Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIII

I 'll have another figure in a trice: —
  What say you to a bottle of champagne?
Frozen into a very vinous ice,
  Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain,
Yet in the very centre, past all price,
  About a liquid glassful will remain;
And this is stronger than the strongest grape
Could e'er express in its expanded shape:

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence;
  And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre
A hidden nectar under a cold presence.
  And such are many — though I only meant her
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons,
  On which the Muse has always sought to enter.
And your cold people are beyond all price,
When once you have broken their confounded ice.

But after all they are a North-West Passage
  Unto the glowing India of the soul;
And as the good ships sent upon that message
  Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage),
  Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal;
For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost
(A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost.

And young beginners may as well commence
  With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman;
While those who are not beginners should have sense
  Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon
With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense,
  The dreary 'Fuimus' of all things human,
Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.

But heaven must be diverted; its diversion
  Is sometimes truculent — but never mind:
The world upon the whole is worth the assertion
  (If but for comfort) that all things are kind:
And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,
  Of the two principles, but leaves behind
As many doubts as any other doctrine
Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.

The English winter — ending in July,
  To recommence in August — now was done.
'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly;
  On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run.
But for post-horses who finds sympathy?
  Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son,
Always premising that said son at college
Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.

The London winter 's ended in July —
  Sometimes a little later. I don't err
In this: whatever other blunders lie
  Upon my shoulders, here I must aver
My Muse a glass of weatherology;
  For parliament is our barometer:
Let radicals its other acts attack,
Its sessions form our only almanack.

When its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo
  Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho,
  And happiest they who horses can engage;
The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row
  Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,
Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces.

They and their bills, 'Arcadians both,' are left
  To the Greek kalends of another session.
Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,
  What hope remains? Of hope the full possession,
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,
  At a long date — till they can get a fresh one —
Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large;
Also the solace of an overcharge.

But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord,
  Nodding beside my lady in his carriage.
Away! away! 'Fresh horses!' are the word,
  And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage;
The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
  The postboys have no reason to disparage
Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence,
The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence.

'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey —
  That gentleman of lords and gentlemen;
Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky,
  Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen
Can paint, — 'Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!'
  (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,
If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)

The London winter and the country summer
  Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity,
When nature wears the gown that doth become her,
  To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
  Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember; —
But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September.

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