from Canto XI

61

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders
     To that which none will gain—or none will know
The Conqueror at least; who, ere time renders
     His last award, will have the long grass grow
Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.
     If I might augur, I should rate but low
Their chances;—they’re too numerous, like the thirty
Mock tyrants, when Rome’s annals waxed but dirty.

62

This is the literary lower Empire,
     Where the Praetorian bands take up the matter;—
A “dreadful trade,” like his who “gathers samphire,”
    The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,
With the same feelings as you’d coax a vampire.
     Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I’d try conclusions with those Janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual war is.

63

I think I know a trick or two, would turn
     Their flanks;—but it is hardly worth my while
With such small gear to give myself concern:
     Indeed I’ve not the necessary bile;
My natural temper’s really aught but stern,
    And even my Muse’s worst reproof’s a smile;
And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy,
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.

64

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril
     Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past
With some small profit through that field so sterile.
     Being tired in time, and neither least nor last
Left it before he had been treated very ill;
     And henceforth found himself more gaily classed
Amongst the higher spirits of the day,
The sun’s true son, no vapour, but a ray.

65

His morns he passed in business—which dissected,
     Was like all business, a laborious nothing,
That leads to lassitude, the most infected
    And Centaur-Nessus garb of mortal clothing,
And on our sophas makes us lie dejected,
     And talk in tender horrors of our loathing
All kinds of toil, save for our country’s good—
Which grows no better, though ‘tis time it should.

66

His afternoons he passed in visits, luncheons,
     Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour
In riding round those vegetable puncheons
     Called “Parks,” where there is neither fruit nor flower
Enough to gratify a bee’s slight munchings;
     But after all it is the only “bower,”
(In Moore’s phrase) where the fashionable fair
Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

67

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!
     Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar
Through street and square fast flashing chariots, hurled
     Like harnessed meteors; then along the floor
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirled;
     Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,
Which opens to the thousand happy few
An earthly Paradise of “Or Molu.”

68

There stands the noble Hostess, nor shall sink
    With the three-thousandth curtsey; there the Waltz,
The only dance which teaches girls to think,
     Makes one in love even with its very faults.
Saloon, room, hall o’erflow beyond their brink,
     And long the latest of arrivals halts,
‘Midst royal dukes and dames condemned to climb,
And gain an inch of staircase at a time.

69

Thrice happy he, who, after a survey
     Of the good company, can win a corner,
A door that’s in, or boudoir out of the way,
     Where he may fix himself, like small “Jack Horner,”
And let the Babel round run as it may,
    And look on as a mourner, or a scorner,
Or an approver, or a mere spectator,
Yawning a little as the night grows later.

70

But this won’t do, save by and by; and he
     Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share,
Must steer with care through all that glittering sea
     Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where
He deems it is his proper place to be;
     Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,
Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill
Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.