Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

Home > Other > Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series > Page 200
Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series Page 200

by Lord Byron


  Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises

  Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

  XXXI

  At every jolt — and they were many — still

  He turn’d his eyes upon his little charge,

  As if he wish’d 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 canals, where God takes sea and land,

  Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

  XXXII

  At least he pays no rent, and has best right

  To be the first of what we used to call

  “Gentlemen farmer” — 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 — What strange thoughts

  Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

  XXXIII

  But Juan turn’d 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, 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; —

  XXXIV

  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 deck’d

  With all the praises ever said or sung:

  Though hymn’d by every harp, unless within

  Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.

  XXXV

  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, your popular circulation

  Feeds you by printing half the realm’s starvation; —

  XXXVI

  Oh, ye great authors! — “Apropos 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.

  XXXVII

  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, crisp’d, and curl’d,

  Baked, fried, or burnt, turn’d inside-out, or drown’d,

  Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl’d

  First out of, and then back again to chaos,

  The superstratum which will overlay us.

  XXXVIII

  So Cuvier says; — and then shall come again

  Unto the new creation, rising out

  From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain

  Of things destroy’d and left in airy doubt:

  Like to the notions we now entertain

  Of Titans, giants, fellows of about

  Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,

  And mammoths, and your wingéd crocodiles.

  XXXIX

  Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!

  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,” — 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

  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;

  XLIII

  Suppose him in a handsome uniform, —

  A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,

  Waving, like sails new shiver’d in a storm,

  Over a cock’d hat in a crowded room,

  And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,

  Of yellow casimere we may presume,

  White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk

  O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

  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

  Seems Love turn’d a lieutenant of artillery: —

  XLV

  His bandage slipp’d 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 cock’d 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 whisper’d, and

  The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown’d —

  I quite forget which of them was in hand

  Just then; as they are rather numerous found,

  Who took by turns that difficult command

  Since first her majesty was singly crown’d:

  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 seem’d to express,

  That though he look’d one of the seraphim,

  There lurk’d a man beneath the spirit’s dress.

  Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,

  And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.

  XLVIII

  No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,

  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 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 ask’d 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?” — a Pygmalion

  Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true ‘t is)

  Beneath his art. The dame, press’d 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 retain’d 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: — I have conn’d

  The history of divorces, which, though chequer’d,

  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 pass’d for much

  Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr’d)

  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” —

  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 dipt

  In thy perennial fountain: — how man fell I

  Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript

  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

  Are, or would be, thou sea of life’s dry land!

  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

  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 watch’d each look her visage wore,

  Until a royal smile at length disclosed

  Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious,

  Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.

  LIX

  Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first

  Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain.

  Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst,

  As an East Indian sunrise on the main.

  These quench’d a moment her ambition’s thirst —

  So Arab deserts drink in summer’s rain:

  In vain! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands,

  Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands!

  LX

  Her next amusement was more fanciful;

  She smiled at mad Suwarrow’s rhymes, who threw

  Into a Russian couplet rather dull

  The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.

  Her third was feminine enough to annul

  The shudder which runs naturally through

  Our veins, when things call’d sovereigns think it best

  To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

  LXI

  The two first feelings ran their course complete,

  And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth:

  The whole court look’d immediately most sweet,

  Like flowers well water’d after a long drouth.

  But when on the lieutenant at her feet

  Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth

  Almost as much as on a new despatch,

  Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.

  LXII

  Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,

  When wroth — while pleased, she was as fine a figure

  As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,

  Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.

  She could repay each amatory look you lent

  With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour

  To exact of Cupid’s bills the full amount

  At sight, nor would permit you to discount.

  LXIII

  With her the latter, though at times convenient,

  Was not so necessary; for they tell

  That she was handsome, and though fierce look’d lenient,

  And always used her favourites too well.

  If once beyond her boudoir’s precincts in ye went,

  Your “fortune” was in a
fair way “to swell

  A man” (as Giles says); for though she would widow all

  Nations, she liked man as an individual.

  LXIV

  What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger

  Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,

  And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger

  Is all the rest about her! Whether wed

  Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her

  Mind like the wind: whatever she has said

  Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do; —

  The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

  LXV

  Oh Catherine! (for of all interjections,

  To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right

  In love and war) how odd are the connections

  Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight!

  Just now yours were cut out in different sections:

  First Ismail’s capture caught your fancy quite;

  Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch;

  And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!

  LXVI

  Shakspeare talks of “the herald Mercury

  New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;”

  And some such visions cross’d her majesty,

  While her young herald knelt before her still.

  ‘T is very true the hill seem’d rather high,

  For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill

  Smooth’d even the Simplon’s steep, and by God’s blessing

  With youth and health all kisses are “heaven-kissing.”

  LXVII

  Her majesty look’d down, the youth look’d up —

  And so they fell in love; — she with his face,

  His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid’s cup

  With the first draught intoxicates apace,

  A quintessential laudanum or “black drop,”

  Which makes one drunk at once, without the base

  Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye

  In love drinks all life’s fountains (save tears) dry.

  LXVIII

  He, on the other hand, if not in love,

  Fell into that no less imperious passion,

  Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above

  Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion,

  Or duchess, princess, empress, “deigns to prove”

  (‘T is Pope’s phrase) a great longing, though a rash one,

  For one especial person out of many,

  Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.

  LXIX

  Besides, he was of that delighted age

  Which makes all female ages equal — when

  We don’t much care with whom we may engage,

  As bold as Daniel in the lion’s den,

  So that we can our native sun assuage

  In the next ocean, which may flow just then,

 

‹ Prev