The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 115

We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the Sun, and stars, and aught that shines, Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, Are there oft dull and dreary as a _dun_-- Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.

x.x.x.

An in-door life is less poetical; And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet With which I could not brew a pastoral: But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking, or complete-- And work away--like Spirit upon Matter-- Embarra.s.sed somewhat both with fire and water.

x.x.xI.

Juan--in this respect, at least, like saints-- Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints, In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts-- Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, And mingling modestly in toils or sports.

He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the c.o.xcombry of certain _she_ men.

x.x.xII.

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; 'T is also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: But Juan had been early taught to range The wilds, as doth an Arab turned avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.

x.x.xIII.

And now in this new field, with some applause, He cleared hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never _craned_[711] and made but few _"faux pas,"_ And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail.

He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting--for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o'er several Country Gentlemen.

x.x.xIV.

But on the whole, to general admiration, He acquitted both himself and horse: the Squires Marvelled at merit of another nation; The boors cried "Dang it! who'd have thought it?"--Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recalled their former fires; The Huntsman's self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in.[mw]

x.x.xV.

Such were his trophies--not of spear and shield, But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; Yet I must own,--although in this I yield To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,-- He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price.

Asked next day, "If men ever hunted _twice_?"[mx][712]

x.x.xVI.

He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the c.o.c.k can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race,-- A quality agreeable to Woman, When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether Saint or Sinner,-- He did not fall asleep just after dinner;

x.x.xVII.

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might a.s.sert, And listening to the topics most in vogue, Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue!

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;-- In short, there never was a better hearer.

x.x.xVIII.

And then he danced;--all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime!--he danced, I say, right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense-- A thing in footing indispensable; He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drilled nymphs, but like a gentleman.

x.x.xIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And Elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimmed the ground,[713]

And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for Music's sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour.

Such cla.s.sic _pas_--sans flaws--set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero;[714]

XL.

Or like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido's famous fresco[715] (which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old World's sole throne): The "_tout ensemble_" of his movements wore a Grace of the soft Ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.

XLI.

No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid,[716] very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; At least he kept his vanity retired.

Such was his tact, he could alike delight The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved _traca.s.serie_, Began to treat him with some small _agacerie_.

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguished, celebrated For several winters in the grand, _grand Monde_: I'd rather not say what might be related Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground; Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated: Her late performance had been a dead set At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLIII.

This n.o.ble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation.

Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!

'Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on Woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whispered, and then sneered; The misses bridled, and the matrons frowned; Some hoped things might not turn out as they feared; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard; Some looked perplexed, and others looked profound: And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLV.

But what is odd, none ever named the Duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair: True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumoured, took But small concern about the when, or where, Or what his consort did: if he could brook Her gaieties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.

XLVI.

But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line!

Fired with an abstract love of Virtue, she, My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, Began to think the d.u.c.h.ess' conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, And waxing chiller in her courtesy, Looked grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

XLVII.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 'Tis so becoming to the soul and face, Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, And robes sweet Friendship in a Brussels lace.

Without a friend, what were Humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace?

Consoling us with--"Would you had thought twice!

Ah! if you had but followed my advice!"

XLVIII.

O Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough, Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, Go to the coffee-house, and take another.[717]

XLIX.

But this is not my maxim: had it been, Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not-- I would not be a tortoise in his screen Of stubborn sh.e.l.l, which waves and weather wear not: 'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen That which Humanity may bear, or bear not: 'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their Ocean in a sieve.

L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so,"