Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction,
A green field is a sight which makes him pardon
The absence of that more sublime construction,
Which mixes up vines—olives—precipices—
Glaciers—volcanoes—oranges and ices.
LXXVII
And when I think upon a pot of beer—
But I won’t weep!—and so drive on, postilions!
As the smart boys spurred fast in their career,
Juan admired these highways of free millions—
A country in all senses the most dear
To foreigner or native, save some silly ones,
Who “kick against the pricks” just at this juncture,
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture.849
LXXVIII
What a delightful thing’s a turnpike road!
So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving
The Earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad
Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving.
Had such been cut in Phaeton’s time, the god
Had told his son to satisfy his craving
With the York mail;—but onward as we roll,
Surgit amari aliquid—the toll!850
LXXIX
Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
Take lives—take wives—take aught except men’s purses:
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,
Such is the shortest way to general curses.851
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant
On that sweet ore which everybody nurses.—
Kill a man’s family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches’ pocket:
LXXX
So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken
To your instructor. Juan now was borne,
Just as the day began to wane and darken,
O’er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn
Toward the great city.—Ye who have a spark in
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn
According as you take things well or ill;—
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter’s Hill!
LXXXI
The Sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
A half-unquenched volcano, o’er a space
Which well beseemed the “Devil’s drawing-room,”
As some have qualified that wondrous place:
But Juan felt, though not approaching Home,
As one who, though he were not of the race,
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother,
Who butchered half the earth, and bullied t’ other.852
LXXXII
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun Cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool’s head—and there is London Town!
LXXXIII
But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke
Appeared to him but as the magic vapour
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):
The gloomy clouds, which o’er it as a yoke
Are bowed, and put the Sun out like a taper,
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere,
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.
LXXXIV
He paused—and so will I; as doth a crew
Before they give their broadside. By and by,
My gentle countrymen, we will renew
Our old acquaintance; and at least I’ll try
To tell you truths you will not take as true,
Because they are so;—a male Mrs. Fry,853
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
And brush a web or two from off the walls.
LXXXV
Oh Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why
Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try
Your hand at hardened and imperial Sin.
To mend the People’s an absurdity,
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
Unless you make their betters better:—Fie!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.
LXXXVI
Teach them the decencies of good threescore;
Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses;
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,
That hired huzzas redeem no land’s distresses;
Tell them Sir William Curtis854 is a bore,
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses—
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.
LXXXVII
Tell them, though it may be, perhaps, too late—
On Life’s worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated—
To set up vain pretence of being great,
’Tis not so to be good; and, be it stated,
The worthiest kings have ever loved least state:
And tell them—But you won’t, and I have prated
Just now enough; but, by and by, I’ll prattle
Like Roland’s horn855 in Roncesvalles’ battle.856857
Canto XI
I
When Bishop Berkeley said “there was no matter,”858
And proved it—’twas no matter what he said:
They say his system ’tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the World a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
II
What a sublime discovery ’twas to make the
Universe universal egotism,
That all’s ideal—all ourselves!—I’ll stake the
World (be it what you will) that that’s no schism.
Oh Doubt!—if thou be’st Doubt, for which some take thee,
But which I doubt extremely—thou sole prism
Of the Truth’s rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
Heaven’s brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.
III
For ever and anon comes Indigestion
(Not the most “dainty Ariel”),859 and perplexes
Our soarings with another sort of question:
And that which after all my spirit vexes,
Is, that I find no spot where Man can rest eye on,
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,
Of Beings, Stars, and this unriddled wonder,
The World, which at the worst’s a glorious blunder—
IV
If it be chance—or, if it be according
To the old text, still better:—lest it should
Turn out so, we’ll say nothing ’gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They’re right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and everybody one day will
Know very clearly—or at least lie
