You have obtained great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder “Nay!”732
II
I don’t think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinèt’s affair733—in fact, ’twas shabby,
And like some other things won’t do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old Abbey.
Upon the rest ’tis not worth while to dwell,
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;734
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your Grace is still but a young Hero.
III
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
You have repaired Legitimacy’s crutch,
A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).
IV
You are “the best of cut-throats:”735—do not start;
The phrase is Shakespeare’s, and not misapplied:—
War’s a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part,
The World, not the World’s masters, will decide,
And I shall be delighted to learn who,
Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo?
V
I am no flatterer—you’ve supped full of flattery:736
They say you like it too—’tis no great wonder.
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
May like being praised for every lucky blunder,
Called “Saviour of the Nations”—not yet saved—
And “Europe’s Liberator”—still enslaved.737
VI
I’ve done. Now go and dine from off the plate
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,
And send the sentinel before your gate
A slice or two from your luxurious meals:738
He fought, but has not fed so well of late.
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:—
There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,
But pray give back a little to the nation.
VII
I don’t mean to reflect—a man so great as
You, my lord Duke! is far above reflection:
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,
With modern history has but small connection:
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,
You need not take them under your direction;
And half a million for your Sabine farm
Is rather dear!—I’m sure I mean no harm.
VIII
Great men have always scorned great recompenses:
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,
Not leaving even his funeral expenses:739
George Washington had thanks, and nought beside,
Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men’s is)
To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,
And as a high-souled Minister of state is
Renowned for ruining Great Britain gratis.740
IX
Never had mortal man such opportunity,
Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity
Of Tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:
And now—what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?
Now—that the rabble’s first vain shouts are o’er?
Go! hear it in your famished country’s cries!
Behold the World! and curse your victories!
X
As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe741
Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,
But which ’tis time to teach the hireling tribe
Who fatten on their country’s gore, and debts,
Must be recited—and without a bribe.
You did great things, but not being great in mind,
Have left undone the greatest—and mankind.
XI
Death laughs—Go ponder o’er the skeleton
With which men image out the unknown thing
That hides the past world, like to a set sun
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring—
Death laughs at all you weep for!—look upon
This hourly dread of all! whose threatened sting
Turns Life to terror, even though in its sheath:
Mark! how its lipless mouth grins without breath!
XII
Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
And yet was what you are; from ear to ear
It laughs not—there is now no fleshy bar
So called; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,
But still he smiles; and whether near or far,
He strips from man that mantle (far more dear
Than even the tailor’s), his incarnate skin,742
White, black, or copper—the dead bones will grin.
XIII
And thus Death laughs—it is sad merriment,
But still it is so; and with such example
Why should not Life be equally content
With his Superior, in a smile to trample
Upon the nothings which are daily spent
Like bubbles on an Ocean much less ample
Than the Eternal Deluge, which devours
Suns as rays—worlds like atoms—years like hours?
XIV
“To be, or not to be? that is the question,”
Says Shakespeare,743 who just now is much in fashion.
I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion,
Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;
But would much rather have a sound digestion
Than Bonaparte’s cancer:—could I dash on
Through fifty victories to shame or fame—
Without a stomach what were a good name?
XV
“O dura ilia messorum!”744—“Oh
Ye rigid guts of reapers!” I translate745
For the great benefit of those who know
What indigestion is—that inward fate
Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.
A peasant’s sweat is worth his lord’s estate:
Let this one toil for bread—that rack for rent,
He who sleeps best may be the most content.
XVI
“To be, or not to be?”—Ere I decide,
I should be glad to know that which is being.
’Tis true we speculate both far and wide,
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:
For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side,
Until I see both sides for once agreeing.
For me, I sometimes think that Life is Death,
Rather than Life a mere affair of breath.
XVII
“Que scais-je”746 was the motto of Montaigne,
