from Canto I

131

‘Tis said the great came from America;
     Perhaps it may set out on its return,—
The population there so spreads, they say
     ‘Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn,
With war, or plague, or famine, any way,
    So that civilisation they may learn;
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is—
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?

132

This is the patent age of new inventions
     For killing bodies, and for saving souls,
All propagated with the best intentions;
    Sir Humphrey Davy’s lantern, by which coals
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
    Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.

133

Man’s a phenomenon, one knows not what,
     And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;
‘Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that
     Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure;
Few mortals know what end they would be at,
     But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure,
The path is through perplexing ways, and when
The goal is gain’d, we die, you know—and then—

134

What then?—I do not know, no more do you—
     And so good night.—Return we to our story:
‘Twas in November, when fine days are few,
     And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;
    And the sea dashes round the promontory,
And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
And sober suns must set at five o’clock.

135

‘Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;
     No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
     With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;
There’s something cheerful in that sort of light,
     Even as a summer sky’s without a cloud:
I’m fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
A lobster salad, and champaigne, and chat.

136

‘Twas midnight—Donna Julia was in bed,
     Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door
Arose a clatter might awake the dead,
     If they had never been awoke before,
And that they have been so we all have read,
     And are to be so, at the least, once more—
The door was fasten’d, but with voice and fist
First knocks were heard, then “Madam—Madam—hist!

137

“For God’s sake, Madam—Madam—here’s my master,
     With more than half the city at his back—
Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!
    ‘Tis not my fault—I kept good watch—Alack!
Do, pray undo the bolt a little faster—
     They’re on the stair just now, and in a crack
Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly—
Surely the window’s not so very high!”

138

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,
     With torches, friends, and servants in great number;
The major part of them had long been wived,
     And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber
Of any wicked woman, who contrived
     By stealth her husband’s temples to encumber:
Examples of this kind are so contagious,
Were one not punish’d, all would be outrageous.

139

I can’t tell how, or why, or what suspicion
     Could enter into Don Alfonso’s head;
But for a cavalier of his condition
     It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,
Without a word of previous admonition,
     To hold a levee round his lady’s bed,
And summon lackeys, arm’d with fire and sword,
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr’d.

140

Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep,
     (Mind—that I do not say—she had not slept)
Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;
     Her maid Antonia, who was an adept,
Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,
     As if she had just now from out them crept:
I can’t tell why she should take all this trouble
To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.