from Canto IX

31

At every jolt—and they were many—still
     He turned his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wished that she should fare less ill
     Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature’s skill,
    Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

32

At least he pays no rent, and has best right
     To be the first of what we used to call
“Gentlemen Farmers”—a race worn out quite,
     Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And “gentlemen” are in a piteous plight,
     And “farmers” can’t raise Ceres from her fall.
She fell with Buonaparte:—What strange thoughts
Arise, when we see Emperors fall with oats!

33

But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child
     Whom he had saved from slaughter—what a trophy!
Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled
    With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy,
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,
     And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
To soothe his woes withal, was slain—the sinner!
Because he could no more digest his dinner;—

34

Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,
     That one life saved, especially if young
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect
     Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though decked
     With all the praises ever said or sung:
Though hymned by every harp, unless within
Your Heart joins Chorus, Fame is but a din.

35

Oh, ye great Authors luminous, voluminous!
     Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes,
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us!
     Whether you’re paid by Government in bribes,
To prove the public debt is not consuming us—
    Or, roughly treading on the “Courtier’s kibes”
With clownish heel, your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm’s Starvation;—

36

Oh, ye great Authors!—”Apropos des bottes”—
     I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater Sages’ lots;—
     ‘Twas something calculated to allay
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
     Certes it would have been but thrown away,
And that’s one comfort for my lost advice,
Although no doubt it was beyond all price.

37

But let it go:—it will one day be found
     With other relics of “a former world,”
When this world shall be former, underground,
    Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisped, and curled,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside-out, or drowned,
     Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled
First out of and then back again to Chaos,
The Superstratum which will overlay us.

38

So Cuvier says;—and then shall come again
     Unto the new Creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
     Of things destroyed and left in airy doubt:
Like to the notions we now entertain
     Of Titans, Giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And Mammoths, and your winged Crocodiles.

39

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!
    How the new worldlings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup!
     (For they themselves will be but of the least:
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
     And every new Creation hath decreased
In size, from overworking the material—
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth’s burial.)

40

How will—to these young people, just thrust out
     From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough,
And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,
     And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,
Till all the Arts at length are brought about,
     Especially of war and taxing,—how,
I say, will these great relics, when they see ‘em,
Look like the monsters of a new Museum?