XXI.

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er
Done any thing exceedingly unkind,–

And (though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)

Have always had a tendency to spare,— Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them:--and here we 'll

XXII.

pause.

'Tis time we should proceed with our good poen,

For I maintain that it is really good,

Not only in the body, but the proem,

However little both are understood

Just now, but by and bye the truth will show 'em
Herself in her sublimest attitude:

And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.

XXIII.

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours—)
Was left upon his way to the chief city
Of the immortal Peter's polished boors,

Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.

I know its mighty empire now allures

Much flattery—even Voltaire's, and that's a pity.

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat

Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

XXIV.

And I will war, at least in words (and-should
My chance so happen-deeds) with all who war
With thought;—and of thought's foes by far most rude,
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.

I know not who may conquer: if I could

Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every despotism in every nation.

XXV.

It is not that I adulate the people:

Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple,

And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,

As is the christian dogma rather rough,

I do not know;-I wish men to be free

As much from mobs as kings-from you as me.

XXVI.

The consequence is, being of no party,

I shall offend all parties—never mind!
My words, at least, are more sincere aud hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.

He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,

May still expatiate freely, as will I

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.

XXVII.

That's an appropriate simile, that jackal;—
I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, And scent the prey their masters would attack all. However, the poor jackals are less foul

(As being the brave lions' keen providers) Than human insects, catering for spiders.

XXVIII.

Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say--
(Or rather peoples)—go on without pause!
The web of these tarantulas each day

Increases, till you shall make common cause;
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

XXIX.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the dispatch,
Where blood was talked of as we would of water;
And carcases that lay as thick as thatch
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter

Fair Catherine's pastime-who looked on the match

Between these nations as a main of cocks,

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

XXX.

And there in a kibitka he rolled on,

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone) Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, And orders, and on all that he had doneAnd wishing that post-horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

XXXI.

At every jolt-and they were many-still
He turned his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wished that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
and flints, and lovely nature's skill,
Who is no pavier, nor admits a barge

To ruts,

On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

XXXII.

At least he pays no rent, and has best right
To be the first of what we used to call
"Gentlemen farmers »—a race worn out quite,
Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And « gentlemen » are in a piteous plight,
And farmers » can't raise Ceres from her fall:
She fell with Buonaparte—What strange thoughts
Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

XXXIII.

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter-what a trophy!
Oh ye! who build up monuments, defiled

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy,
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,

And scarce to the mogul a cup of coffee

To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!
Because he could no more digest his dinner;—

XXXIV.

Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,

That one life saved, especially if young

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though decked With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymned by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din.

XXXV.

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us,
Whether you 're paid by government in bribes,
Το 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;-