''T is not,' said Juan, 'for my present doom I mourn, but for the past;- I loved a maid:'-He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;
A single tear upon his eyelash staid A moment, and then dropp'd; 'but to resume, 'T is not my present lot, as I have said, Which I deplore so much; for I have borne Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 'On the rough deep. But this last blow-' and here He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face.
'Ay,' quoth his friend, 'I thought it would appear That there had been a lady in the case;
And these are things which ask a tender tear, Such as I, too, would shed if in your place:
I cried upon my first wife's dying day, And also when my second ran away:
'My third-'- 'Your third!' quoth Juan, turning round;
'You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?'
'No- only two at present above ground:
Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!'
'Well, then, your third,' said Juan; 'what did she?
She did not run away, too,- did she, sir?'
'No, faith.'- 'What then?'- 'I ran away from her.'
'You take things coolly, sir,' said Juan. 'Why,'
Replied the other, 'what can a man do?
There still are many rainbows in your sky, But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high;
But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
''T is true, it gets another bright and fresh, Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through, This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, Or sometimes only wear a week or two;-Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;
Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.'
'All this is very fine, and may be true,'
Said Juan; 'but I really don't see how It betters present times with me or you.'
'No?' quoth the other; 'yet you will allow By setting things in their right point of view, Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now, We know what slavery is, and our disasters May teach us better to behave when masters.'
'Would we were masters now, if but to try Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,'
Said Juan,- swallowing a heart-burning sigh:
'Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!'
'Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,'
Rejoin'd the other, when our bad luck mends here;
Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us)
'But after all, what is our present state?
'T is bad, and may be better- all men's lot:
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, To their own whims and passions, and what not;
Society itself, which should create Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
To feel for none is the true social art Of the world's stoics- men without a heart.'
Just now a black old neutral personage Of the third sex stept up, and peering over The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age, And capabilities, as to discover If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, As is a slave by his intended bidder.
'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures;
And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, Some by a place- as tend their years or natures;
The most by ready cash- but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care, Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid First but for one, and after for the pair;
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too- so they did!
As though they were in a mere Christian fair Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle.
At last they settled into simple grumbling, And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, Until the sum was accurately scann'd, And then the merchant giving change, and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining.
I wonder if his appetite was good?
Or, if it were, if also his digestion?
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.
Voltaire says 'No:' he tells you that Candide Found life most tolerable after meals;
He 's wrong- unless man were a pig, indeed, Repletion rather adds to what he feels, Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed From his own brain's oppression while it reels.
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father);
I think with Alexander, that the act Of eating, with another act or two, Makes us feel our mortality in fact Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout, And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd, Can give us either pain or pleasure, who Would pique himself on intellects, whose use Depends so much upon the gastric juice?
The other evening ('t was on Friday last)-This is a fact and no poetic fable-Just as my great coat was about me cast, My hat and gloves still lying on the table, I heard a shot- 't was eight o'clock scarce past-And, running out as fast as I was able, I found the military commandant Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant.
Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp'd and look'd to- But why should I ad More circumstances? vain was every care;
The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.
I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;
