV<br>Those movements, those improvements in our bodies<br> Which make all bodies anxious to get out<br>Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,<br> For such all women are at first no doubt.<br>How beautiful that moment! and how odd is<br> That fever which precedes the languid rout<br>Of our sensations! What a curious way<br>The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXVI<br>The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,<br> To end or to begin with; the next grand<br>Is that which may be christen'd love canonical,<br> Because the clergy take the thing in hand;<br>The third sort to be noted in our chronicle<br> As flourishing in every Christian land,<br>Is when chaste matrons to their other ties<br>Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXVII<br>Well, we won't analyse -- our story must<br> Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,<br>Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust; --<br> I cannot stop to alter words once written,<br>And the two are so mix'd with human dust,<br> That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:<br>But in such matters Russia's mighty empress<br>Behaved no better than a common sempstress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXVIII<br>The whole court melted into one wide whisper,<br> And all lips were applied unto all ears!<br>The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper<br> As they beheld; the younger cast some leers<br>On one another, and each lovely lisper<br> Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears<br>Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye<br>Of all the standing army who stood by.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXIX<br>All the ambassadors of all the powers<br> Enquired, Who was this very new young man,<br>Who promised to be great in some few hours?<br> Which is full soon -- though life is but a span.<br>Already they beheld the silver showers<br> Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,<br>Upon his cabinet, besides the presents<br>Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXX<br>Catherine was generous, -- all such ladies are:<br> Love, that great opener of the heart and all<br>The ways that lead there, be they near or far,<br> Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, --<br>Love (though she had a curséd taste for war,<br> And was not the best wife, unless we call<br>Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better<br>That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXXI<br>Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune,<br> Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,<br>Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,<br> If history, the grand liar, ever saith<br>The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,<br> Because she put a favourite to death,<br>Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,<br>And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXXII<br>But when the levée rose, and all was bustle<br> In the dissolving circle, all the nations'<br>Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle<br> Round the young man with their congratulations.<br>Also the softer silks were heard to rustle<br> Of gentle dames, among whose recreations<br>It is to speculate on handsome faces,<br>Especially when such lead to high places.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXXIII<br>Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,<br> A general object of attention, made<br>His answers with a very graceful bow,<br> As if born for the ministerial trade.<br>Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow<br> Nature had written "gentleman." He said<br>Little, but to the purpose; and his manner<br>Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXXIV<br>An order from her majesty consign'd<br> Our young lieutenant to the genial care<br>Of those in office: all the world look'd kind<br> (As it will look sometimes with the first stare,<br>Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind),<br> As also did Miss Protasoff then there,<br>Named from her mystic office "l'Eprouveuse,"<br>A term inexplicable to the Muse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> LXXXV<br>With her then, as in humble duty bound,<br> Juan retired, -- and so will I, until<br>My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.<br> We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill,"<br>So lofty that I feel my brain turn round,<br> And all my fancies whirling like a mill;<br>Which is a signal to my nerves and brain,<br>To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Byron">Byron</a> from <i>Don Juan</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116894" data-title="Canto the Ninth de Byron" data-description="I/Oh, Wellington! (or "Villainton" -- for Fame/ Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;/France could not even conquer your great name,/ But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase --/Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),/ You have obtain'd gr..."></div>
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