from Canto IX

21

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
    Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne’er
Done any thing exceedingly unkind,—
     And (though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)
     Have always had a tendency to spare,—
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because
They hate me, not I them:—And here we’ll pause.

22

‘Tis time we should proceed with our good poem,
     For I maintain that it is really good,
Not only in the body, but the proem,
     However little both are understood
Just now,—but by and by the Truth will show ‘em
    Herself in her sublimest attitude:
And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her Beauty and her Banishment.

23

Our Hero (and, I trust, kind reader! your’s)—
     Was left upon his way to the chief City
Of the immortal Peter’s polished boors,
     Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
I know its mighty Empire now allures
     Much flattery—even Voltaire’s, and that’s a pity.
For me, I deem an absolute Autocrat
Not a Barbarian, but much worse than that.

24

And I will war, at least in words (and—should
     My chance so happen—deeds) with all who war
With Thought;—and of Thought’s foes by far most rude,
    Tyrants and Sycophants have been and are.
I know not who may conquer: if I could
     Have such a prescience, it should be no bar
To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation
Of every despotism in every nation.

25

It is not that I adulate the people:
     Without me, there are Demagogues enough,
And Infidels, to pull down every steeple
     And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
Whether they may sow Scepticism to reap Hell,
     As is the Christian dogma rather rough,
I do not know;—I wish men to be free
As much from mobs as kings—from you as me.

26

The consequence is, being of no party,
     I shall offend all parties:—never mind!
My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
     Than if I sought to sail before the wind.
He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
     Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,
May still expatiate freely, as will I,
Nor give my voice to Slavery’s Jackall cry.

27

That’s an appropriate simile, that Jackall;—
    I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,
     Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
    However, the poor Jackalls are less foul
(As being the brave Lions’ keen providers)
Than human Insects, catering for Spiders.

28

Raise but an arm! ‘twill brush their web away,
     And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good People! what I say—
     (Or rather Peoples)—go on without pause!
The web of these Tarantulas each day
     Increases, till you shall make common cause:
None, save the Spanish Fly and Attic Bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

29

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
     Was left upon his way with the dispatch,
Where Blood was talked of as we would of Water;
    And carcases that lay as thick as thatch
O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter
     Fair Catherine’s pastime,—who looked on the match
Between these nations as a main of cocks,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

30

And there in a kibitka he rolled on,
     (A cursed sort of carriage without springs,
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone)
     Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,
And orders, and on all that he had done—
     And wishing that post horses had the wings
Of Pegasus—or, at the least, post chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.