The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 82

"But Heaven," as Ca.s.sio says, "is above all--[491]

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,"[492] though how _it_ gave Offence, we know not; probably it perched Upon the tree which Eve so fondly searched.

XX.

Oh! ye immortal G.o.ds! what is Theogony?

Oh! thou, too, mortal man! what is Philanthropy?

Oh! 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_[493]

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

XXI.

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon,[494] who have ne'er[ix]

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.

XXII.

'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.

XXIII.

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

I know its mighty Empire now allures Much flattery--even Voltaire's,[495] and that's a pity.

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat _Not_ a barbarian, but much worse than that.

XXIV.

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 despotism in every nation.[iy]

XXV.

It is not that I adulate the people: Without _me_, there are demagogues enough,[496]

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.

XXVI.

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.[iz]

XXVII.

_That's_ an appropriate simile, _that jackal;_-- I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl[497]

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.[ja]

XXVIII.

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.[jb]

XXIX.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Was left upon his way with the despatch, Where blood was talked 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 looked on the match Between these nations as a main of c.o.c.ks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

x.x.x.

And there in a _kibitka_ he rolled 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.

x.x.xI.

At every jolt--and they were many--still He turned his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wished 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.

x.x.xII.

At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call "Gentlemen farmers"--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,[498]--What strange thoughts Arise, when we see Emperors fall with oats!

x.x.xIII.

But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah,[499] 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;--[jc][500]

x.x.xIV.

Oh 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 decked With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymned by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.

x.x.xV.

Oh! 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[501] your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;--

x.x.xVI.

Oh, ye great authors!--_A propos 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.

x.x.xVII.

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, crisped, and curled, Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside-out, or drowned, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled First out of, and then back again to chaos-- The superstratum which will overlay us.[jd]

x.x.xVIII.

So Cuvier says:[502]--and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroyed 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.