Don Juan.

CANTO THE NINTH.

I.

O, Wellington (or "Vilainton"-for Fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways:
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,)
You have obtain❜d great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay!"

II.

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinèt's affair-in fact, 'twas shabby;
And, like some other things, won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.

Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell,

Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

III.

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more :
You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,

A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish and the French, as well as Dutch,

Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

IV.

You are "the best of cut-throats:"-do not start:
The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied :-
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part,

The world, not the world's masters, will decide;

And I shall be delighted to learn who,

Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo.

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V.

I am no flatterer-you've supp'd full of flattery:
They say you like it too-'tis no great wonder:
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
At last may get a little tir'd of thunder;
And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
May like being prais'd for every lucky blunder;
Call'd "Saviour of the Nations"-not yet sav'd,
And "Europe's Liberator"-still enslav'd.

VI.

I've done. Now go, and dine from off the plate
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils;
And send the sentinel before your gate,

A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
He fought, but has not fed so well of late.

Some hunger, too, they say the people feels: There is no doubt that you deserve your ration; But pray give back a little to the nation.

VII.

I don't mean to reflect-a man so great as
You, my lord duke! is far above reflection :
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,
With modern history has but small connection:
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,

You need not take them under your direction;
And half a million for your Sabine farm

Is rather dear!-I'm sure I mean no harm.

VIII.

Great men have always scorn'd great recompences:
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,

Not leaving even his funeral expenses:

George Washington had thanks, and nought beside,
Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is)
To free his country: Pitt, too, had his pride,
And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.

IX.

Never had mortal man such opportunity,
Except Napoleon, or abus'd it more:

You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity
Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:

And now-what is your fame ? Shall the Muse tune it ye?

Now that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?

Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
Behold the world! and curse your victories.

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X.

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,

To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe
Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,

But which 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe
Who fatten on their country's gore and debts,
Must be recited, and-without a bribe.
You did great things; but not being great in mind,
Have left undone the greatest-and mankind.

XI.

Death laughs-Go ponder o'er the skeleton
With which men image out the unknown thing
That hides the past world, like to a set sun

Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring-
Death laughs at all you weep for :-look upon

This hourly dread of all, whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: Mark! how its lipless mouth grins without breath!

XII.

Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are:
And yet was what you are: from ear to ear

It laughs not there is now no fleshy bar

So call'd; the Antic long hath ceas'd to hear,
But still he smiles; and, whether near or far,

He strips from man that mantle (far more dear
Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin,
White, black, or copper-the dead bones will grin.

XIII.

And thus Death laughs;-it is sad merriment,
But still it is so; and with such example

Why should not Life be equally content
With his superior, in a smile to trample
Upon the nothings which are daily spent

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample
Than the eternal deluge, which devours

Suns as rays-worlds like atoms-years like hours?

XIV.

"To be, or not to be ? that is the question,"

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Says Shakespeare, who just now is much in fashion.

I am neither Alexander nor Hephæstion,

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion, Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame, Without a stomach-what were a good name?

XV.

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"Oh! dura ilia messorum!"-"Oh!
Ye rigid guts of reapers!" I translate
For the great benefit of those who know
What indigestion is-that inward fate
Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:
Let this one toil for bread-that rack for rent,
He who sleeps best may be the most content.

XVI.

"To be, or not to be ?"-Ere I decide,

I should be glad to know that which is being: 'Tis true we speculate both far and wide,

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I'll enlist on neither side,

Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

XVII.

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"Que sais-je ?" was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians:

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That all is dubious which man may attain,
Was one of their most favourite positions.

There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain
As any of Mortality's conditions;

So little do we know what we're about in

This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.

XVIII.

It is a pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float,
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;

But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?

Your wise men don't know much of navigation;

And swimming long in the abyss of thought

Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station

Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

XIX.

"But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all-
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," though how it gave
Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.

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XX.

O ye immortal Gods! what is theogony?

Ŏ thou, too, mortal man! what is philanthropy? O world, which was and is! what is cosmogony? Some people have accus'd me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany

That forms this desk, of what they mean: lykanthropy I comprehend; for, without transformation, Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

XXI.

But I, the mildest, meekest, of mankind,
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er
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.

'Tis 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 attitude:

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 polish'd boors,

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Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.

I know its mighty empire now allures

Much flattery-even Voltaire's, and that's a pity:

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat

Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

XXIV.

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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.

R