Canto III

HAIL, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping,

Pillowed upon a fair and happy breast,

And watched by eyes that never yet knew weeping,

And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,

Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,

Had soiled the current of her sinless years,

And turned her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours

Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah why

With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,

And made thy best interpreter a sigh?

As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,

And place them on their breast—but place to die—

Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish

Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

In her first passion Woman loves her lover,

In all the others all she loves is Love,

Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,

And fits her loosely—like an easy glove,

As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her:

One man alone at first her heart can move;

She then prefers him in the plural number,

Not finding that the additions much encumber.

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs;

But one thing's pretty sure; a woman planted

(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)—

After a decent time must be gallanted;

Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted;

Yet there are some, they say, who have had none,

But those who have ne'er end with only one.

'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign

Of human frailty, folly, also crime,

That Love and Marriage rarely can combine,

Although they both are born in the same clime;

Marriage from Love, like vinegar from wine—

A sad, sour, sober beverage—by Time

Is sharpened from its high celestial flavour

Down to a very homely household savour.

There's something of antipathy, as 't were,

Between their present and their future state;

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair

Is used until the truth arrives too late—

Yet what can people do, except despair?

The same things change their names at such a rate;

For instance—Passion in a lover's glorious,

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;

They sometimes also get a little tired (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:

The same things cannot always be admired,

Yet 't is “so nominated in the bond”,

That both are tied till one shall have expired.

Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning

Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.

There's doubtless something in domestic doings

Which forms, in fact, true Love's antithesis;

Romances paint at full length people's wooings,

But only give a bust of marriages;

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,

There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,

He would have written sonnets all his life?

All tragedies are finished by a death,

All comedies are ended by a marriage;

The future states of both are left to faith,

For authors fear description might disparage

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,

And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready,

They say no more of Death or of the Lady.

The only two that in my recollection,

Have sung of Heaven and Hell, or marriage, are

Dante and Milton, and of both the affection

Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar

Of fault or temper ruined the connection

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar);

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.

Some persons say that Dante meant Theology

By Beatrice, and not a mistress—I,

Although my opinion may require apology,

Deem this a commentator's phantasy,

Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he

Decided thus, and showed good reason why;

I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics

Meant to personify the Mathematics.

Haidée and Juan were not married, but

The fault was theirs, not mine: it is not fair,

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put

The blame on me, unless you wish they were;

Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut

The book which treats of this erroneous pair,

Before the consequences grow too awful;

'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.

Yet they were happy,—happy in the illicit

Indulgence of their innocent desires;

But more imprudent grown with every visit,

Haidée forgot the island was her Sire's;

When we have what we like 't is hard to miss it,

At least in the beginning, ere one tires;

Thus she came often, not a moment losing,

Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,

Although he fleeced the flags of every nation,

For into a Prime Minister but change

His title, and 't is nothing but taxation;

But he, more modest, took an humbler range

Of Life, and in an honester vocation

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,

And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

The good old gentleman had been detained

By winds and waves, and some important captures;

And, in the hope of more, at sea remained,

Although a squall or two had damped his raptures,

By swamping one of the prizes; he had chained

His prisoners, dividing them like chapters

In numbered lots; they all had cuffs and collars,

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,

Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man

Tossed overboard unsaleable (being old);

The rest—save here and there some richer one,

Reserved for future ransom—in the hold,

Were linked alike, as, for the common people, he

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

The merchandise was served in the same way,

Pieced out for different marts in the Levant,

Except some certain portions of the prey,

Light classic articles of female want,

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, a bidet,

Guitars and castanets from Alicant,

All which selected from the spoil he gathers,

Robbed for his daughter by the best of fathers.

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens,

He chose from several animals he saw—

A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's,

Who dying on the coast of Ithaca,

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance:

These to secure in this strong blowing weather,

He caged in one huge hamper altogether.

Then, having settled his marine affairs,

Despatching single cruisers here and there,

His vessel having need of some repairs,

He shaped his course to where his daughter fair

Continued still her hospitable cares;

But that part of the coast being shoal and bare,

And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile,

His port lay on the other side o' the isle.

And there he went ashore without delay,

Having no custom-house nor quarantine

To ask him awkward questions on the way,

About the time and place where he had been:

He left his ship to be hove down next day,

With orders to the people to careen;

So that all hands were busy beyond measure,

In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.

Arriving at the summit of a hill

Which overlooked the white walls of his home,

He stopped.—What singular emotions fill

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam!

With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill—

With love for many, and with fears for some;

All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost,

And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.

The approach of home to husbands and to sires,

After long travelling by land or water,

Most naturally some small doubt inspires—

A female family's a serious matter, (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires—

But they hate flattery, so I never flatter);

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,

And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

An honest gentleman at his return

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses;

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn,

Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses;

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn

To his memory—and two or three young misses

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches—

And that his Argus—bites him by the breeches.

If single, probably his plighted Fair

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser;

But all the better, for the happy pair

May quarrel, and, the lady growing wiser,

He may resume his amatory care

As cavalier servente, or despise her;

And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one,

Writes odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already

Some chaste liaison of the kind—I mean

An honest friendship with a married lady—

The only thing of this sort ever seen

To last—of all connections the most steady,

And the true Hymen, (the first's but a screen)—

Yet, for all that, keep not too long away—

I've known the absent wronged four times a day.

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had

Much less experience of dry land than Ocean,

On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad;

But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion

Of the true reason of his not being sad,

Or that of any other strong emotion;

He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her,

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.

He saw his white walls shining in the sun,

His garden trees all shadowy and green;

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run,

The distant dog-bark; and perceived between

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun,

The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen

Of arms (in the East all arm)—and various dyes

Of coloured garbs, as bright as butterflies.

And as the spot where they appear he nears,

Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling,

He hears—alas! no music of the spheres,

But an unhallowed, earthly sound of fiddling!

A melody which made him doubt his ears,

The cause being past his guessing or unriddling;

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after—

A most unoriental roar of laughter.

And still more nearly to the place advancing,

Descending rather quickly the declivity,

Through the waved branches o'er the greensward glancing,

'Midst other indications of festivity,

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing

Like Dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial,

To which the Levantines are very partial.

And further on a troop of Grecian girls,

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving,

Were strung together like a row of pearls,

Linked hand in hand, and dancing; each too having

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls— (The least of which would set ten poets raving);

Their leader sang—and bounded to her song

With choral step and voice the virgin throng.

And here, assembled cross-legged round their trays,

Small social parties just begun to dine;

Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze,

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine,

And sherbet cooling in the porous vase;

Above them their dessert grew on its vine;—

The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er,

Dropped in their laps, scarce plucked, their mellow store.

A band of children, round a snow-white ram,

There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;

While peaceful as if still an unweaned lamb,

The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers

His sober head, majestically tame,

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers

His brow, as if in act to butt, and then

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,

Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks,

Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,

The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,

The innocence which happy childhood blesses,

Made quite a picture of these little Greeks;

So that the philosophical beholder

Sighed for their sakes—that they should e'er grow older.

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales

To a sedate grey circle of old smokers,

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails,

Of rocks bewitched that open to the knockers,

Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,

Transformed their lords to beasts (but that's a fact).

Here was no lack of innocent diversion

For the imagination or the senses,

Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,

All pretty pastimes in which no offence is;

But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,

Perceiving in his absence such expenses,

Dreading that climax of all human ills,

The inflammation of his weekly bills.

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ

The happiest mortals even after dinner!

A day of gold from out an age of iron

Is all that Life allows the luckiest sinner;

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a Siren,

That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner;

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

He—being a man who seldom used a word

Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise

(In general he surprised men with the sword)

His daughter—had not sent before to advise

Of his arrival, so that no one stirred;

And long he paused to re-assure his eyes,

In fact much more astonished than delighted,

To find so much good company invited.

He did not know (alas! how men will lie)

That a report (especially the Greeks)

Avouched his death (such people never die),

And put his house in mourning several weeks,—

But now their eyes and also lips were dry;

The bloom, too, had returned to Haidée's cheeks:

Her tears, too, being returned into their fount,

She now kept house upon her own account.

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,

Which turned the isle into a place of pleasure;

The servants all were getting drunk or idling,

A life which made them happy beyond measure.

Her father's hospitality seemed middling,

Compared with what Haidée did with his treasure;

'T was wonderful how things went on improving,

While she had not one hour to spare from loving.

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast,

He flew into a passion, and in fact

There was no mighty reason to be pleased;

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,

The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,

To teach his people to be more exact,

And that, proceeding at a very high rate,

He showed the royal penchants of a pirate.

You're wrong.—He was the mildest mannered man

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat;

With such true breeding of a gentleman,

You never could divine his real thought;

No courtier could, and scarcely woman can

Gird more deceit within a petticoat;

Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,

He was so great a loss to good society.

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray,

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest,

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,

Boded no good, whatever it expressed,

He asked the meaning of this holiday;

The vinous Greek to whom he had addressed

His question, much too merry to divine

The questioner, filled up a glass of wine,

And without turning his facetious head,

Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air,

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said,

“Talking's dry work, I have no time to spare.”

A second hiccuped, “Our old Master's dead,

You'd better ask our Mistress who's his heir.”

“Our Mistress!” quoth a third: “Our Mistress!—pooh!

You mean our Master—not the old, but new."

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom

They thus addressed—and Lambro's visage fell—

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom

Passed, but he strove quite courteously to quell

The expression, and endeavouring to resume

His smile, requested one of them to tell

The name and quality of his new patron,

Who seemed to have turned Haidée into a matron.

“I know not," quoth the fellow, “who or what

He is, nor whence he came—and little care;

But this I know, that this roast capon's fat,

And that good wine ne'er washed down better fare;

And if you are not satisfied with that,

Direct your questions to my neighbour there;

He'll answer all for better or for worse,

For none likes more to hear himself converse.”

I said that Lambro was a man of patience,

And certainly he showed the best of breeding,

Which scarce even France, the Paragon of nations,

E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding;

He bore these sneers against his near relations,

His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding,

The insults, too, of every servile glutton,

Who all the time was eating up his mutton.

Now in a person used to much command—

To bid men come, and go, and come again—

To see his orders done, too, out of hand—

Whether the word was death, or but the chain—

It may seem strange to find his manners bland;

Yet such things are, which I cannot explain,

Though, doubtless, he who can command himself

Is good to govern—almost as a Guelf.

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so,

But never in his real and serious mood;

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow,

He lay coiled like the Boa in the wood;

With him it never was a word and blow,

His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood,

But in his silence there was much to rue,

And his one blow left little work for two.

He asked no further questions, and proceeded

On to the house, but by a private way,

So that the few who met him hardly heeded,

So little they expected him that day;

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded

For Haidée's sake, is more than I can say,

But certainly to one deemed dead returning,

This revel seemed a curious mode of mourning.

If all the dead could now return to life, (Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many,

For instance, if a husband or his wife (Nuptial examples are as good as any),

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife,

The present weather would be much more rainy—

Tears shed into the grave of the connection

Would share most probably its resurrection.

He entered in the house no more his home,

A thing to human feelings the most trying,

And harder for the heart to overcome,

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying;

dTo find our hearthstone turned into a tomb,

And round its once warm precincts palely lying

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief,

Beyond a single gentleman’s belief.

He entered in the house—his home no more,

For without hearts there is no home;—and felt

The solitude of passing his own door

Without a welcome: there he long had dwelt,

There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er,

There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt

Over the innocence of that sweet child,

His only shrine of feelings undefiled.

He was a man of a strange temperament,

Of mild demeanour though of savage mood,

Moderate in all his habits, and content

With temperance in pleasure, as in food,

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant

For something better, if not wholly good;

His Country's wrongs and his despair to save her

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver.

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold,

The hardness by long habitude produced,

The dangerous life in which he had grown old,

The mercy he had granted oft abused,

The sights he was accustomed to behold,

The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised,

Had cost his enemies a long repentance,

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance.

But something of the spirit of old Greece

Flashed o'er his soul a few heroic rays,

Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece

His predecessors in the Colchian days;

'T is true he had no ardent love for peace—

Alas! his country showed no path to praise:

Hate to the world and war with every nation

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation.

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime

Shed its Ionian elegance, which showed

Its power unconsciously full many a time,—

A taste seen in the choice of his abode,

A love of music and of scenes sublime,

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flowed

Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers,

Bedewed his spirit in his calmer hours.

But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed

On that belovéd daughter; she had been

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed

Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen,

A lonely pure affection unopposed:

There wanted but the loss of this to wean

His feelings from all milk of human kindness,

And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging

Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock;

The Ocean when its yeasty war is waging

Is awful to the vessel near the rock;

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging,

Their fury being spent by its own shock,

Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire

Of a strong human heart, and in a Sire.

It is a hard although a common case

To find our children running restive—they

In whom our brightest days we would retrace,

Our little selves re-formed in finer clay,

Just as old age is creeping on apace,

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day,

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone,

But in good company—the gout or stone.

Yet a fine family is a fine thing (Provided they don't come in after dinner);

'T is beautiful to see a matron bring

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her);

Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling

To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner).

A lady with her daughters or her nieces

Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.

Old Lambro passed unseen a private gate,

And stood within his hall at eventide;

Meantime the lady and her lover sate

At wassail in their beauty and their pride:

An ivory inlaid table spread with state

Before them, and fair slaves on every side;

Gems, gold, and silver, formed the service mostly,

Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.

The dinner made about a hundred dishes;

Lamb and pistachio nuts—in short, all meats,

And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets,

Dressed to a Sybarite's most pampered wishes;

The beverage was various sherbets

Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice,

Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer,

And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast,

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure,

In small fine China cups, came in at last;

Gold cups of filigree, made to secure

The hand from burning, underneath them placed;

Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boiled

Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoiled.

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made

Of velvet panels, each of different hue,

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid;

And round them ran a yellow border too;

The upper border, richly wrought, displayed,

Embroidered delicately o'er with blue,

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters,

From poets, or the moralists their betters.

These Oriental writings on the wall,

Quite common in those countries, are a kind

Of monitors adapted to recall,

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind,

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall,

And took his kingdom from him: You will find,

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure,

There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure.

A Beauty at the season's close grown hectic,

A Genius who has drunk himself to death,

A Rake turned methodistic, or Eclectic— (For that's the name they like to pray beneath)—

But most, an Alderman struck apoplectic,

Are things that really take away the breath,—

And show that late hours, wine, and love are able

To do not much less damage than the table.

Haidée and Juan carpeted their feet

On crimson satin, bordered with pale blue;

Their sofa occupied three parts complete

Of the apartment—and appeared quite new;

The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet)

Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew

A sun embossed in gold, whose rays of tissue,

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain,

Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain,

Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats,

And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain

Their bread as ministers and favourites (that's

To say, by degradation) mingled there

As plentiful as in a court, or fair.

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and

The tables, most of ebony inlaid

With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand,

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made,

Fretted with gold or silver:—by command

The greater part of these were rarely spread

With viands and sherbets in ice—and wine—

Kept for all comers at all hours to dine.

Of all the dresses I select Haidée's:

She wore two jelicks—one was of pale yellow;

Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise—

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow:

With buttons formed of pearls as large as peas,

All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow,

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her,

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flowed round her.

One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely arm,

Lockless—so pliable from the pure gold

That the hand stretched and shut it without harm,

The limb which it adorned its only mould;

So beautiful—its very shape would charm,

And clinging, as if loath to lose its hold,

The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin

That e'er by precious metal was held in.

Around, as Princess of her father's land,

A like gold bar above her instep rolled

Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;

Her hair was starred with gems; her veil's fine fold

Below her breast was fastened with a band

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;

Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furled

About the prettiest ankle in the world.

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel

Flowed like an Alpine torrent which the sun

Dyes with his morning light,—and would conceal

Her person if allowed at large to run,

And still they seemed resentfully to feel

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun

Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began

To offer his young pinion as her fan.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,

The very air seemed lighter from her eyes,

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife

With all we can imagine of the skies,

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife—

Too pure even for the purest human ties;

Her overpowering presence made you feel

It would not be idolatry to kneel.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged (It is the country's custom), but in vain,

For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,

The glossy rebels mocked the jetty stain,

And in their native beauty stood avenged:

Her nails were touched with henna; but, again,

The power of Art was turned to nothing, for

They could not look more rosy than before.

The henna should be deeply dyed to make

The skin relieved appear more fairly fair;

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break

On mountain tops more heavenly white than her:

The eye might doubt if it were well awake,

She was so like a vision; I might err,

But Shakespeare also says, 't is very silly

“To gild refinéd gold, or paint the lily.”

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,

But a white baracan, and so transparent

The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,

Like small stars through the milky way apparent;

His turban, furled in many a graceful fold,

An emerald aigrette, with Haidée's hair in 't,

Surmounted as its clasp—a glowing crescent,

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

And now they were diverted by their suite,

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet,

Which made their new establishment complete;

The last was of great fame, and liked to show it;

His verses rarely wanted their due feet—

And for his theme—he seldom sung below it,

He being paid to satirise or flatter,

As the Psalm says, “inditing a good matter."

He praised the present, and abused the past,

Reversing the good custom of old days,

An Eastern anti-jacobin at last

He turned, preferring pudding to no praise—

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast

By his seeming independent in his lays,

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha—

With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.

He was a man who had seen many changes,

And always changed as true as any needle;

His Polar Star being one which rather ranges,

And not the fixed—he knew the way to wheedle:

So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;

And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill),

He lied with such a fervour of intention—

There was no doubt he earned his laureate pension.

But he had genius,—when a turncoat has it,

The Vates irritabilis takes care

That without notice few full moons shall pass it;

Even good men like to make the public stare:—

But to my subject—let me see—what was it?—

Oh!—the third canto—and the pretty pair—

Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode

Of living in their insular abode.

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but, no less,

In company a very pleasant fellow,

Had been the favourite of full many a mess

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow;

And though his meaning they could rarely guess,

Yet still they deigned to hiccup or to bellow

The glorious meed of popular applause,

Of which the First ne'er knows the second Cause.

But now being lifted into high society,

And having picked up several odds and ends

Of free thoughts in his travels for variety,

He deemed, being in a lone isle, among friends,

That, without any danger of a riot, he

Might for long lying make himself amends;

And, singing as he sung in his warm youth,

Agree to a short armistice with Truth.

He had travelled 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks,

And knew the self-loves of the different nations;

And having lived with people of all ranks,

Had something ready upon most occasions—

Which got him a few presents and some thanks.

He varied with some skill his adulations;

To “do at Rome as Romans do,” a piece

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece.

Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing,

He gave the different nations something national;

'T was all the same to him—“God save the King,”

Or “Ça ira," according to the fashion all:

His Muse made increment of anything,

From the high lyric down to the low rational;

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson;

In England a six canto quarto tale;

In Spain he'd make a ballad or romance on

The last war—much the same in Portugal;

In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on

Would be old Goethe's—(see what says De Staël);

In Italy he'd ape the “Trecentisti;”

In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye:

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung,

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,

Yet in these times he might have done much worse:

His strain displayed some feeling—right or wrong;

And feeling, in a poet, is the source

Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,

And take all colours—like the hands of dyers.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,

Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;

'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link

Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces

Frail man, when paper—even a rag like this,

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,

His station, generation, even his nation,

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank

In chronological commemoration,

Some dull MS. Oblivion long has sank,

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station

In digging the foundation of a closet,

May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.

And Glory long has made the sages smile;

'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind—

Depending more upon the historian's style

Than on the name a person leaves behind:

Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle:

The present century was growing blind

To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,

Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe.

Milton's the Prince of poets—so we say;

A little heavy, but no less divine:

An independent being in his day—

Learned, pious, temperate in love and wine;

But, his life falling into Johnson's way,

We're told this great High Priest of all the Nine

Was whipped at college—a harsh sire—odd spouse,

For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.

All these are, certes, entertaining facts,

Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes;

Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest acts;

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes);

Like Cromwell's pranks;—but although Truth exacts

These amiable descriptions from the scribes,

As most essential to their Hero's story,

They do not much contribute to his glory.

All are not moralists, like Southey, when

He prated to the world of “Pantisocracy;”

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then

Seasoned his pedlar poems with Democracy;

Or Coleridge long before his flighty pen

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;

When he and Southey, following the same path,

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).

Such names at present cut a convict figure,

The very Botany Bay in moral geography;

Their loyal treason, renegado rigour,

Are good manure for their more bare biography;

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger

Than any since the birthday of typography;

A drowsy, frowzy poem, called the “Excursion,”

Writ in a manner which is my aversion.

He there builds up a formidable dyke

Between his own and others' intellect;

But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect,

Are things which in this century don't strike

The public mind,—so few are the elect;

And the new births of both their stale Virginities

Have proved but Dropsies, taken for Divinities.

But let me to my story: I must own,

If I have any fault, it is digression,

Leaving my people to proceed alone,

While I soliloquize beyond expression:

But these are my addresses from the throne,

Which put off business to the ensuing session:

Forgetting each omission is a loss to

The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.

I know that what our neighbours call “longueurs,”

(We've not so good a word, but have the thing,

In that complete perfection which insures

An epic from Bob Southey every spring—)

Form not the true temptation which allures

The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring

Some fine examples of the Epopée,

To prove its grand ingredient is Ennui.

We learn from Horace, “Homer sometimes sleeps;”

We feel without him,—Wordsworth sometimes wakes,—

To show with what complacency he creeps,

With his dear “Waggoners,” around his lakes.

He wishes for “a boat” to sail the deeps—

Of Ocean?—No, of air; and then he makes

Another outcry for “a little boat,”

And drivels seas to set it well afloat.

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain,

And Pegasus runs restive in his “Waggon,”

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain?

Or pray Medea for a single dragon?

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain,

He feared his neck to venture such a nag on,

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon,

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?

“Pedlars,” and “Boats,” and “Waggons!” Oh! ye shades

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?

That trash of such sort not alone evades

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss

Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades

Of sense and song above your graves may hiss—

The “little boatman” and his Peter Bell

Can sneer at him who drew “Achitophel!”

T' our tale.—The feast was over, the slaves gone,

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;

The Arab lore and Poet's song were done,

And every sound of revelry expired;

The lady and her lover, left alone,

The rosy flood of Twilight's sky admired;—

Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

Ave Maria! blesséd be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft

Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth—so beautiful and soft—

While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,

And not a breath crept through the rosy air,

And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer.

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of Love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!

Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty Dove—

What though 't is but a pictured image?—strike—

That painting is no idol,—'t is too like.

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,

In nameless print—that I have no devotion;

But set those persons down with me to pray,

And you shall see who has the properest notion

Of getting into Heaven the shortest way;

My altars are the mountains and the Ocean,

Earth, air, stars—all that springs from the great Whole,

Who hath produced, and will receive the Soul.

Sweet Hour of Twilight!—in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er,

To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,

Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,

And Vesper bell's that rose the boughs along;

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng

Which learned from this example not to fly

From a true lover,—shadowed my mind's eye.

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things—

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,

The welcome stall to the o'erlaboured steer;

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,

Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

Soft Hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way

As the far bell of Vesper makes him start,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?

Ah! surely Nothing dies but Something mourns!

When Nero perished by the justest doom

Which ever the Destroyer yet destroyed,

Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,

Of nations freed, and the world overjoyed,

Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his tomb:

Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void

Of feeling for some kindness done, when Power

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero,

Or any such like sovereign buffoons,

To do with the transactions of my hero,

More than such madmen's fellow man—the moon's?

Sure my invention must be down at zero,

And I grown one of many “Wooden Spoons”

Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please

To dub the last of honours in degrees).

I feel this tediousness will never do—

T' is being too epic, and I must cut down

(In copying) this long canto into two;

They'll never find it out, unless I own

The fact, excepting some experienced few;

And then as an improvement 't will be shown:

I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is

From Aristotle passim–See \gk{Ποιητικισ}.