XXXIII
But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter—what a trophy
Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled
With gore, like Nadir Shah,761 that costive Sophy,
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!
Because he could no more digest his dinner;—762763
XXXIV
Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,
That one life saved, especially if young
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though decked
With all the praises ever said or sung:
Though hymned by every harp, unless within
Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.
XXXV
Oh! ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us!
Whether you’re paid by government in bribes,
To prove the public debt is not consuming us—
Or, roughly treading on the “courtier’s kibes”
With clownish heel764 your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm’s starvation;—
XXXVI
Oh, ye great authors!—À propos des bottes,—
I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater sages’ lots;—
’Twas something calculated to allay
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
Certes it would have been but thrown away,
And that’s one comfort for my lost advice,
Although no doubt it was beyond all price.
XXXVII
But let it go:—it will one day be found
With other relics of “a former World,”
When this World shall be former, underground,
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisped, and curled,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside-out, or drowned,
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled
First out of, and then back again to chaos—
The superstratum which will overlay us.765
XXXVIII
So Cuvier says:766—and then shall come again
Unto the new creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
Of things destroyed and left in airy doubt;
Like to the notions we now entertain
Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And mammoths, and your wingèd crocodiles.
XXXIX
Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!767
How the new worldlings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup!
(For they themselves will be but of the least:
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
And every new creation hath decreased
In size, from overworking the material—
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth’s burial.)
XL
How will—to these young people, just thrust out
From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough,
And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,
Till all the arts at length are brought about,
Especially of War and taxing—how,
I say, will these great relics, when they see ’em,
Look like the monsters of a new Museum!
XLI
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:
“The time is out of joint,”768—and so am I;
I quite forget this poem’s merely quizzical,
And deviate into matters rather dry.
I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call769
Much too poetical: men should know why
They write, and for what end; but, note or text,
I never know the word which will come next.
XLII
So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate.
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting—
Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate:
I shall not be particular in stating
His journey, we’ve so many tours of late:
Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose
That pleasant capital of painted snows;770
XLIII
Suppose him in a handsome uniform—
A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,
Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm,
Over a cocked hat in a crowded room,
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,
Of yellow casimire we may presume,
White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk
O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;771
XLIV
Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand,
Made up by Youth, Fame, and an army tailor—
That great enchanter, at whose rod’s command
Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler,
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand
(When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a gaoler)—
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He772
Seems Love turned a Lieutenant of Artillery!773
XLV
His bandage slipped down into a cravat—
His wings subdued to epaulettes—his quiver
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at
His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever—
His bow converted into a cocked hat—
But still so like, that Psyche were more clever
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid),
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.
XLVI
The courtiers stared, the ladies whispered, and
The Empress smiled: the reigning favourite frowned—774
I quite forget which of them was in hand
Just then, as they are rather numerous found,775
Who took, by turns, that difficult command
Since first her Majesty was singly crowned:776
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.
XLVII
Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
Blushing and beardless; and, yet, ne’ertheless,
There was a something in his turn of limb,
And still more in his eye, which seemed to express,
That, though he looked one of the Seraphim,
There lurked a man beneath the Spirit’s dress.
Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.777778
XLVIII
No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,779
Or Scherbatoff, or any other off
Or on, might dread her Majesty had not room enough
Within her bosom (which was not too tough),
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom
