XV.

The portion of this world which I at present

Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there 's no description recent :

The reason why, is easy to determine :
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant,

There is a sameness in its gems and ermine,
A dull and family likeness through all ages,
Of no great promise for poetic pages.

XVI.

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt;

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault ;

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes ; Factitious passions, wit without much salt,

A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any.

XVII. Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade,

They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid,

And they must be or seem what they were : still
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ;

But when of the first sight you ’ve had your fill,
It palls—at least it did so upon me,
This paradise of pleasure and ennui.

XVIII.' When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,

Dress’d, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming ;

Seen beauties brought to market by the score ; Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ;

There 's little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those “ ci-devant jeunes hommes” who strm The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.

XIX.
'T is said-indeed a general complaint-

That no one has succeeded in describing
The monde exactly as they ought to paint.
Some
say,

that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint,

To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; And that their books have but one style in commonMy lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.

XX.

But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers
Are
grown

of the beau monde a part potential : I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters,

Especially when young, for that 's essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers

Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe ? 'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe.

XXI.
“ Haud ignara loquor :" these are Nugæ " quarum

Pars parva fui,” but still art and part.
Now I could much more easily sketch a harem,

A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,
Thar. these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em,

For reasons which I chuse to keep apart. " Vétabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgaret Which means, that vulgar people must not share it.

XXII.
And therefore what I throw off is ideal

Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons,
Which bears the same relation to the real,

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's.
The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all ;

My music has some mystic diapasons ;
And there is much which could not be appreciated
In any manner by the uninitiated.

XXIII.
Alas ! worlds fall-and woman, since she fellid

The world (as, since that history, less polite
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held),

Has not yet given up the practice quite. Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compellid,

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entaild upon their chins,

XXIV.
A daily plague which, in the aggregate,

May average on the whole with parturition.
But as to women, who can penetrate

The real sufferings of their she-condition ?
Man's very sympathy with their estate

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion.
Their love, their virtue, beauty, education,
But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.

a

XXV.
All this were very well, and can't be better ;

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows !
So many troubles from her birth beset her,

Such small distinction between friends and foes, The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,

That -but ask any woman if she 'd chuse (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male ? a school-boy or a queen?

XXVI. “ Petticoat influence” is a great reproach,

Which e’en those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;

But, since beneath it upon earth we 're brought By various joltings of life's hackney-coach,

I for one venerate a petticoat-
A garment of a mystical sublimity,
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.

XXVII.
Much I respect, and much I have adored,

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard,

And more attracts by all it doth conceal-
A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,

A loving letter with a mystic seal,
A cure for grief—for wha can ever rankle
Before a petticoat and peeping ancle?

XXVIIJ.
And when upon a silent, sullen day,

With a sirocco, for example, blowing-
When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,

And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing,
And the sky shows that very

ancient

gray, The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, 'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.

XXIX.; We left our heroes and our heroines

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, Quite independent of the zodiac's signs,

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines,

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, Are there oft dull and dreary as a dunWhether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.

XXX. And in-door life is less poetical;

And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral.

But be it as it may, a bard must meet
All difficulties, whether great or small,

To spoil his undertaking or complete,
And work away like spirit upon matter,
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.

XXXI.
Juan—in this respect at least like saints--

Was all things unto people of all sorts,
And lived contentedly, without complaints,

In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints,

And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women,
Without the coxcombry of certain she-men.

XXXII. A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ;

'T is also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger ; But Juan had been early taught to range

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 'So that his horse, charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.

XXXIII.
And now in this new field, with some applause,

He clear’d hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail,
And never craned,' and made but few faux pas,

And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws

Of hunting-for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o’er several country gentlemen.

xxxiv. : But, on the whole, to general admiration

He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires Marveli'd at merit of another nation;

The boors cried “Dang it! who 'd have thought it ?” Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation,

Swore praises, and recall’d their former fires ;
The huntsman's self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in.

XXXV.
Such were his trophies ;—not of spear and shield,

But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes ; Yet I must own, although in this I yield

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask’d, next day, “ if men ever hunted twice? ”

a

XXXVI.
He also had a quality uncommon

To early risers after a long chase,
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon

December's drowsy day to his dull race;-
A quality agreeable to woman,

When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, He did not fall asleep just after dinner,

XXXVII.
But, light and airy, stood on the alert,

And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they might assert,

And listening to the topics most in vogue ;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ;

And smiling but in secret-cunning rogue ! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; In short, there never was a better hearer.

XXXVIII.
And then he danced ;--all foreigners excel

The serious Angles in the eloquence.
Of pantomime ;-he danced, I say, right well,

With emphasis, and also with good sense-
A thing in footing indispensable :

He danced without theatrical pretence,
Not like a ballet-master in the van
Of bis drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

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XXXIX.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,

And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,

And rather held in than put forth bis vigour; And then he had an ear for music's sound,

Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour. Such classic pas--sans flaws set off our herg, He glanced like a personified bolero ;