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, (1) and Becket's bloody stone, (2)

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, (3) Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias, Which form that bitter draught, the human species.

(1) [On the tomb of the prince lies a whole length brass figure of him, his armour with a hood of mail, and a scull cap enriched with a coronet, which has been once studded with jewels, but only the collets now remain.]

(2) [Becket was assassinated in the cathedral, in 1171.]

(3) The French inscription on the Black Prince's monument is thus translated in the History of Kent:

"Whoso thou be that passest by
Where these corps interred lie,
Understand what I shall say,
As at this time speak I may.
Such as thou art, sometime was I.
Such as I am, such shalt thou be.

LXXIV.

The effect on Juan was of course sublime :

He breathed a thousand Cressys, 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.

"I little thought on the hour of death

So long as I enjoyed breath,

Great riches here I did possess,
Whereof I made great nobleness;
I had gold, silver, wardrobes, and
Great treasures, horses, houses, land.
But now a caitiff poor am I,
Deep in the ground, lo here I lie;
My beauty great is all quite gone,
My flesh is wasted to the bone;
And if you should see me this day,
I do not think but you would say,
That I had never been a man,
So much alter'd now I am."]

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, postilions! 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
Το 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!(1)

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:

(1) ["Under his proud survey the city lies,

And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise,

Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd,
Seem at this distance but a darker cloud,

And is, to him who rightly things esteems,

No other in effect than what it seems;

Where, with like haste, tho' several ways they run,

Some to undo, and some to be undone ;

While luxury and wealth, like war and peace,

Are each the other's ruin and increase." — DENHAM.]

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. (1)

LXXXII.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye

Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst 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 Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour
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

(1) [India; America.]