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;-Oh, ye great authors!- 'Apropos des bottes,'-I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages' lots;
'T was 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.
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, crisp'd, and curl'd, Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd First out of, and then back again to chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us.
So Cuvier says;- and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroy'd 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.
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.)
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?
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 cal 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.
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;
Suppose him in a handsome uniform,-A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;
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 gaoler),-Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:-His bandage slipp'd 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 cock'd 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.
The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd-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 crown'd:
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.
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 seem'd to express, That though he look'd one of the seraphim, There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.
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.'
O, 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.
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.
An English lady ask'd of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called 'Cavalier servente?'- a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is)
Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, Said- 'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.'
And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite's condition.
