LIII.

Juan knew several languages-as well [in time He might-and brought them up with skill, To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. There wanted but this requisite to swell

His qualities (with them) into sublime; Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Mævia Mannish, Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.

LIV.

However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,

At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral :
Also the mighty greatest living poets,'
As every paltry magazine can show its.

LV.

In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,'
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
Although 'tis an imaginary thing.
Even I-albeit I'm sure I did not know it,

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king-
Was reckon'd a considerable time,
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.
LVI.

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero

My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems
Cain:

La Belle Alliance of dunces down at zero,

Now that the lion's fall'n, may rise again; But I will fall at least as fell my hero;

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of jailors go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

LVII.

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell

Before and after: but now grown more holy, The muses upon Sion's hill must ramble

With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, Who shoes the glorious animals with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol-by the hilts!

LVIII.

Still he excels that artificial hard

Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine Yields him but vinegar for is reward—

That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine; That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard; That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line :Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest.

LIX.

Then there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say,
Sets up for being a sort of moral me:
He'll find it rather difficult some day

To turn out both, or either, it may be.
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway,
And Wordsworth hath supporters two or three;
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, 'Savage
Landor,'

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.

LX.

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible, without Greek,

Contrived to talk about the gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak.†

Poor fellow! his was an untoward fate; "Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff d out by an article.

LXI.

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain-or none will know

The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders
His last award, will have the long grass grow
Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders.
If I might augur, I should rate but low
Their chances: they are too numerous, like the
thirty
[dirty.
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but

LXII.

This is the literary lower empire,

Where the prætorian bands take up the

matter;

[phire,' A dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samThe insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire.

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual war is.
LXIII.

I think I know a trick or two would turn
Their flanks ;--but it is hardly worth my while
With such small gear to give myself concern:
Indeed, I've not the necessary bile;

My natural temper's really aught but stern,

And even my Muse's worst reproofs a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsey, And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.

• Where

The world in which a man was born?' Alas, Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there

I look for it-'tis gone, a globe of glass! Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on,

ere

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,

And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

LXXVII.

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows : Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell : Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well?

[Cents?

Have taken up at length with younger brothers:

Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers,

Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks:
In short, the list of alterations bothers.
There's little strange in this, but something
strange is

The unusual quickness of these common changes.

LXXXII.

Talk not of seventy years as age: in seven

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to

The humblest individual under heaven,

I

knew that nought was lasting, but now even Than might suffice a modern century through. Change grows too changeable, without being

new:

1823.

Who keep the world, both Old and New,

Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all?

The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?—
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow Christian Baring.

fraction'?

t

Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser ?

T

Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours-wha: wiser?

XII.

How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming

chests

Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines,

But) of fine unclipt gold, where duly rests

Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines,

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp :Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

XI.

But whether all, or each, or none of these May be the hoarder's principle of action,

not

Recruited all with constant married men, Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, I say that line's a lapsus of the pen ;— Strange too in my buon camerado Scott, So celebrated for his morals, when

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