At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call "Gentlemen farmers"--a race worn out quite, Since lately there have been no rents at all, And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight, And "farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte,[498]--What strange thoughts Arise, when we see Emperors fall with oats! XXXIII. But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah,[499] that costive Sophy, Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;--[jc][500] XXXIV. Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, That _one_ life saved, especially if young Or pretty, is a thing to recollect Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though decked With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymned by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. XXXV. Oh! ye great authors luminous, voluminous! Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! Whether you're paid by government in bribes, To prove the public debt is not consuming us-- Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes" With clownish heel[501] your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;-- XXXVI. Oh, ye great authors!--_A propos des bottes,_-- I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages' lots;-- 'T was something calculated to allay All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: Certes it would have been but thrown away, And that's one comfort for my lost advice, Although no doubt it was beyond all price. XXXVII. But let it go:--it will one day be found With other relics of "a former World," When this World shall be _former,_ underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisped, and curled, Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside-out, or drowned, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled First out of, and then back again to chaos-- The superstratum which will overlay us.[jd] XXXVIII. So Cuvier says:[502]--and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroyed and left in airy doubt; Like to the notions we now entertain Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, _not_ to say _miles,_ And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. XXXIX.