Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others,
It hath been stirred up till its smoke quite smothers!
XXXVII
I’ll have another figure in a trice:—
What say you to a bottle of champagne?
Frozen into a very vinous ice,
Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain,
Yet in the very centre, past all price,
About a liquid glassful will remain;
And this is stronger than the strongest grape
Could e’er express in its expanded shape:
XXXVIII
’Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence;
And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre
A hidden nectar under a cold presence.1003
And such are many—though I only meant her
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons,
On which the Muse has always sought to enter.
And your cold people are beyond all price,
When once you’ve broken their confounded ice.
XXXIX
But after all they are a North-West Passage
Unto the glowing India of the soul;
And as the good ships sent upon that message
Have not exactly ascertained the Pole
(Though Parry’s efforts look a lucky presage),1004
Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal;
For if the Pole’s not open, but all frost
(A chance still), ’tis a voyage or vessel lost.
XL
And young beginners may as well commence
With quiet cruising o’er the ocean, Woman;
While those who are not beginners should have sense
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon
With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense,
The dreary Fuimus of all things human,
Must be declined, while Life’s thin thread’s spun out
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.
XLI
But Heaven must be diverted; its diversion
Is sometimes truculent—but never mind:
The World upon the whole is worth the assertion
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind:
And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,1005
Of the “Two Principles,” but leaves behind
As many doubts as any other doctrine
Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.
XLII
The English winter—ending in July,
To recommence in August—now was done.
’Tis the postilion’s paradise: wheels fly;
On roads, East, South, North, West, there is a run.
But for post-horses who finds sympathy?
Man’s pity’s for himself, or for his son,
Always premising that said son at college
Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.
XLIII
The London winter’s ended in July—
Sometimes a little later. I don’t err
In this: whatever other blunders lie
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver
My Muse a glass of Weatherology;
For Parliament is our barometer:
Let Radicals its other acts attack,
Its sessions form our only almanac.
XLIV
When its quicksilver’s down at zero—lo!
Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!
Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho,
And happiest they who horses can engage;
The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row
Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,
Sigh—as the postboys fasten on the traces.
XLV
They and their bills, “Arcadians both,”1006 are left
To the Greek Kalends of another session.
Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,
What hope remains? Of hope the full possession,
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,
At a long date—till they can get a fresh one—
Hawked about at a discount, small or large;
Also the solace of an overcharge.
XLVI
But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord,
Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage.
Away! away! “Fresh horses!” are the word,
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage;
The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
The postboys have no reason to disparage
Their fee; but ere the watered wheels may hiss hence,
The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence.
XLVII
’Tis granted; and the valet mounts the dickey—
That gentleman of Lords and Gentlemen;
Also my Lady’s gentlewoman, tricky,
Tricked out, but modest more than poet’s pen
Can paint—“Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!”1007
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,
If but to show I’ve travelled: and what’s Travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)
XLVIII
The London winter and the country summer
Were well nigh over. ’Tis perhaps a pity,
When Nature wears the gown that doth become her,
To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember;—
But there’s no shooting (save grouse) till September.
XLIX
I’ve done with my tirade. The World was gone;
The twice two thousand, for whom Earth was made,
Were vanished to be what they call alone—
That is, with thirty servants for parade,
As many guests, or more; before whom groan
As many covers, duly, daily laid.
Let none accuse old England’s hospitality—
Its quantity is but condensed to quality.
L
Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline
Departed like the rest of their compeers,
The peerage, to a mansion very fine;
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years.
None than themselves could boast a longer line,
Where Time through heroes and through beauties steers;
And oaks as olden as their pedigree
Told of their Sires—a tomb in every tree.
LI
A paragraph in every paper told
Of their departure—such is modern fame:
’Tis pity that it takes no further hold
Than an advertisement, or much the same;
When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold.
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim—
“Departure, for his country seat, to-day,
Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.
LII
“We understand the splendid host intends1008
To entertain, this autumn, a select
And numerous party of his noble friends;
’Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct,
The Duke of D⸺ the shooting season spends,
With many more by rank and fashion decked;
Also a foreigner of high condition,
The envoy of the secret Russian mission.”
LIII
And thus we see—who doubts the Morning Post?
(Whose articles are like the “Thirty-nine,”
Which those most swear to who believe them most)—
Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordained to shine,
Decked by the rays reflected from his host,
With those who, Pope says, “greatly daring dine.”—1009
’Tis
