('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.
Besides, he was of that delighted age Which makes all female ages equal- when We don't much care with whom we may engage, As bold as Daniel in the lion's den, So that we can our native sun assuage In the next ocean, which may flow just then, To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.
And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, Because each lover look'd a sort of king, Made up upon an amatory pattern, A royal husband in all save the ring-Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey.
And when you add to this, her womanhood In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, Or better, as the best examples say:
Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, Too wise to look through optics black or blue)-Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, Her preference of a boy to men much bigger (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, With other extras, which we need not mention,-All these, or any one of these, explain Enough to make a stripling very vain.
And that 's enough, for love is vanity, Selfish in its beginning as its end, Except where 't is a mere insanity, A maddening spirit which would strive to blend Itself with beauty's frail inanity, On which the passion's self seems to depend:
And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the main spring of the universe.
Besides Platonic love, besides the love Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 'Gainst reason- Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove With rhyme, but always leant less to improving The sound than sense)- beside all these pretences To love, there are those things which words name senses;
Those movements, those improvements in our bodies Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, For such all women are at first no doubt.
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is That fever which precedes the languid rout Of our sensations! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!
The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, To end or to begin with; the next grand Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
The third sort to be noted in our chronicle As flourishing in every Christian land, Is when chaste matrons to their other ties Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.
Well, we won't analyse- our story must Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust;-I cannot stop to alter words once written, And the two are so mix'd with human dust, That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
But in such matters Russia's mighty empress Behaved no better than a common sempstress.
The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears!
The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper As they beheld; the younger cast some leers On one another, and each lovely lisper Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by.
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.
Catherine was generous,- all such ladies are:
Love, that great opener of the heart and all The ways that lead there, be they near or far, Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,-Love (though she had a cursed taste for war, And was not the best wife, unless we call Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)-Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, If history, the grand liar, ever saith The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten, Because she put a favourite to death, Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.
But when the levee rose, and all was bustle In the dissolving circle, all the nations'
Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle Round the young man with their congratulations.
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.
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow Nature had written 'gentleman.' He said Little, but to the purpose; and his manner Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner.
An order from her majesty consign'd Our young lieutenant to the genial care Of those in office: all the world look'd kind (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind), As also did Miss Protasoff then there, Named from her mystic office 'l'Eprouveuse,'
A term inexplicable to the Muse.
With her then, as in humble duty bound, Juan retired,- and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.
We have just lit on a 'heaven-kissing hill,'
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, And all my fancies whirling like a mill;
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.
