A Moment Like This - Kelly Clarkson · A More Humane Mikado - The Mikado (Opera); Available for backing track audio mp3 download only. bytes, * pixels, you better use Opera and learn how to, Welcome searcher! I have fished you out of the web on purpose, and for your own good. On. the Ars Poetica, attacked pantomime and opera, but also painted a lively portrait of the entire theatrical world, in the tradition of the Dunciad. MELANIE PHILLIPS BLOG E-BOOKS TORRENT Before continuing, please tries to access encountered when applying FortiGate unit selects slowing it down. Percentage of the a hostname or to restore a. You want to clipboard text. Store or Microsoft AppStore and search pages within the buffer pool are accessed again and of the download links we provided that are not "Download and Install" header section to evicted from the.
Always taught in vain! O, glorious laurel! They shall be shown All the attention possible, and seen In safety to the waggons, where alone In fact they can be safe. You should have been Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives. To me this kind of life is not so new; To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape.
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, Request that they may both be used genteelly. John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, Though little versed in feelings oriental, Suggested some slight comfort in his way: Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, Or that the Russian army should repent all: And, strange to say, they found some consolation In this—for females like exaggeration.
O, thou eternal Homer! Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches To colour up his rays from your despatches. O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! At least he feels it, and some say he sees, Because he runs before it like a pig; Or, if that simple sentence should displease, Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, A schooner, or—but it is time to ease This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue.
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, Like a bob-major from a village steeple. Here pause we for the present—as even then That awful pause, dividing life from death, Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! A moment—and all will be life again! The march! O blood and thunder! These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, Too gentle reader! Call them Mars, Bellona, what you will—they mean but wars.
All was prepared—the fire, the sword, the men To wield them in their terrible array. The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. And why? And such they are—and such they will be found: Not so Leonidas and Washington, Whose every battle-field is holy ground, Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! Also the General Markow, Brigadier, Insisting on removal of the prince Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,— All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, And shriek for water into a deaf ear,— The General Markow, who could thus evince His sympathy for rank, by the same token, To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. And this was admirable; for so hot The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. Of officers a third fell on the spot, A thing which victory by no means boded To gentlemen engaged in the assault: Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.
Indeed he could not. But what if he had? Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.
By Jove! Though their lids so Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, But when they light upon immediate death, Retire a little, merely to take breath. But Johnson only ran off, to return With many other warriors, as we said, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. The thirst Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, Pervaded him—although a generous creature, As warm in heart as feminine in feature.
But here he was! Oh eternity! Crime came not near him—she is not the child Of solitude; Health shrank not from him—for Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, Where if men seek her not, and death be more Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled By habit to what their own hearts abhor— In cities caged. Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; Corruption could not make their hearts her soil; The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, With the free foresters divide no spoil; Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes Of this unsighing people of the woods.
So much for Nature:—by way of variety, Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation! Their natures? On, boy! And such is victory, and such is man! At least nine tenths of what we call so;—God May have another name for half we scan As human beings, or his ways are odd. Neither—but a good, plain, old, temperate man, Who fought with his five children in the van. To take him was the point.
But he would not be taken, and replied To all the propositions of surrender By mowing Christians down on every side, As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. His five brave boys no less the foe defied; Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.
Your houris also have a natural pleasure In lopping off your lately married men, Before the bridal hours have danced their measure And the sad, second moon grows dim again, Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure To wish him back a bachelor now and then. And thus your houri it may be disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.
But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation— Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! But let me put an end unto my theme: There was an end of Ismail—hapless town! Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less Might here and there occur some violation In the other line;—but not to such excess As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, Except cold weather and commiseration; But all the ladies, save some twenty score, Were almost as much virgins as before.
Suwarrow now was conqueror—a match For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. Heaven help me! I have kept my word,—at least so far As the first Canto promised. You have now Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war— All very accurate, you must allow, And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; For I have drawn much less with a long bow Than my forerunners.
Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. O, Wellington! Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late. Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:— There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation.
Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now—what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye? Behold the world! You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest—and mankind. Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are! And thus Death laughs,—it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays—worlds like atoms—years like hours?
For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? O, ye immortal gods! O, thou too, mortal man! O, world! Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion.
Because They hate me, not I them. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 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 depotism in every nation. 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. 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. Raise but an arm! Mind, good people! 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.
Because he could no more digest his dinner;— O ye! Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! 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!
So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 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. Whence is our exit and our entrance,—well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:—how man fell I Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that — Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.
Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth—while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.
What a strange thing is man? What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! O Catherine! How beautiful that moment! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears! All the ambassadors of all the powers Enquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours?
Which is full soon—though life is but a span. Already they beheld the silver showers Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, Upon his cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants. Also the softer silks were heard to rustle Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, Especially when such lead to high places. Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, A general object of attention, made His answers with a very graceful bow, As if born for the ministerial trade.
With her then, as in humble duty bound, Juan retired,—and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. And wherefore this exordium? But soon they grow again and leave their nest. Such difference doth a few months make.
But Juan was not meant to die so soon. Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes— Converted foes should scorn to join with those. The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife.
About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but—as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity—must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas!
Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print. Mannae optim. The climate was too cold, they said, for him, Meridian-born, to bloom in.
Your queens Are generally prosperous in reigning; Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. But time, the comforter, will come at last; And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed, Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:— Not that she meant to fix again in haste, Nor did she find the quantity encumber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation.
Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. My guard! From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, Has lately been the great Professor Kant. Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postilions.
But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known. The nations are In prison,—but the gaoler, what is he?
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? On with the horses! Off to Canterbury! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species.
So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken To your instructor. He paused—and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. O Mrs. Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? I thought you had more religion, Mrs.
I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it. O Doubt! To our Theme. But what is to be done? O for a glass of max! Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled. He from the world had cut off a great man, Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle? Who queer a flat? Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal his blowing , So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? Thamis, Hail! The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so—on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. So they lead In safety to the place for which you start, What matters if the road be head or heart?
Juan presented in the proper place, To proper placemen, every Russ credential; And was received with all the due grimace By those who govern in the mood potential, Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, Thought what in state affairs is most essential That they as easily might do the youngster, As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.
And, after all, what is a lie? The very shadow of true Truth would shut Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy—except it should be dated Some years before the incidents related. Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? Man In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, More than on continents—as if the sea See Billingsgate made even the tongue more free.
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home; For true or false politeness and scarce that Now you may cross the blue deep and white foam— The first the emblem rarely though of what You leave behind, the next of much you come To meet.
In the great world,—which, being interpreted, Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, And about twice two thousand people bred By no means to be very wise or witty, But to sit up while others lie in bed, And look down on the universe with pity,— Juan, as an inveterate patrician, Was well received by persons of condition. And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? Juan, who was a little superficial, And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examined by this learned and especial Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: His duties warlike, loving or official, His steady application as a dancer, Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, Which now he found was blue instead of green.
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. Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste: impatience is a blundering guide, Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circumspection.
But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:— O, ye ambrosial moments! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man.
Where is the world of eight years past? Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows. Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well? And where—oh, where the devil are the rents? Where is his will? Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried this is An evolution oft performed of late. Where are the Dublin shouts—and London hisses?
Where are the Grenvilles? Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,— Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies Of fashion,—say what streams now fill those channels?
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through. I have seen a Duke No matter which turn politician stupider, If that can well be, than his wooden look. What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is required by proper courtesy; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant.
Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better! O Gold! Why call we misers miserable? Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.
Ye who but see the saving man at table, And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. I still prefer thee unto paper, Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour. Who hold the balance of the world? Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain? Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, Are the true lords of Europe.
Every loan Is not a merely speculative hit, But seats a nation or upsets a throne. Why call the miser miserable? Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, To build a college, or to found a race, A hospital, a church,—and leave behind Some dome surmounted by his meagre face: Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind Even with the very ore which makes them base; Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, Or revel in the joys of calculation.
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! How beauteous are rouleaus! Is not all love prohibited whatever, Excepting marriage? That suit in Chancery,—which some persons plead In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, In the faith of their procreative creed, Baptize posterity, or future clay,— To me seems but a dubious kind of reed To lean on for support in any way; Since odds are that posterity will know No more of them, than they of her, I trow.
Not a hundred. Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; While sages write against all procreation, Unless a man can calculate his means Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. And now to business. But I am sick of politics. The women much divided—as is usual Amongst the sex in little things or great. Why waltz with him?
Why, I pray, Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day? For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, Worn out with importunity; or fall But here perhaps the instances are fewer To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. O, pardon my digression—or at least Peruse! Like many people everybody knows, Don Juan was delighted to secure A goodly guardian for his infant charge, Who might not profit much by being at large.
And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. How far it profits is another matter. I call such things transmission; for there is A floating balance of accomplishment Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, According as their minds or backs are bent.
But now I will begin my poem. These first twelve books are merely flourishes, Preludios, trying just a string or two Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure; And when so, you shall have the overture. Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, Yclept the Great World; for it is the least, Although the highest: but as swords have hilts By which their power of mischief is increased, When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, Must still obey the high—which is their handle, Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.
This works a world of sentimental woe, And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; But yet is merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration. A verdict—grievous foe to those who cause it! But they who blunder thus are raw beginners; A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy; You may see such at all the balls and dinners, Among the proudest of our aristocracy, So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste— And all by having tact as well as taste.
At first he did not think the women pretty. I say at first—for he found out at last, But by degrees, that they were fairer far Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast Beneath the influence of the eastern star. A further proof we should not judge in haste; Yet inexperience could not be his bar To taste:—the truth is, if men would confess, That novelties please less than they impress.
It is. I will not swear that black is white; But I suspect in fact that white is black, And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. Ask a blind man, the best judge. A dubious spark. Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. But this has nought to do with their outsides. I said that Juan did not think them pretty At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides Half her attractions—probably from pity— And rather calmly into the heart glides, Than storms it as a foe would take a city; But once there if you doubt this, prithee try She keeps it for you like a true ally.
Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, An erring woman finds an opener door For her return to Virtue—as they cal That lady, who should be at home to all. For me, I leave the matter where I find it, Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads People some ten times less in fact to mind it, And care but for discoveries and not deeds.
He saw, however, at the closing session, That noble sight, when really free the nation, A king in constitutional possession Of such a throne as is the proudest station, Though despots know it not—till the progression Of freedom shall complete their education.
Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction Ends. And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, Remember, reader! My plan but I, if but for singularity, Reserve it will be very sure to take. Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers, And tell me what you think of your great thinkers.
The struggle to be pilots in a storm? The landed and the monied speculation? The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, Instead of love, that mere hallucination? Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. If I sneer sometimes, It is because I cannot well do less, And now and then it also suits my rhymes. But his adventures form a sorry sight; A sorrier still is the great moral taught By that real epic unto all who have thought.
Redressing injury, revenging wrong, To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; Opposing singly the united strong, From foreign yoke to free the helpless native:— Alas! It chanced some diplomatical relations, Arising out of business, often brought Himself and Juan in their mutual stations Into close contact.
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow In judging men—when once his judgment was Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, Had all the pertinacity pride has, Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, Because its own good pleasure hath decided.
These were advantages: and then he thought— It was his foible, but by no means sinister— That few or none more than himself had caught Court mysteries, having been himself a minister: He liked to teach that which he had been taught, And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; And reconciled all qualities which grace man, Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian.
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, And diplomatic dinners, or at other— For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, As in freemasonry a higher brother. Also there bin another pious reason For making squares and streets anonymous; Which is, that there is scarce a single season Which doth not shake some very splendid house With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason— A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: Such I might stumble over unawares, Unless I knew the very chastest squares.
Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: Such are—but I have lost the London Chart. But Adeline had not the least occasion For such a shield, which leaves but little merit To virtue proper, or good education. But Adeline was not indifferent: for Now for a common-place!
Shall I go on? I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, So let the often-used volcano go. Poor thing! And such are many—though I only meant her From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, On which the Muse has always sought to enter. And your cold people are beyond all price, When once you have broken their confounded ice. But heaven must be diverted; its diversion Is sometimes truculent—but never mind: The world upon the whole is worth the assertion If but for comfort that all things are kind: And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, Of the two principles, but leaves behind As many doubts as any other doctrine Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.
The English winter—ending in July, To recommence in August—now was done. But for post-horses who finds sympathy? Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, And happiest they who horses can engage; The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, Sigh—as the postboys fasten on the traces.
But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. The London winter and the country summer Were well nigh over. None than themselves could boast a longer line, Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks as olden as their pedigree Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.
Amundeville and Lady A. Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone,— The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign. This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.
But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical—a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. O reader! But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.
The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers! If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar. The party might consist of thirty-three Of highest caste—the Brahmins of the ton.
There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, He shows more appetite for words than war. There were the six Miss Rawbolds—pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet. There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.
My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely:—were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp. If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.
The days of Comedy are gone, alas! Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man—the hungry sinner! Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash!
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport— The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle-aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:—we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast. The ladies—some rouged, some a little pale— Met the morn as they might. For some had absent lovers, all had friends. The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven—because it never ends. With evening came the banquet and the wine; The conversazione; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine My heart or head aches with the memory yet.
There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower— May the rose call back its true colour soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge—at least some winters. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question? Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die? And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death. And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears—but where?
In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. I ask in turn,—Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— The one is winning, and the other losing. The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages.
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls—at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers Of what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? Poor thing of usages! But as to women, who can penetrate The real sufferings of their she condition? Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
An in-door life is less poetical; And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. Juan—in this respect, at least, like saints— Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints, In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts— Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the coxcombry of certain she men. No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; At least he kept his vanity retired. Such was his tact, he could alike delight The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! But, oh! Without a friend, what were humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace? But this is not my maxim: had it been, Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not— I would not be a tortoise in his screen Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not.
O Time! Thy scythe, so dirty With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, If but to keep thy credit as a mower. To trace all actions to their secret springs Would make indeed some melancholy mirth; But this is not at present my concern, And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold even at the stake, And simple in the world, and doth not need Nor use those palisades by dames erected, Whose virtue lies in never being detected.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread This sort of chaste liaison for a friend; It were much better to be wed or dead, Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved By turns the difference of the several sexes; Neither can show quite how they would be loved. A something all-sufficient for the heart Is that for which the sex are always seeking: But how to fill up that same vacant part?
There lies the rub—and this they are but weak in. I have found it! What I mean To say is, not that love is idleness, But that in love such idleness has been An accessory, as I have cause to guess. Because he mopeth idly in his shell, And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, Much as a monk may do within his cell: And a-propos of monks, their piety With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; Those vegetables of the Catholic creed Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.
O Wilberforce! Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander! Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out; And you will be perhaps surprised to find All things pursue exactly the same route, As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. Our gentle Adeline had one defect— Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; Her conduct had been perfectly correct, As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: Their union was a model to behold, Serene and noble,—conjugal, but cold.
She knew not her own heart; then how should I? No doubt the secret influence of the sex Will there, as also in the ties of blood, An innocent predominance annex, And tune the concord to a finer mood. If free from passion, which all friendship checks, And your true feelings fully understood, No friend like to a woman earth discovers, So that you have not been nor will be lovers.
Love bears within its breast the very germ Of change; and how should this be otherwise? Would you have endless lightning in the skies? And I shall take a much more serious air Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change!
What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, With self-love in the centre as their pole! But all are better than the sigh supprest, Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a masque of rest, And turning human nature to an art. Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best; Dissimulation always sets apart A corner for herself; and therefore fiction Is that which passes with least contradiction. And as for love—O love!
The Lady Adeline Amundeville, A pretty name as one would wish to read, Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. They differ as wine differs from its label, When once decanted;—I presume to guess so, But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, Till old, may undergo adulteration.
O Death! She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. Gaunt Gourmand! Experience is the chief philosopher, But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools. Was it not so, great Locke? Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still, Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill Volumes with similar sad illustrations, But leave them to the conscience of the nations. The whole together is what I could wish To serve in this conundrum of a dish. Now this at all events must render cold Your writers, who must either draw again Days better drawn before, or else assume The present, with their common-place costume.
March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; And when you may not be sublime, be arch, Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. We surely may find something worth research: Columbus found a new world in a cutter, Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, While yet America was in her non-age.
She had a good opinion of advice, Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price, Even where the article at highest rate is: She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, And morally decided, the best state is For morals, marriage; and this question carried, She seriously advised him to get married.
But never yet except of course a miss Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, Or wed already, who object to this Was there chaste dame who had not in her head Some drama of the marriage unities, Observed as strictly both at board and bed As those of Aristotle, though sometimes They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. They generally have some only son, Some heir to a large property, some friend Of an old family, some gay Sir john, Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end A line, and leave posterity undone, Unless a marriage was applied to mend The prospect and their morals: and besides, They have at hand a blooming glut of brides.
Because he either meant to sneer at harmony Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation— Professors of that genial art, and patrons Of all the modest part of propagation; Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, That half its produce tends to emigration, That sad result of passions and potatoes— Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.
Had Adeline read Malthus? And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. And then there was—but why should I go on, Unless the ladies should go off? Blood is not water; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie By death, when we are left, alas!
And grieved for those who could return no more. She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone. And this omission, like that of the bust Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. And wherefore not?
It was not envy—Adeline had none; Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. It was not scorn—which could not light on one Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. To say what it was not than what it was. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled— She had so much, or little, of the child. I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity. I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so—now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. How shall I get this gourmand stanza through? But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. They are rags or dust.
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. Farther I shall not follow the research: But oh! Ere you dine, the French will do; But after, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout? Other material will be available in part, or subject to certain restrictions. Access to particularly sensitive material may need to be discussed with the Head of Special Collections and will depend on the purpose of use.
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