XLV.

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In the great world,-which, being interpreted,
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city,
And about twice two thousand people, bred
By no means to be very wise or witty,
But to sit up while others lie in bed,

And look down on the universe with pity,-
Juan as an inveterate patrician,

Was well receiv'd by persons of condition.

XLVI.

He was a bachelor, which is a matter

Of import both to virgin and to bride, The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter;

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride)

"T is also of some moment to the latter;

A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, Requires decorum, and is apt to double

The horrid sin-and, what's still worse, the trouble.

XLVII.

But Juan was a bachelor of arts,

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And parts, and hearts: he danc'd and sung, and had An air as sentimental as Mozart's

Softest of melodies; and could be sad

Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts,"
Just at the proper time; and though a lad,
Had seen the world-which is a curious sight,
And very much unlike what people write.

XLVIII.

Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames
Bloom'd also in less transitory hues;

For both commodities dwell by the Thames,
The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse,
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims,

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse :
Daughters admir'd his dress, and pious mothers
Inquir'd his income, and if he had brothers.

XLIX.

The milliners who furnish "drapery misses,"
Throughout the season, upon speculation
Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses
Have wan'd into a crescent's coruscation,
Thought such an opportunity as this is,
Of a rich foreigner's initiation,

Not to be overlook'd-and gave such credit,

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it.

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L.

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets,
And with the pages of the last Review,
Line the interior of their heads or bonnets,
Advanc'd in all their azure's highest hue:
They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two:
And which was softest, Russian or Castilian;
And whether in his travels he saw Ilion.

LI.

Juan, who was a little superficial,

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examin'd by this learned and especial

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer; His duties warlike, loving, or official,

His steady application as a dancer,

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene,
Which now he found was blue instead of green.

LII.

However, he replied at hazard, with

A modest confidence and calm assurance, Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,

And pass'd for arguments of good endurance.

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith

(Who at sixteen translated "Hercules Furens "

Into as furious English,) with her best look,
Set down his sayings in her common-place book.

LIII.

Juan knew several languages-as well

He might and brought them up with skill, in time

To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle,

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme.

There wanted but this requisite to swell
His qualities (with them) into sublime:
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Mævia Mannish,
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.

LIV.

However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,

At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral:
Also the eighty "greatest living poets,"
As every paltry magazine can show its.

LV.

In twice five years the "greatest living poet,”
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
Although 'tis an imaginary thing.

Even I-albeit I'm sure I did not know it,

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king,

Was reckon'd a considerable time,

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.

LVI.

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero

My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain: "La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero,

Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again;

But I will fall at least as fell my hero;

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign;

Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

LVII.

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell
Before and after; but now grown more holy,

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The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly:

And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley,
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,
A modern Ancient Pistol-by the hilts!

LVIII.

Still he excels that artificial hard

Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine

Yields him but vinegar for his reward,-
That neutralis'd dull Dorus of the Nine;

That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard!

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line:— Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least

The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest.

LIX.

Then there's my gentle Euphues; who, they say
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;

He'll find it rather difficult some day
To turn out both, or either, it may be.

Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway:
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three:
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, "Savage Landor,"
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.

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LX.

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique,
Just as he really promis'd something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek,
Contriv'd to talk about the gods of late,
Much as they might have been suppos'd to speak.
Poor fellow! his was an nntoward fate:
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

LXI.

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders
To that which none will gain-or none will know
The conqueror at least: who, ere Time renders
His last award, will have the long grass grow
Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.
If I might augur, I should rate but low
Their chances:-they are too numerous, like the thirty
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

LXII.

This is the literary lower empire,

Where the prætorian bands take up the matter:A" dreadful trade," like his who "gathers samphire," The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,

With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire.

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual war is.

LXIII.

I think I know a trick or two, would turn
Their flanks:-but it is hardly worth my while,
With such small gear to give myself concern :
Indeed I've not the necessary bile;

My natural temper's really aught but stern,

And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsey And glides away, assur'd she never hurts ye.

LXIV.

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past

With some small profit through that field so sterile.
Being tir'd in time, and neither least nor last,

Left it before he had been treated very ill;

And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd
Amongst the higher spirits of the day,
The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.

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LXV.

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His morns he pass'd in business-which dissected,
Was like all business, a laborious nothing
That leads to lassitude, the most infected

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good-
Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should.

LXVI.

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,
Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour

In riding round those vegetable puncheons

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Call'd" Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flower, Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; But, after all, it is the only "bower,"

(In Moor's phrase) where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

LXVII.

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Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!
Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar
Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd
Like harnass'd meteors; then along the floor

Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd;
Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,
Which opens to the thousand happy few,
An earthly paradise of "Or Molu.'

LXVIII.

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink

With the three thousandth curtsey; there the waltz,

The only dance which teaches girls to think,
Makes one in love even with its very faults.

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink,
And long the latest of arrivals halts,

'Midst royal dukes, and dames condemn'd to climb,
And gain an inch of staircase at a time.

LXIX.

Jack Horner,"

Thrice happy he who, after a survey
Of the good company, can win a corner,
A door that's in, or boudoir out, of the way,
Where he may fix himself like small "
And let the Babel round run as it may,
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner,
Or an approver, or a mere spectator,
Yawning a little as the night grows later.

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