The Works of Lord Byron Volume V Part 138

Resplendent sight! Behold the c.o.xcomb Czar,[316]

The Autocrat of waltzes[317] and of war!

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, And just as fit for flirting as the helm; A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit; Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw,[em] 440 But hardened back whene'er the morning's raw; With no objection to true Liberty, Except that it would make the nations free.

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace!

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!

How n.o.bly gave he back the Poles their Diet, Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, With all her pleasant Pulks,[318] to lecture Spain!

How royally show off in proud Madrid 450 His goodly person, from the South long hid!

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, By having Muscovites for friends or foes.

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son!

La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;[319]

And that which Scythia was to him of yore Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's sh.o.r.e.

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth; Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 460 Many an old woman,[320] but not Catherine.[321]

Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles-- The Bear may rush into the Lion's toils.

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;[322]

Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir[323] hordes, Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, Than follow headlong in the fatal route, To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 470 With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure: Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe: Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago; And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?

Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun[324]

Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun; But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander Rather a worm than _such_ an Alexander!

Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free; 480 His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope:[en]

Still will he hold his lantern up to scan The face of monarchs for an "honest man."[325]

XI.

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land Of _ne plus ultra_ ultras and their band Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers And tribune, which each orator first clambers Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, Hears "the lie" echo for his answer round?

Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear!" 490 A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; Even Constant,[326] their sole master of debate, Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.

But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather Combat than listen, were it to their father.

What is the simple standing of a shot, To listening long, and interrupting not?

Though this was not the method of old Rome, When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, Demosthenes has sanctioned the transaction, 500 In saying eloquence meant "Action, action!"

XII.

But where's the monarch?[327] hath he dined? or yet Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?

Have revolutionary pates risen, And turned the royal entrails to a prison?

Have discontented movements stirred the troops?

Or have _no_ movements followed traitorous soups?

Have Carbonaro[328] cooks not carbonadoed Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 510 I read all France's treason in her cooks!

Good cla.s.sic Louis! is it, canst thou say, Desirable to be the "Desire?"

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode, Apician table, and Horatian ode, To rule a people who will not be ruled, And love much rather to be scourged than schooled?

Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste For thrones; the table sees thee better placed: A mild Epicurean, formed, at best, 520 To be a kind host and as good a guest, To talk of Letters, and to know by heart One _half_ the Poet's, _all_ the Gourmand's art; A scholar always, now and then a wit, And gentle when Digestion may permit;-- But not to govern lands enslaved or free; The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.

XIII.

Shall n.o.ble Albion pa.s.s without a phrase From a bold Briton in her wonted praise?

"Arts--arms--and George--and glory--and the Isles, 530 And happy Britain, wealth, and Freedom's smiles, White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof, Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof, Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curled,[eo]

That nose, the hook where he suspends the world![329]

And Waterloo, and trade, and----(hush! not yet A syllable of imposts or of debt)---- And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,[330]

Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day--[ep]

And, 'pilots who have weathered every storm'--[331] 540 (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform)."

These are the themes thus sung so oft before, Methinks we need not sing them any more; Found in so many volumes far and near, There's no occasion you should find them here.

Yet something may remain perchance to chime With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme.[eq]

Even this thy genius, Canning![332] may permit, Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit, And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame 550 To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame; Our last, our best, our only orator, Even I can praise thee--Tories do no more: Nay, not so much;--they hate thee, man, because Thy Spirit less upholds them than it awes.

The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; But not for love mistake their yelling cry; Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 560 A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.

Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last To stumble, kick--and now and then stick fast With his great Self and Rider in the mud; But what of that? the animal shows blood.

XIV.

Alas, the Country! how shall tongue or pen Bewail her now _un_country gentlemen?

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 570 The first to make a malady of peace.

For what were all these country patriots born?

To hunt--and vote--and raise the price of corn?

But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, Kings--Conquerors--and markets most of all.

And must ye fall with every ear of grain?

Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?

He was your great Triptolemus;[333] his vices Destroyed but realms, and still maintained your prices; He amplified to every lord's content 580 The grand agrarian alchymy, high _rent_.[er]

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?

Why did you chain him on yon Isle so lone?

The man was worth much more upon his throne.

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, And acres told upon the appointed day.[es]

But where is now the goodly audit ale? 590 The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail?

The farm which never yet was left on hand?

The marsh reclaimed to most improving land?

The impatient hope of the expiring lease?

The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, In vain the Commons pa.s.s their patriot bill;[334]

The _Landed Interest_--(you may understand The phrase much better leaving out the _land_)-- The land self-interest groans from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, 600 For fear that plenty should attain the poor.[et]

Up, up again, ye rents, exalt your notes, Or else the Ministry will lose their votes, And patriotism, so delicately nice, Her loaves will lower to the market price;[eu]

For ah! "the loaves and fishes," once so high, Are gone--their oven closed, their ocean dry,[ev]

And nought remains of all the millions spent, Excepting to grow moderate and content.

They who are not so, _had_ their turn--and turn 610 About still flows from Fortune's equal urn; Now let their virtue be its own reward, And share the blessings which themselves prepared.

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm; _Their_ ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, _Their_ fields manured by gore of other lands; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent Their brethren out to battle--why? for rent!

Year after year they voted cent. per cent. 620 Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why?--for rent!

They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant To die for England--why then live?--for rent!

The peace has made one general malcontent Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!

Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, How reconcile? by reconciling rent!

And will they not repay the treasures lent?

No: down with everything, and up with rent!

Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 630 Being, end, aim, religion--_rent_--_rent_--_rent_!

Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess; Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less; Now thou hast swilled thy pottage, thy demands Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.

Such, landlords! was your appet.i.te for war, And gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!

What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash?

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash?[335]

So rent may rise, bid Bank and Nation fall, 640 And found on 'Change a _Fundling_ Hospital?

Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring--t.i.thes;[336]

The Prelates go to--where the Saints have gone, And proud pluralities subside to one; Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, Tossed by the deluge in their common ark.