第83章

He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, Live animals: an old maid of threescore For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, Although he was not old, nor even a maid;-The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don't forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, And with that gentle, serious character, As rare in living beings as a fossile Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!'

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.

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!

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 ('t will 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.

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 Through his means and the church's might be paved.

But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted.

'T was strange enough she should retain the impression Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter;

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 it-She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.

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.

They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, 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 'Biron.'

'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren!

To lose by one month's frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.

Let this not seem an anti-climax:- 'Oh!

My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day.

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.

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 postilions.

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

A grey 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.

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture.

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known.

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 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 use-But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel.

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 cliffs.

At length they rose, like a white wall along The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt-What even young strangers feel a little strong At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt-A kind of pride that he should be among Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll.

I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the noblest nation;

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.

Alas! could she but fully, truly, know How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd: