OH, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'- for Fame Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name, But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-Beating or beaten she will laugh the same), You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well In Marinet's affair- in fact, 't was shabby, And like some other things won't do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell, Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero, In fact your grace is still but a young hero.
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor (I wish your bards would sing it rather better).
You are 'the best of cut-throats:'- do not start;
The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part, The world, not the world's masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?
I am no flatterer- you 've supp'd full of flattery:
They say you like it too- 't is no great wonder.
He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder, Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'- not yet saved, And 'Europe's Liberator'- still enslaved.
I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
He fought, but has not fed so well of late.
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:-There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation.
I don't mean to reflect- a man so great as You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, With modern history has but small connection:
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, You need not take them under your direction;
And half a million for your Sabine farm Is rather dear!- I 'm sure I mean no harm.
Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses:
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses:
George Washington had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And as a high-soul'd minister of state is Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.
Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:
And now- what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?
Now- that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?
Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
Behold the world! and curse your victories!
As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, Must be recited, and- without a bribe.
You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest- and mankind.
Death laughs- Go ponder o'er the skeleton With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring-Death laughs at all you weep for:- look upon This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath:
Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!
Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
And yet was what you are: from ear to ear It laughs not- there is now no fleshy bar So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far, He strips from man that mantle (far more dear Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin, White, black, or copper- the dead bones will grin.
And thus Death laughs,- it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays- worlds like atoms- years like hours?
'To be, or not to be? that is the question,'
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion.
I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;
But would much rather have a sound digestion Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame-Without a stomach what were a good name?
'O dura ilia messorum!'- 'Oh Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is- that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:
Let this one toil for bread- that rack for rent, He who sleeps best may be the most content.
'To be, or not to be?'- Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being?
'T is true we speculate both far and wide, And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:
For my part, I 'll enlist on neither side, Until I see both sides for once agreeing.
For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath.
'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians:
That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions.
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain As any of Mortality's conditions;
So little do we know what we 're about in This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.
