from Canto X

81

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
    A half-unquenched volcano, o’er a space
Which well beseemed the “Devil’s drawing-room,”
     As some have qualified that wondrous place.
But Juan felt, though not approaching home,
     As one who, though he were not of the race,
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother,
Who butchered half the earth, and bullied t’other.

82

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
     Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
     In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
     On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool’s head—and there is London Town!

83

But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke
     Appeared to him but as the magic vapour
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke
     The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):
The gloomy clouds, which o’er it as a yoke
     Are bowed, and put the sun out like a taper,
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere,
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.

84

He paused—and so will I; as doth a crew
     Before they give their broadside. By and bye,
My gentle countrymen, we will renew
     Our old acquaintance: and at least I’ll try
To tell you truths you will not take as true,
     Because they are so:—a male Mrs. Fry,
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
And brush a web or two from off the walls.

85

Oh, Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why
     Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try
     Your hand at hardened and imperial sin.
To mend the people’s an absurdity,
     A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
Unless you make their betters better:—Fie!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

86

Teach them the decencies of good threescore;
     Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses;
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more;
    That hired huzzas redeem no land’s distresses;
Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore,
     Too dull even for the dullest of excesses—
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all;—

87

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late
     On life’s worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated,
To set up vain pretences of being great,
     ‘Tis not so to be good; and be it stated,
The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;
    And tell them—but you won’t, and I have prated
Just now enough; but by and bye I’ll prattle
Like Roland’s horn in Roncesvalles’ battle.