Don Juan Part 41

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle.

These last had disappear'd--a loss to art: The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone,-- The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin Mother of the G.o.d-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd; She made the earth below seem holy ground.

This may be superst.i.tion, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its gla.s.s of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical--a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.

Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall:

Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower; The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:--I 've heard it--once perhaps too much.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint-- Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and refectory, I ween: An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

Huge halls, long galleries, s.p.a.cious chambers, join'd By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined, Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts: We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

Steel barons, molten the next generation To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation; And Lady Marys blooming into girls, With fair long locks, had also kept their station; And countesses mature in robes and pearls: Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.

Judges in very formidable ermine Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops, who had not left a single sermon: Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'

Generals, some all in armour, of the old And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: Nimrods, whose canva.s.s scarce contain'd the steed; And here and there some stern high patriot stood, Who could not get the place for which he sued.

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, Fatigued with these hereditary glories, There rose a Carlo Dolce or a t.i.tian, Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's; Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:-- But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish Or Dutch with thirst--What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.

O reader! if that thou canst read,--and know, 'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, To const.i.tute a reader; there must go Virtues of which both you and I have need;-- Firstly, begin with the beginning (though That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end--or, sinning In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.

That poets were so from their earliest date, By Homer's 'Catalogue of ships' is clear; But a mere modern must be moderate-- I spare you then the furniture and plate.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.

The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!

And ah, ye poachers!--'T is no sport for peasants.

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, Blushing with Bacchant coronals along The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines The red grape in the sunny lands of song, Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; The claret light, and the Madeira strong.

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

Then, if she hath not that serene decline Which makes the southern autumn's day appear As if 't would to a second spring resign The season, rather than to winter drear, Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,-- The sea-coal fires the 'earliest of the year;'

Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.

And for the effeminate villeggiatura-- Rife with more horns than hounds--she hath the chase, So animated that it might allure Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, And wear the Melton jacket for a s.p.a.ce: If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.

The n.o.ble guests, a.s.sembled at the Abbey, Consisted of--we give the s.e.x the pas-- The d.u.c.h.ess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby; The Ladies Scilly, Busey;--Miss Eclat, Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw; Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:

With other Countesses of Blank--but rank; At once the 'lie' and the 'elite' of crowds; Who pa.s.s like water filter'd in a tank, All purged and pious from their native clouds; Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank: No matter how or why, the pa.s.sport shrouds The 'pa.s.see' and the past; for good society Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,--

That is, up to a certain point; which point Forms the most difficult in punctuation.

Appearances appear to form the joint On which it hinges in a higher station; And so that no explosion cry 'Aroint Thee, witch!' or each Medea has her Jason; Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 'Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.'

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, Which hath a little leaning to a lottery.

I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite By the mere combination of a coterie; Also a so-so matron boldly fight Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, And shine the very Siria of the spheres, Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.

I have seen more than I 'll say:--but we will see How our villeggiatura will get on.

The party might consist of thirty-three Of highest caste--the Brahmins of the ton.

I have named a few, not foremost in degree, But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run.

By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, There also were some Irish absentees.

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, He shows more appet.i.te for words than war.

There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star.

There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker; And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a--duke, 'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagne's--and all such peers in look And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears For commoners had ever them mistook.

There were the six Miss Rawbolds--pretty dears!

All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet.

There were four Honourable Misters, whose Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here, Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because--such was his magic power to please-- The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees.

There was d.i.c.k Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, Good at all things, but better at a bet.

There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman; And General Fireface, famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.

There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, In his grave office so completely skill'd, That when a culprit came far condemnation, He had his judge's joke for consolation.

Good company 's a chess-board--there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, p.a.w.ns; the world 's a game; Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.

My Muse, the b.u.t.terfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely:--were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

I had forgotten--but must not forget-- An orator, the latest of the session, Who had deliver'd well a very set Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet With his debut, which made a strong impression, And rank'd with what is every day display'd-- 'The best first speech that ever yet was made.'

Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory: With memory excellent to get by rote, With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, 'His country's pride,' he came down to the country.

There also were two wits by acclamation, Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, Both lawyers and both men of education; But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potato,-- While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp.

Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word: At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp: Both wits--one born so, and the other bred-- This by his heart, his rival by his head.

If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be a.s.sembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every cla.s.s Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.

The days of Comedy are gone, alas!

When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete: Society is smooth'd to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress.

Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground-- Ridiculous enough, but also dull; Professions, too, are no more to be found Professional; and there is nought to cull Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull.

Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.