Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XI

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better:
  Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it?-
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,
  That madmen may not bite you on a visit;
The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;
  The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it)
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection;
But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection.

The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross,
  Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation
Like gold as in comparison to dross,
  Match'd with the Continent's illumination,
Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss.
  The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation,
And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern,
Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.

A row of gentlemen along the streets
  Suspended may illuminate mankind,
As also bonfires made of country seats;
  But the old way is best for the purblind:
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,
  A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind,
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten,
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes
  Could recommence to hunt his honest man,
And found him not amidst the various progenies
  Of this enormous city's spreading span,
'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his
  Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,
I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey,
But see the world is only one attorney.

Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall,
  Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner
As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell
  Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner
Admitted a small party as night fell, —
  Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner,
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels,
St. James's Palace and St. James's 'Hells.'

They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door
  A tide of well-clad waiters, and around
The mob stood, and as usual several score
  Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er;
  Commodious but immoral, they are found
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.-
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage

Into one of the sweetest of hotels,
  Especially for foreigners — and mostly
For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,
  And cannot find a bill's small items costly.
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells
  (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie),
Until to some conspicuous square they pass,
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.

Juan, whose was a delicate commission,
  Private, though publicly important, bore
No title to point out with due precision
  The exact affair on which he was sent o'er.
'T was merely known, that on a secret mission
  A foreigner of rank had graced our shore,
Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said
(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head.

Some rumour also of some strange adventures
  Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;
And as romantic heads are pretty painters,
  And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves
Into the excursive, breaking the indentures
  Of sober reason wheresoe'er it moves,
He found himself extremely in the fashion,
Which serves our thinking people for a passion.

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite
  The contrary; but then 't is in the head;
Yet as the consequences are as bright
  As if they acted with the heart instead,
What after all can signify the site
  Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead
In safety to the place for which you start,
What matters if the road be head or heart?

Juan presented in the proper place,
  To proper placemen, every Russ credential;
And was received with all the due grimace
  By those who govern in the mood potential,
Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,
  Thought (what in state affairs is most essential)
That they as easily might do the youngster,
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.

They err'd, as aged men will do; but by
  And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't,
'T will be because our notion is not high
  Of politicians and their double front,
Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie: —
  Now what I love in women is, they won't
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

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