LXXV. Wounded and fetter'd, "cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd," And when he did, he found himself at sea, The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee- LXXVI. There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is The tumulus-of whom?-Heaven knows; 't may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, All heroes who, if living still, would slay us. LXXVII. High barrows, without marble or a name, And old Scamander (if 't is he), remain ; A hundred thousand men might fight again With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawle LXXVIII. Troops of untended horses; here and there Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, A what I found there-but the devil a Phrygian! LXXXIX. Don Juan, here permitted to emerge From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; About his past or present situation. LXXX. He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd In their vocation,-had not been attack'd, LXXXI. By one of these, the buffo of the party, For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he And bore him with some gaiety and grace, LXXXII. In a few words he told their hapless story, Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario! But, if the sultan has a taste for song, LXXXIII. "The prima donna, though a little old, Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife, With no great voice, is pleasing to behold; Last carnival she made a deal of strife By carrying off Count Cæsar Cicogna LXXXIV. “And then there are the dancers; there's the Nini, And made at least five hundred good zecchini, LXXXV. "As for the figuranti, they are like The rest of all that tribe; with here and there There's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour ; LXXXVI. "As for the men, they are a middling set; The musico is but a crack'd old basin, But being qualified in one way yet, May the seraglio do to set his face in, His singing I no further trust can place in : LXXXVII. "The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow; Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe An ass was practising récitative. LXXXVIII. "'T would not become myself to dwell upon My own merits, and, though young-I see, sir-you Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one To whom the opera is by no means new : You've heard of Raucocanti?-I'm the man ; The time may come when you may hear me too; You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, But next, when I'm engaged to sing there-do go. LXXXIX. "Our baritone I almost had forgot, A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; With graceful action, science not a jot, A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, He always is complaining of his lot, Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." XC. Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital The captives back to their sad births: each threw XCI. They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, Which every body does without who can,— XCII. It seems when this allotment was made out, XCIII. With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd The tenor; these two hated with a hate That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, XCIV. Juan's companion was a Romagnole, With eyes that look'd into the very soul (And other chief points of a "bella donna"), Bright—and as black and burning as a coal; And through her clear brunette complexion shone a Great wish to please-a most attractive dower, Especially when added to the power. XCV. But all that power was wasted upon him, For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command; Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand Touch'd his, nor that-nor any handsome limb (And she had some not easy to withstand) Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. No matter; we should ne'er too much inquire, We will omit the proofs, save one or two. XCVII. Here I might enter on a chaste description, At the first two books having too much truth ; XCVIII. "T is all the same to me, I'm fond of yielding, And therefore leave them to the purer page Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, Who say strange things for so correct an age. I once had great alacrity in wielding My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, And recollect the time when all this cant Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. XCIX. As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, The grass upon my grave will grow as long, |