from Canto IX

41

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:
     “The time is out of joint,”—and so am I;
I quite forget this poem’s merely quizzical,
     And deviate into matters rather dry.
I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call
    Much too poetical. Men should know why
They write, and for what end; but, note or text,
I never know the word which will come next.

42

So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
     Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate:
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting—
     Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate.
I shall not be particular in stating
     His journey, we’ve so many tours of late:
Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose
That pleasant capital of painted Snows;

43

Suppose him in a handsome uniform;
     A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,
Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm,
     Over a cocked hat in a crowded room,
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,
    Of yellow cassimere we may presume,
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk,
O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk:

44

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand,
     Made up by Youth, Fame, and an Army tailor—
That great Enchanter, at whose rod’s command
    Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler,
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand,
    (When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a jailor)—
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He
Seems Love turned a Lieutenant of Artillery!

45

His Bandage slipped down into a cravat;
    His Wings subdued to epaulettes; his Quiver
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his Arrows at
     His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever;
His Bow converted into a cocked hat;
     But still so like, that Psyche were more clever
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid)
If She had not mistaken him for Cupid.

46

The courtiers stared, the ladies whispered, and
     The Empress smiled; the reigning favourite frowned—
I quite forget which of them was in hand
     Just then, as they are rather numerous found,
Who took by turns that difficult command
     Since first her Majesty was singly crowned:
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

47

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
    Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless
There was a something in his turn of limb,
     And still more in his eye, which seemed to express
That though he looked one of the Seraphim,
     There lurked a Man beneath the Spirit’s dress.
Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair faced Lanskoi.

48

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,
    Or Scherbatoff, or any other off
Or on, might dread her Majesty had not room enough
     Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough
     Along the aspect whether smooth or rough
Of him who, in the language of his station,
Then held that “high official situation.”

49

Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know
     The import of this diplomatic phrase,
Bid Ireland’s Londonderry’s Marquess show
     His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
Of that odd string of words, all in a row,
     Which none divine, and every one obeys,
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning,
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.

50

I think I can explain myself without
     That sad inexplicable beast of prey—
That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt,
    Did not his deeds unriddle them each day—
That monstrous Hieroglyphic—that long Spout
     Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!
And here I must an anecdote relate,
But luckily of no great length or weight.