WHEN Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'
And proved it- 't was no matter what he said:
They say his system 't is in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
What a sublime discovery 't was to make the Universe universal egotism, That all 's ideal- all ourselves: I 'll stake the World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism.
Oh Doubt!- if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee;
But which I doubt extremely- thou sole prism Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.
For ever and anon comes Indigestion, (Not the most 'dainty Ariel') and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question:
And that which after all my spirit vexes, Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder-If it be chance; or if it be according To the old text, still better:- lest it should Turn out so, we 'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, As several people think such hazards rude.
They 're right; our days are too brief for affording Space to dispute what no one ever could Decide, and every body one day will Know very clearly- or at least lie still.
And therefore will I leave off metaphysical Discussion, which is neither here nor there:
If I agree that what is, is; then this I call Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair;
The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical:
I don't know what the reason is- the air Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.
The first attack at once proved the Divinity (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;
The third, the usual Origin of Evil;
The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity On so uncontrovertible a level, That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, On purpose to believe so much the more.
To our Theme.- The man who has stood on the Acropolis, And look'd down over Attica; or he Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, May not think much of London's first appearance-But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?
Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill;
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity;
While every thing around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard,- and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum:-I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, And lost in wonder of so great a nation, Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it.
'And here,' he cried, 'is Freedom's chosen station;
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection Awaits it, each new meeting or election.
'Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay But what they please; and if that things be dear, 'T is only that they love to throw away Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear:
Here-' he was interrupted by a knife, With,- 'Damn your eyes! your money or your life!'
These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.
Juan, who did not understand a word Of English, save their shibboleth, 'God damn!'
And even that he had so rarely heard, He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,'
Or 'God be with you!'- and 't is not absurd To think so: for half English as I am (To my misfortune), never can I say I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way;-Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, And being somewhat choleric and sudden, Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, And fired it into one assailant's pudding-Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 'Oh Jack! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!'
On which Jack and his train set off at speed, And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed As if his veins would pour out his existence, Stood calling out for bandages and lint, And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint.
'Perhaps,' thought he, 'it is the country's wont To welcome foreigners in this way: now I recollect some innkeepers who don't Differ, except in robbing with a bow, In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
But what is to be done? I can't allow The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
So take him up; I 'll help you with the load.'
But ere they could perform this pious duty, The dying man cried, 'Hold! I 've got my gruel!
Oh for a glass of max! We 've miss'd our booty;
Let me die where I am!' And as the fuel Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill His breath,- he from his swelling throat untied A kerchief, crying, 'Give Sal that!'- and died.
The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell Exactly why it was before him thrown, Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled.
