Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. CCXIX. What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's King And largest, thinking it was just the thing Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, CCXX. But I, being fond of true philosophy, Say very often to myself, "Alas! All things that have been born were born to die, And if you had it o'er again—'twould pass- CCXXI: But for the present, gentle reader! and Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that's I— Your patience further than by this short sample: CCXXII. "Go, little book, from this my solitude! I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days," When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, I can't help putting in my claim to praiseThe four first rhymes are Southey's every line: For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine. END OF CANTO FIRST. DON JUAN. CANTO II. I. OH ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals; never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain, Since in a way, that rather of the oddest, he Became devested of his native modesty. Had he but been placed at a public school, At least, had he been nurtured in the north; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worthA lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. III. I can't say that it puzzles me at all, If all things be considered: first, there was His lady-mother, mathematical, A -never mind; his tutor, an old ass; CANTO II.-A A pretty woman-(that's quite natural, Or else the thing had hardly come to pass;) A husband rather old, not much in unity "With his young wife-a time, an opportunity. IV. Well-well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name. V. I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz- And such sweet girls-I mean, such graceful ladies, Their very walk would make your bosom swell; I can't describe it, though so much it strike, VI. An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb New broke, a camelopard, a gazelle, Upon such things would very near absorb A canto-then their feet and ankles-well, Thank heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready, (And so, my sober Muse: come, let's be steady |