The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 83

x.x.xIX.

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up![503]

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.)

XL.

_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!

XLI.

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: "The time is out of joint,"[504]--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 call[je]

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.

XLII.

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;[505]

XLIII.

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

XLIV.

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[jg]

Seems Love turned a Lieutenant of Artillery![506]

XLV.

His bandage slipped 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.ked 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.

XLVI.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whispered, and The Empress smiled: the reigning favourite frowned--[jh]

I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then, as they are rather numerous found,[507]

Who took, by turns, that difficult command Since first her Majesty was singly crowned:[508]

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

XLVII.

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 seemed to express, That, though he looked one of the Seraphim, There lurked a man beneath the Spirit's dress.

Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.[ji][509]

XLVIII.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,[510]

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."

XLIX.

O gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess[511] 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.

L.

I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey-- That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day-- That monstrous hieroglyphic--that long spout Of blood and water--leaden Castlereagh!

And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight.

LI.

An English lady asked of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called "Cavalier Servente?"[512]--a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art:[jj]--the dame, pressed to disclose them, Said--"Lady, I beseech you to _suppose them_."

LII.

And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite's condition.

'T was a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion Of any one's attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, If rather broad, made stocks rise--and their holders.

LIII.

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, And had retained his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond _Parisian_ aspect, which upset old Troy And founded Doctors' Commons:[jk]--I have conned The history of divorces, which, though chequered, Calls Ilion's the first damages on record.

LIV.

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her Lord, Who was gone to his place), and pa.s.sed for much, Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorred) Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch Of sentiment: and he she most adored Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier.

LV.

Oh thou "_teterrima causa_" of all "_belli_"--[513]

Thou gate of Life and Death--thou nondescript!

Whence is our exit and our entrance,--well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipped In thy perennial fountain:--how man _fell_ I Know not, since Knowledge saw her branches stripped Of her first fruit; but how he _falls_ and rises Since,--_thou_ hast settled beyond all surmises.

LVI.

Some call thee "the _worst_ cause of War," but I Maintain thou art the _best_.--for after all, From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a World? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With--or without thee--all things at a stand[jl]

Are, or would be, thou sea of Life's dry land![jm]

LVII.

Catherine, who was the grand Epitome Of that great cause of War, or Peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)-- Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat[514]

Victory; and, pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

LVIII.

Then recollecting the whole Empress, nor Forgetting quite the Woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The Court, that watched each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather s.p.a.cious, Her face was n.o.ble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.[515]

LIX.