XL. But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase XLI. With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy's a pleasant place to me, Who love to see the Sun shine every day, And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France. XLII. I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, I also like to dine on becaficas, To see the Sun set, sure he 'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all Heaven t'himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. XLIV. I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we 're obliged to hiss, and spit,and sputter all. XLV. I like the women too (forgive my folly), From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, Eve of the land which still is Paradise! * For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's death, see his lives. + Note.-(In talking thus, the writer, more especially XLVII. "England! with all thy faults I love thee still,” I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill; I like the Habeas Corpus (when we 've got it); I like a parliamentary debate, Particularly when 't is not too late; XLVIII. I like the taxes, when they 're not too many; I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; I like the weather, when it is not rainy, XLIX. Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, But to my tale of Laura,-for I find And caring little for the author's ease, Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made, Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, She rules the present, past, and all to be yet; LXIII. To turn, and to return;-the devil take it! LXIV. Which you do when your mind 's made up to go They went to the Ridotto ('t is a place The only difference known between the cases LVII. Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, With all the fashions which the last month wore, That and the title-page, for fear the press To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, LVIII. They went to the Ridotto; 't is a hall Where people dance, and sup, and dance again; Its proper name, perhaps, were a masked ball, But that's of no importance to my strain; "T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain: The company is "mix'd" (the phrase I quote is As much as saying, they 're below your notice); LIX. For a "mix'd company " implies that, save Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, Whom you may bow to without looking grave, The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore Of public places, where they basely brave The fashionable stare of twenty score Of well-bred persons, call'd "The World; " but I, Although I know them, really don't know why. LX. This is the case in England; at least was The demagogues of fashion: all below By love, or war, and now and then by frost! Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, A blundering novice in his new French grammar; Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. LXVI. One has false curls, another too much paint, A third-where did she buy that frightful turban? A fourth's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo! an eighth appears,-"I'll see no more!" For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. LXVII. Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, For my part, now, I ne'er could understand I only don't see why it should be thus; LXIX. While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what, So that her female friends, with envy broiling, LXX. He was a Turk, the color of mahogany; And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad; They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum." LXXI. They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, As is supposed the case with northern nations; They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; LXXIII. No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, And getting but a nibble at a time, Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime Of female wits, boy bards-in short, a fool! LXXIV. A stalking oracle of awful phrase, Humming like flies around the newest blaze, LXXV. One hates an author that 's all author, fellows Of coxcombry's worse coxcombs e'en the pink Of these same we see several, and of others, LXXVII. The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And one would seem to them a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; I think 't would almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. LXXVIII. No chemistry for them unfolds her gases, Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. LXXIX. Why I thank God for that is no great matter, And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold,though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. LXXX. Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, LXXXI. Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, LXXXII. The morning now was on the point of breaking, The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, His blushes make them look a little pale. LXXXIII. I've seen some balls and revels in my time, To see what lady best stood out the season; The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, Although I might, for she was nought to me More than that patent work of God's invention, A charming woman, whom we like to see; But writing names would merit reprehension, Yet if you like to find out this fair she, At the next London or Parisian ball Laura, who knew it would not do at all To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball, To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting. The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, And they the room were on the point of quitting, When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got Just in the very place where they should not. LXXXVI. In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause The Count and Laura found their boat at last, The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; (As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. LXXXVIII. "Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, "Your unexpected presence here will make It necessary for myself to crave Its import? But perhaps 't is a mistake; I hope it is so; and, at once to waive All compliment, I hope so for your sake: You understand my meaning, or you shall." "Sir," (quoth the Turk), "tis no mistake at all: LXXXIX. "That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints They only call a little on their saints, And then come to themselves, almost or quite; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. XC. She said,-what could she say? Why, not a word: XCI. They enter'd, and for coffee call'd-it came, To speak, cries" Beppo! what 's your pagan name? XCII. "And are you really, truly, now a Turk? With any other women did you wive? Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork? "Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not; Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it's grown!" XCIV. What answer Beppo made to these demands XCV. But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, XCVI. Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten!) cash, He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb, And got clear off, although the attempt was rash; He said that Providence protected himFor my part, I say nothing, lest we clash In our opinions:-well, the ship was trim, Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. XCVII: They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; XCVIII. His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him XCIX. Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age Which being finished, here the story ends; "T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun. MAZEPPA. ADVERTISEMENT. "CELUI qui remplissait alors cette place était un gen tilhomme Polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Podolie: il avait été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris à sa cour quelque teinture des belleslettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été découverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était du pays de l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta long-tems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supériorité de ses lumières lui donna une grande considération parmi les Cosaques: sa réputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le Czar à le faire Prince de l'Ukraine."-VOLTAIRE, Hist. de Charles XII., p. 196. "Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tué sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois à cheval, dans sa fuite, ce conquérant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant la bataille."-Ibid., p. 216. "Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse où il était rompit dans la marche; on le remit à cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'égara pendant la nuit dans un bois; là, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer à ses forces épuisées, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'être surpris à tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tous côtés.”—Ibid., p. 218. Mazeppa.* 1. 'TWAS after dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede, Around a slaughter'd army lay, No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, And Moscow's walls were safe again, A shock to one-a thunderbolt to all. Such was the hazard of the die; *The story is a well known one; namely, that of the young Pole, who, being bound naked on the back of a wild horse, on account of an intrigue with the lady of a certain great noble of his country, was carried by his steed into the heart of the Ukraine, and being there picked up by some Cossacks, in a state apparently of utter hopelessness and exhaustion, recovered, and lived to be long after the prince and leader of the nation among whom he had arrived in this extraordinary manner. Lord Byron has represented the strange and wild incidents of this adventure, as being related in a half serious, half sportive way, by Mazeppa himself, to no less a person than Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, in some of whose last campaigns the Cossack Hetman took a distin For thousands fell that flight to aid: When truth had nought to dread from power. His own-and died the Russians' slave. A king must lay his limbs at length. In outworn nature's agony; His wounds were stiff-his limbs were stark- A transient slumber's fitful aid: guished part. He tells it during the desolate bivouac of Charles and the few friends who fled with him towards Turkey, after the bloody overthrow of Pultowa. There is not a little of beauty and gracefulness in this way of setting the picture-the age of Mazeppa-the calm, practised indifference with which he now submits to the worst of fortune's deeds the heroic, unthinking coldness of the royal madman to whom he speaks-the dreary and perilous accompaniments of the scene around the speaker and the audience,all contribute to throw a very striking charm both of preparation and of contrast over the wild story of the Hetman." + Napoleon Bonaparte. |