Those movements, those improvements in our bodies, 75
Which make all bodies anxious to get out
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,
For such all women are at first, no doubt.
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is
That fever which precedes the languid rout
Of our sensations! What a curious way
The whole thing is, of clothing souls in clay!
The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,
To end or to begin with; the next grand
Is that which may be christen'd love canonical,
Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
The third sort, to be noted in our chronicle,
As flourishing in every Christian land,
Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties
Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.
Well, we won't analyse-our story must
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,
Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust:-
I cannot stop to alter words once written
And the two are so mix'd with human dust,
That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
But in such matters Russia's mighty empress
Behav'd no better that a common sempstress.
The whole court melted into one wide whisper;
And all lips were applied unto all ears!
The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper,
As they beheld; the younger cast some leers
On one another, and each lovely lisper
Smil'd as she talk'd the matter o'er: but tears
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye
Of all the standing army that stood by.
All the ambassadors of all the powers,
Inquir'd who was this very new young man,
Who promis'd to be great in some few hours:
Which is full soon (though life is but a span).
Already they beheld the silver showers
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents
Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.
Catherine was generous,-all such ladies are:
Love, that great opener of the heart and all
The ways that lead there, be they near or far,
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,-
Love (though she had a cursed taste for war,
And was not the best wife, unless we call
Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis better
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)-
Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune,
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,
If history, the grand liar, ever saith
The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,
Because she put a favourite to death,
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.
But when the levee rose, and all was bustle
In the dissolving circle, all the nations'
Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle
Round the young man with their congratulations.
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations
It is to speculate on handsome faces,
Especially when such lead to high places.
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,
A general object of attention, made
His answers with a very graceful bow,
As if born for the ministerial trade.
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow
Nature had written "gentleman." He said
Little, but to the purpose; and his manner
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner.
An order from her majesty consign'd
Our young lieutenant to the genial care
Of those in office: all the world look'd kind,
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare,
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind,)
As also did Miss Protosoff then there,
Nam'd, from her mystic office, "l'Eprouveuse,"
A term inexplicable to the Muse.
With her then, as in humble duty bound,
Juan retir'd-and so will I, until
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.
We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill,"
So softly that I feel my brain turn round,
And all my fancies whirling like a mill;
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain,
To take a quiet ride in some green lane.
WHEN Newton saw an apple fall, he found,
In that slight startle from his contemplation---
'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground
For any sage's creed or calculation)-
A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round
In a most natural whirl, call'd "gravitation;"
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple,
Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple.
Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,
If this be true; for we must deem the mode
In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose
Through the then unpav'd stars the turnpike road,
A thing to counterbalance human woes:
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.
And wherefore this exordium ?-Why, just now,
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper,
My bosom underwent a glorious glow,
And my internal spirit cut a caper:
And though so much inferior, as I know,
To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour,
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye,
I wish to do as much by poesy.
In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for
The stars, I own my telescope is dim;
But at the least I've shunn'd the common shore,
And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim
The ocean of eternity: the roar
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim,
But still sea-worthy, skiff; and she may float
Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat.
We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom
Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush ;And far be it from my Muses to presume
(For I have more than one Muse, at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room:
It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings.
But soon they grow again, and leave their nest.
"Oh!" saith the Psalmist, "that I had a dove's
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!"
And who that recollects young years and loves,—
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,
And palsied fancy, which no longer roves
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, but would much rather Sigh like a son, than cough like his grandfather?
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow,
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow;
Such difference do a few months make. You'd think
Grief a rich field that never would lie fallow:
No more it doth; its ploughs but change their boys,
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.
But coughs will come when sighs depart-and now
And then before sighs cease; for oft the one
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun
Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and, while a glow,
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done,
O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay,
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die-how happy they.
But Juan was not meant to die so soon.
We left him in the focus of such glory
As may be won by favour of the moon
Or ladies' fancies :-rather transitory,
Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June,
Because December, with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.
|