How will—to these young people, just thrust out From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about, Especially of war and taxing,—how, I say, will these great relics, when they see ’em, Look like the monsters of a new museum? But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: ‘The time is out of joint,’—and so am I; I quite forget this poem ’s merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next. So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate. I left Don Juan with his horses baiting— Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating His journey, we’ve so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows; Suppose him in a handsome uniform,— A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver’d in a storm, Over a cock’d hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk; Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor— That great enchanter, at whose rod’s command Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand (When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a gaoler),— Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn’d a lieutenant of artillery:— His bandage slipp’d down into a cravat; His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock’d hat; But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid), If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper’d, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown’d— I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown’d: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless There was a something in his turn of limb, And still more in his eye, which seem’d to express, That though he look’d one of the seraphim, There lurk’d a man beneath the spirit’s dress. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.