Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, And having casually glanced it through, Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister.
He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing;
A goodly spirit for a state divan, A figure fit to walk before a king;
Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van On birthdays, glorious with a star and string;
The very model of a chamberlain-And such I mean to make him when I reign.
But there was something wanting on the whole-I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell-Which pretty women- the sweet souls!- call soul.
Certes it was not body; he was well Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, A handsome man, that human miracle;
And in each circumstance of love or war Had still preserved his perpendicular.
Still there was something wanting, as I 've said-That undefinable 'Je ne scais quoi,'
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed;
Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy Was much inferior to King Menelaus:-But thus it is some women will betray us.
There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved By turns the difference of the several sexes;
Neither can show quite how they would be loved.
The sensual for a short time but connects us, The sentimental boasts to be unmoved;
But both together form a kind of centaur, Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.
A something all-sufficient for the heart Is that for which the sex are always seeking:
But how to fill up that same vacant part?
There lies the rub- and this they are but weak in.
Frail mariners afloat without a chart, They run before the wind through high seas breaking;
And when they have made the shore through every shock, 'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.
There is a flower call'd 'Love in Idleness,'
For which see Shakspeare's everblooming garden;-I will not make his great description less, And beg his British godship's humble pardon, If in my extremity of rhyme's distress, I touch a single leaf where he is warden;-But though the flower is different, with the French Or Swiss Rousseau, cry 'Voila la Pervenche!'
Eureka! I have found it! What I mean To say is, not that love is idleness, But that in love such idleness has been An accessory, as I have cause to guess.
Hard labour's an indifferent go-between;
Your men of business are not apt to express Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.
'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,'
Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong;
His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,'
Is much more to the purpose of his song;
Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, Unless good company be kept too long;
But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, Thrice happy they who have an occupation!
Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing, Eve made up millinery with fig leaves-The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, As far as I know, that the church receives:
And since that time it need not cost much showing, That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, And still more women, spring from not employing Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.
And hence high life is oft a dreary void, A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy'd.
Bards may sing what they please about Content;
Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd;
And hence arise the woes of sentiment, Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.
I do declare, upon an affidavit, Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen;
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, Would some believe that such a tale had been:
But such intent I never had, nor have it;
Some truths are better kept behind a screen, Especially when they would look like lies;
I therefore deal in generalities.
'An oyster may be cross'd in love,'- and why?
Because he mopeth idly in his shell, And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, Much as a monk may do within his cell:
And a-propos of monks, their piety With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.
O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown, Whose merit none enough can sing or say, Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, Thou moral Washington of Africa!
But there 's another little thing, I own, Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, And set the other halt of earth to rights;
You have freed the blacks- now pray shut up the whites.
Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander!
Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal;
Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,'
And ask them how they like to be in thrall?
Shut up each high heroic salamander, Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small);
Shut up- no, not the King, but the Pavilion, Or else 't will cost us all another million.
Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out;
And you will be perhaps surprised to find All things pursue exactly the same route, As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
This I could prove beyond a single doubt, Were there a jot of sense among mankind;
But till that point d'appui is found, alas!
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was.
Our gentle Adeline had one defect-Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion;
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, As she had seen nought claiming its expansion.
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one;
But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.
