That all is dubious which man may attain,
Was one of their most favourite positions.
There’s no such thing as certainty, that’s plain
As any of Mortality’s conditions;
So little do we know what we’re about in
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.
XVIII
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,
Like Pyrrho,747 on a sea of speculation;
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
Your wise men don’t know much of navigation;
And swimming long in the abyss of thought
Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.
XIX
“But Heaven,” as Cassio says, “is above all—748
No more of this, then, let us pray!” We have
Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall,
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. “The sparrow’s fall
Is special providence,”749 though how it gave
Offence, we know not; probably it perched
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly searched.
XX
Oh! ye immortal Gods! what is Theogony?
Oh! thou, too, mortal man! what is Philanthropy?
Oh! World, which was and is, what is Cosmogony?
Some people have accused me of Misanthropy;
And yet I know no more than the mahogany
That forms this desk, of what they mean;—Lycanthropy750
I comprehend, for without transformation
Men become wolves on any slight occasion.
XXI
But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
Like Moses, or Melancthon,751 who have ne’er752
Done anything exceedingly unkind—
And (though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)
Have always had a tendency to spare—
Why do they call me Misanthrope? Because
They hate me, not I them:—and here we’ll pause.
XXII
’Tis time we should proceed with our good poem—
For I maintain that it is really good,
Not only in the body but the proem,
However little both are understood
Just now—but by and by the Truth will show ’em
Herself in her sublimest attitude:
And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.
XXIII
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours)
Was left upon his way to the chief city
Of the immortal Peter’s polished boors,
Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
I know its mighty Empire now allures
Much flattery—even Voltaire’s,753 and that’s a pity.
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.
XXIV
And I will war, at least in words (and—should
My chance so happen—deeds), with all who war
With Thought;—and of Thought’s foes by far most rude,
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.
I know not who may conquer: if I could
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar
To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation
Of every despotism in every nation.754
XXV
It is not that I adulate the people:
Without me, there are demagogues enough,755
And infidels, to pull down every steeple,
And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
Whether they may sow scepticism to reap Hell,
As is the Christian dogma rather rough,
I do not know;—I wish men to be free
As much from mobs as kings—from you as me.
XXVI
The consequence is, being of no party,
I shall offend all parties:—never mind!
My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.
He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,
May still expatiate freely, as will I,
Nor give my voice to slavery’s jackal cry.756
XXVII
That’s an appropriate simile, that jackal;—
I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl757
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,
Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
However, the poor jackals are less foul
(As being the brave lions’ keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.758
XXVIII
Raise but an arm! ’twill brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say—
(Or rather Peoples)—go on without pause!
The web of these Tarantulas each day
Increases, till you shall make common cause:
None, save the Spanish Fly and Attic Bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.759
XXIX
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the despatch,
Where blood was talked of as we would of water;
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch
O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter
Fair Catherine’s pastime—who looked on the match
Between these nations as a main of cocks,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.
XXX
And there in a kibitka he rolled on,
(A cursèd sort of carriage without springs,
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,)
Pondering on Glory, Chivalry, and Kings,
And Orders, and on all that he had done—
And wishing that post-horses had the wings
Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.
XXXI
At every jolt—and they were many—still
He turned his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wished that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature’s skill,
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.
XXXII
At least he pays no rent, and has best right
To be the first of what we used to call
“Gentlemen farmers”—a race worn out quite,
Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And “gentlemen” are in a piteous plight,
And “farmers” can’t raise Ceres from her fall:
She fell with Bonaparte,760—What strange thoughts
Arise, when we see Emperors fall with
