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And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.
Oh never talk again to me Of northern climes and British ladies;
FAREWELL TO MALTA
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, That gave me fever, and the spleen!
I'll not offend with words uncivil, And wish thee rudely at the Devil, But only stare from out my casement, And ask, "for what is such a place meant?" Then, in my solitary nook, Return to scribbling, or a book, Or take my physic while I'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly, by this label), Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, And bless my stars I've got a fever.
I've seen my bride another's bride,— Have seen her seated by his side,— Have seen the infant, which she bore, Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
Time tempers Love, but not removes, More hallowed when its Hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves To that which cannot quit the dead?
"ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER"
"SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING"
1. So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. 2. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And Love itself have rest. 3. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
Dear Doctor, I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way,— Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels With tears, that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shattered nerves and quickened pulses, Which your catastrophe convulses. I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for Scenery! Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and every body dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see: And for a piece of publication, If
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I think he's lost his wits at Venice.
My hands are full—my head so busy, I'm almost dead—and always dizzy;
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT
It hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes many;" and it hath been poetically observed— "[That] fools rush in where angels fear to tread." —Pope's Essay on Criticism.
I've an hypothesis—'tis quite my own; I never let it out till now, for fear Of doing people harm about the throne, And injuring some minister or peer, On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown; It is—my gentle public, lend thine ear! 'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call, Was really—truly—nobody at all.
DON JUAN
DEDICATION
Explaining metaphysics to the nation. I wish he would explain his explanation.
With just enough of talent and no more, To lengthen fetters by another fixed And offer poison long already mixed.
An orator of such set trash of phrase, Ineffably—legitimately vile, That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile. Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee. Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me. Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
Exceedingly remarkable at times, But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
Brave men were living before Agamemnon And since, exceeding valorous and sage, A good deal like him too, though quite the same none; But then they shone not on the poet's page, And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none, But can't find any in the present age Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
''Tis strange—the Hebrew noun which means "I am,"
One sad example more, that 'All is vanity' (The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity').
This was an easy matter with a man Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; And even the wisest, do the best they can, Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;' And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands.
'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed With persons of no sort of education, Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, Grow tired of scientific conversation: I don't choose to say much upon this head, I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,
But if there's anything in which I shine, 'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs, Not having of my own domestic cares.
And so I interfered, and with the best Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; I think the foolish people were possess'd, For neither of them could I ever find, Although their porter afterwards confess'd— But that's no matter, and the worst's behind,
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, And mischief-making monkey from his birth; His parents ne'er agreed except in doting Upon the most unquiet imp on earth; Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, To teach him manners for the time to come.
According to all hints I could collect
(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect),
Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him. Let's own—since it can do no good on earth— It was a trying moment that which found him
An only son left with an only mother Is brought up much more wisely than another.
And so they were submitted first to her, all, Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery
The languages, especially the dead, The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, The arts, at least all such as could be said To be the most remote from common use, In all these he was much and deeply read;
His classic studies made a little puzzle, Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, But never put on pantaloons or bodices; His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, And for their Æneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.
Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample: But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'
Lucretius' irreligion is too strong, For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food; I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, Although no doubt his real intent was good, For speaking out so plainly in his song, So much indeed as to be downright rude; And then what proper person can be partial To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?
Juan was taught from out the best edition, Expurgated by learned men, who place Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface Too much their modest bard by this omission, And pitying sore his mutilated case, They only add them all in an appendix, Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;
For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,' Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages; They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, Till some less rigid editor shall stoop To call them back into their separate cages, Instead of standing staring all together, Like garden gods—and not so decent either.
This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan— I can't but say that his mamma was right, If such an education was the true one. She scarcely trusted him from out her sight; Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, You might be sure she was a perfect fright; She did this during even her husband's life— I recommend as much to every wife.
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid (But this last simile is trite and stupid).
'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, And all the fault of that indecent sun, Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, That howsoever people fast and pray, The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate's sultry.
('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
They lived together, as most people do, Suffering each other's foibles by accord, And not exactly either one or two; Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,' They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,' They make you dread that they'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.
And then—God knows what next—I can't go on; I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.
