The Works of Lord Byron

LII.

Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile,
And with that gentle, serious character,
As rare in living beings as a fossil [Cuvier!"
Man, 'mid thy mouldy mammoths, "grand
Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle

With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. LIII.

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love.
I cannot tell exactly what it was;

He was not yet quite old enough to prove
Parental feelings, and the other class,

Call'd brotherly affection, could not move His bosom-for he never had a sister:

Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her! LIV.

And still less was it sensual; for besides

That he was not an ancient debauchee, (Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) Although ('twill happen as our planet guides) His youth was not the chastest that might be, There was the purest Platonism at bottom Of all his feelings-only he forgot 'em.

LV.

Just now there was no peril of temptation;
He loved the infant orphan he had saved,
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation;
His pride too felt that she was not enslaved,
Owing to him;-as also her salvation, [paved.
Through his means and the church's, might be
But one thing's odd, which here must be inserted-
The little Turk refused to be converted.

LVI.

'Twas strange enough she should retain the impression [slaughter; Through such a scene of change, and dread, and But, though three bishops told her the transgression, She show'd a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession;

Perhaps she had nothing to confess;-no matter Whate'er the cause, the church made little of itShe still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. LVII.

In fact, the only Christian she could bear

Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected; And thus they form'd a rather curious pair:

A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. LVIII.

They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw,

LIX.

Let not this seem an anti-climax :-"Oh! [clayMy guard! my old guard!" exclaim'd that god of Think of the Thunderer's falling down below Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh !

Alas! that glory should be chill'd by snow!

But, should we wish to warm us on our way Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. LX.

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 postillions.
LXI.

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like,
Until he reached the castellated Rhine:-
Ye glorious Gothic seenes! how much ye strike
All phantasies, not even excepting mine:

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike,

Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.

LXII.

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the goud feudal times for ever gone,

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne,
On which I have not time just now to lecture.

A city which presents to the inspector
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone,
The greatest number flesh hath ever known.

LXIII.

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluy That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where Juniper expresses its best juice

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. Senates and sages have condemn'd its useBut to deny the mob a cordial which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel.

LXIV.

Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail,
Went bounding for the island of the free,
Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea
And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale:
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be
By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs
Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliff's
LXV.

At length they rose, like a white wall along
The blue sea's border; and Don Juan felt-

Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of What even young strangers feel a little strong
"Biron."

[saw,

At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt

'Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars A kind of pride that he should be among

Who marched to Moscow, led by fame, the syren! To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.

Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole. And made the very billows pay them toll

684

LXVI.

[nation;

I've no great cause to love that spot of earth,
Which holds what might have been the noblest
But though I owe it little but my birth,
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration
For its decaying fame and former worth.
Seven years (the usual term of transportation)
Of absence lay one's old resentments level,
When a man's country's going to the devil.
LXVII.

Alas! could she but fully truly know

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd; How eager all the earth is for the blow

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword;
How all the nations deem her their worst foe,
That worse than worst of foes, the once adored
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind,
And now would chain them, to the very mind:-
LXVIII.

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free,
Who is but first of slaves? The nations are

In prison, but the jailer, what is he?

No less a victim to the bolt and bar
Is the poor privilege to turn the key

Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far
From the enjoyment of the earth and air
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear.

LXIX.

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties,
Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbor, and hotel;
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties;
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell;
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties
To those who upon land or water dwell;
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed,
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.
LXX.

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique,
And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit,
Who did not limit much his bills per week,

Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it(His maggior duomo, a smart subtle Greek,

Refore him summ'd the awful scroll and read it:)
But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny,
Is free, the respiration's worth the money.

LXXI.

On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!
Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash

through puddle;

Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!
Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle
Along the road, as if they went to bury

Their fare; and also pause, besides, to fuddle With "schnapps "-sad dogs! whom "Hundsfot" or "Ferflucter "

Affect no more than lightning a conductor.
LXXII.

Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speed-no matter where its

Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry,
And merely for the sake of its own merits:
For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
The greater is the pleasure in arriving
At the great end of travel-which is driving.

LXXIII.

They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral;
Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral,

In the same quaint, uninterested tone:
There's glory again for you, gentle reader! all

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone,
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias,
Which form that bitter draught, the human species.
LXXIV.

The effect on Juan was of course sublime:
He breathed a thousand Cressays, as he saw
That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time.
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe,
Who died in the then great attempt to climb

O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law,
Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed,
And asked why such a structure had been raised:

LXXV.

And being told it was "God's house," she said
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how
He suffer'd infidels in his homestead,

The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low
His holy temples in the lands which bred

The true believers ;--and her infant brow
Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign
A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine.

LXXVI.

On, on! through meadows, managed like a garden,
A paradise of hops and high production;
For, after years of travel by a bard in

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction,
A green field is a sight which makes him pardon
The absence of that more sublime construction
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices,
Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices

LXXVII.

And when I think upon a pot of beer

But I won't weep and so, drive on, postillions!
As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career,
Juan admired these highways of free millions;
A country in all senses the most-dear

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones,
Who "kick against the pricks" just at this juncture
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture

LXXVIII

What a delightful thing's a turnpike road!
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
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god
Had told his son to satisfy his craving
With the York mail ;-but, onward as we roll,
"Surgit amari aliquid "-the toll!

LXXIX.

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! [purses,
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,

Such is the shortest way to general curses.
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant

On that sweet ore, which every body nurses
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it-
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

LXXX.
So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken
To your instructor. Juan now was borne,
Just as the day began to wane and darken,

O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn
Toward the great city:-ye who have a spark in
Your veins of cockney spirit, smile or mourn,
According as you take things well or ill-
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill!

LXXXI.

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space
Which well beseem'd 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 butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.

London LXXXII.

LXXXVII.

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 by I'll prattle
Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle.

CANTO XI.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, WHEN Bishop Berkley said "there was no matter,"
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
And proved it-'twas no matter what he said:

Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,

In sight, then lost amid 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!

LXXXIII.

But Jean saw not this: each wreath of smoke
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapor
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 bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper,
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere-
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.

LXXXIV.

He paused-and so will I-as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, 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.

LXXXV.

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 harden'd and imperial sin.

To mend the people's an absurdity,

A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:-Fic! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

LXXXVI.

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,

For, ever and anon comes indigestion,

(Not the most "dainty Ariel,") and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question:

And that which, after all, my spirit vexes
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on,
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,
The world, which at the worst's a glorious blunder-
IV.

If it be chance; or if it be according

To the old text, still better! lest it should Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, As several people think such hazards rude: They're right; our days are too brief for affording Space to dispute what no one ever could Decide, and every body one day will Know very clearly-or at least lie still.

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical
Discussions, which is neither here and there:
If I agree that what is, is-then this I call
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair.
The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical,
I don't know what the reason is-the air
Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

VI.

The first attack at once proved the divinity,
(But that I never doubted, nor the devil ;)
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;
The third, the usual origin of evil;
The fourth at once established the whole Trinity
On so incontrovertible a level,

That I devoutly wished the three were four,
On purpose to believe so much the more.

VII.

To our theme:-The man who has stood on the
And look'd down over Attica; or he [Acropolis
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is,
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis,
Or sat amid the bricks of Nineveh,

XIII.

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,
And, being somewhat choleric and sudden,
Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture,
And fired it into one assailant's pudding-
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture,

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in,
Unto his nearest follower or henchman,

"Oh Jack! I'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody French man!"

XIV.

On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,

And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed
As if his veins would pour out his existence,

May not think much of London's first appearance-Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?

And wish'd he'd been less hasty with his flint.

XV.

"Perhaps," thought he, "it is the country's wont
To welcome foreigners in this way: now

I recollect some innkeepers who don't
Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
But what is to be done? I can't allow
The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
So take him up; I'll help you with the load."

XVI.

But, ere they could perform this pious duty,

The dying man cried, "Hold! I've got my gruel!
Oh! for a glass of max' We've miss'd our booty;
Let me die where I am.' And, as the fuel
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew
His breath, he from his swelling throat untied Fill
A kerchief, crying, "Give Sal that!"-and died.

XVII

The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down
Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell
Exactly why it was before him thrown,
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled-

With "Damn your eyes! your money or your life!" His pockets first, and then his body riddled.

XI.

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads,
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,

Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
In which the heedless gentleman who gads
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter,
May find himself, within that isle of riches,
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.
XII.

Juan, who did not understand a word

Of English, save their shiboleth, "God damn!"
And even that he had so rarely heard,

He sometimes thought 'twas only their "salam,"
Or "God be with you,"-and 'tis not absurd
To think so; for, half English as I am,

(To my misfortnne,) never can I say

XVIII.

Don Juan, having done the best he could
In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as "crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued
His travels to the capital apace;
Esteeming it a little hard he should

In twelve hours' time, a very little space,
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
In self-defence: this made him meditative.

XIX.

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 (spite of Bow-street's ban)
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,)

I heard them wish "God with you," save that way: 'So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing

But Tom's no more-and so no more of Tom. Heroes must die; and by God's blessing, 'tis Not long before the most of them go home. Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, Through Kennington and all the other "tons," Which make us wish ourselves in town at once;

XXI.

Through groves, so call'd as being void of trees, (Like lucus from no light;) through prospects named

Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,

With "To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd; Through "rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise," Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ;—

XXII.

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; [whirl Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl,"

There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl

In windows; here the lamp-lighter's infusion Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass,(For in those days we had not got to gas:)

XXIII.

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach Of travellers to mighty Babylon:

Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. I could say more, but do not choose to encroach Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun Had set some time, and night was on the ridge Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge.

XXIV.

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis-
Who vindicates a moment too his stream- [mes"
Though hardly heard through multifarious "dam'-
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where
A spectral resident-whose pallid beam [Fame is
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile-
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle.
XXV.

The Druids' groves are gone-so much the better;
Stone-Henge is not-but what the devil is it?-
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ;
The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;
The mansion-house, too, (though some people quiz
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection: [it,)
But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection.

XXVI.

The line of lights, too, up to Charing-Cross,
Pall-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation,
Like gold as in comparison to dross,

Match'd with the continent's illumination, Whose cities night by no means deigns to gloss 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.

A row of gentleman along the streets

Suspended, may illuminate mankind, As also bonfires made of country-seats; But the old way is best for the purblind: The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, A sort of ignis-fatuus to the mind, Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten, Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.

XXVIII.

But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes
Could recommence to hunt his honest man,
And found him not amid the various progenies
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn,
"Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,
I've done to find the same throughout life's journey,
But see the world is only one attorney.

XXIX.

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mall,

Through crowds and carriages-but waxing thinner As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner Admitted a small party as night fell,

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, St. James's Palace and St. James's "Hells."

XXX.

[door

They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around
The mob stood, and as usual several score
Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound
In decent London when the daylight's o'er;
Commodious but immoral, they are found
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage:
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage,
XXXI.

Into one of the sweetest of hotels,

For those whom favor or whom fortune swells,
Especially for foreigners-and mostly
And cannot find a bill's small items costly.
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells,

(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,)
Until to some conspicuous square they pass,
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.
XXXII.

Juan, whose was a delicate commission,

Private, though publicly important, bore No title to point out with due precision

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 'Twas merely known that on a secret mission A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head.

XXXIII.

Some rumor also of some strange adventures
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;
And as romantic heads are pretty painters,
And above all, an English woman's roves
Into the excursive, breaking the indentures
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves,
He found himself extremely in the fashion,
Which serves our thinking people for a passion.

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The Works of Lord Byron: Embracing His Suppressed Poems, and a Sketch of His ...