The Moslem orphan went with her protector, For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, Had perish’d in the field or by the wall: Her very place of birth was but a spectre Of what it had been; there the Muezzin’s cal To prayer was heard no more!—and Juan wept, And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. [Illustration] CANTO THE NINTH. O, 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, ’twas shabby, And like some other things won’t do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old abbey. Upon the rest ’tis 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—’tis 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.