CX. But all was gentle and aristocratic, In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. CXI. They separated at an early hour; That is, ere midnight-which is London's noon; Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower May the rose call back its true colour soon! 110 111 Don Juan. CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. I. IF from great nature's or our own abyss Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they missBut then 'twould spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones II. But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. III. For me, I know nought: nothing I deny, An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. IV. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! At once without instalments (an old way 1 2 4. V. 5 "Tis round him, near him, here, there, everywhere; The worst to know it :—when the mountains rear VI. 'Tis true, you don't-but, pale and struck with terror, And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears-but where? You know not: And that's the reason why you do—or do not. VII. But what's this to the purpose? you will say: I write what's uppermost, without delay: But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places. VIII. You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, "Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind blows;" And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death; A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. IX. The world is all before me-or behind; And quite enough for me to keep in mind ;- 9 X. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke And yet I can't help scribbling, once a week, XI. But "why then publish ?"-There are no rewards I ask, in turn,-Why do you play at cards? 10 11 [dreary, Why drink? Why read?-To make some hour less It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write, I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink-I have had, at least, my dream. XII. I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 'tis not easy to express, In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing- 12 XIII. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: 13 Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, XIV. Love, war, a tempest-surely there's variety; A bird's eye view, too, of that wild Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, 14 XV. The portion of this world which I, at present, XVI. With much to excite, there's little to exalt; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any. XVII. Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks, and gladly leave the drill : But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls-at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui. XVIII. 15 16 71 When we have made our love, and gam'd our gaming, 18 Witness those "ci-devant jeunes hommes" who stem ΧΙΧ. 'Tis said indeed a general complaint That no one has succeeded in describing The monde, exactly as they ought to paint: Some say that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, And that their books have but one style in common- 19 |