Don Juan Part 30

I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much pa.s.sion; But would much rather have a sound digestion Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame-- Without a stomach what were a good name?

'O dura ilia messorum!'--'Oh Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate 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.

'To be, or not to be?'--Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being?

'T is 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.

'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians: 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.

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, 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 sh.o.r.e, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty sh.e.l.l, is best for moderate bathers.

'But heaven,' as Ca.s.sio says, 'is above all-- 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,' though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.

O, ye immortal G.o.ds! what is theogony?

O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy?

O, 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; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 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.

'T is 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 att.i.tude: And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment.

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours) Was left upon his way to the chief city Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.

I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery--even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity.

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

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 depotism in every nation.

It is not that I adulate the people: Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple, And set up in their stead some proper stuff.

Whether they may sow scepticism to reap h.e.l.l, 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.

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.

That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal;-- I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 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.

Raise but an arm! 't will 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.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Was left upon his way with the despatch, Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; And carca.s.ses that lay as thick as thatch O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter Fair Catherine's pastime--who look'd on the match Between these nations as a main of c.o.c.ks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on (A cursed 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.

At every jolt--and they were many--still He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wish'd 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 ca.n.a.ls, where G.o.d takes sea and land, Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call 'Gentlemen farmer'--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 Buonaparte--What strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy O! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah, 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;--

O 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 deck'd With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.

O! 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 heel, your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;--

O, ye great authors!--'Apropos des bottes,'- I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages' lots; 'T was 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.

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, crisp'd, and curl'd, Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd First out of, and then back again to chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us.

So Cuvier says;--and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt: Like to the notions we now entertain Of t.i.tans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!

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.)

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?

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: 'The time is out of joint,'--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 cal 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.

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;

Suppose him in a handsome uniform,-- A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, Over a c.o.c.k'd hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

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! He Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:--

His bandage slipp'd 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 c.o.c.k'd 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.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd-- I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

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 seem'd to express, That though he look'd one of the seraphim, There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 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 enough Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that 'high official situation.'

O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row, Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.