Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIV

An in-door life is less poetical;
  And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet,
With which I could not brew a pastoral.
  But be it as it may, a bard must meet
All difficulties, whether great or small,
  To spoil his undertaking or complete,
And work away like spirit upon matter,
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.

Juan — in this respect, at least, like saints —
  Was all things unto people of all sorts,
And lived contentedly, without complaints,
  In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts —
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints,
  And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women,
Without the coxcombry of certain she men.

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange;
  'T is also subject to the double danger
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange
  Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger:
But Juan had been early taught to range
  The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger,
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack,
Knew that he had a rider on his back.

And now in this new field, with some applause,
  He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail,
And never craned, and made but few 'faux pas,'
  And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail.
He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws
  Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail;
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then,
And once o'er several country gentlemen.

But on the whole, to general admiration
  He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires
Marvell'd at merit of another nation;
  The boors cried 'Dang it? who 'd have thought it?' — Sires,
The Nestors of the sporting generation,
  Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires;
The huntsman's self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in.

Such were his trophies — not of spear and shield,
  But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes;
Yet I must own, — although in this I yield
  To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, —
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,
  Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes,
And what not, though he rode beyond all price,
Ask'd next day, 'If men ever hunted twice?'

He also had a quality uncommon
  To early risers after a long chase,
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon
  December's drowsy day to his dull race, —
A quality agreeable to woman,
  When her soft, liquid words run on apace,
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, —
He did not fall asleep just after dinner;

But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
  And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they might assert,
  And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
  And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue!
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer; —
In short, there never was a better hearer.

And then he danced; — all foreigners excel
  The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantomime; — he danced, I say, right well,
  With emphasis, and also with good sense —
A thing in footing indispensable;
  He danced without theatrical pretence,
Not like a ballet-master in the van
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
  And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
  And rather held in than put forth his vigour;
And then he had an ear for music's sound,
  Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour.
Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified Bolero;

Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora,
  In Guido's famous fresco which alone
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a
  Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne.
The 'tout ensemble' of his movements wore a
  Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown,
And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.

No marvel then he was a favourite;
  A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;
  At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight
  The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired.
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 'tracasserie,'
Began to treat him with some small 'agacerie.'

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