430 BYRON'S

lxxl

But there was something wanting, on the whole—

I don’t know what, and therefore cannot tell—Which pretty women—the sweet souls!—call soul.

Certes it was not body: he was wellProportion’d, as a poplar or a pole,

A handsome mat), that human miracle;

And, in each circumstance of love or war.

Had still preserv’d his perpeudicular.

lxxe:.

Still there was something wanting, as I ve said,—That uudefinablo “Je ne scais quoi ,”

Which, for what I know, may of yore have ledTo Homer’s Iliad , since it drew to TroyThe Greek Eve. Helen, from the Spartan’s bed;

Though, on the whole, no doubt, tbe Dardan boyWas much inferior to King Menelaus :

But thus it is some women will betray us.

LXXIII,

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes,Unless, like wise Tiresias we had prov'd,

By turns, the difference of the several sexes •

Neither can show quite how they would be lov'd.Tho sensual for a short time but connects us—

The sentimental boasts to bo unmov'd;

Bat both together form a. kind of ceutaur,

Upon whose back tis better not to venture.

LXXIV.

A something all-sufficient for the heart,

Is that for which the sex are always seeking:

But how to fill up that same vacant part ?

There lies the rub—and this they are but weakin.

Frail mariners afloat without a chart,

They run before the wind through high seasbreaking;

And when they have made the shore through everyshock,

’Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.

LXXV.

There is a flower call’d “ Lovo in Idleness,”

For which see Shakspere ’s ever-blooming gar-den:

I will not make his great description less,

And beg his British godship’s humble pardon,

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress,

I touch a single leaf where he is warden ;—

But though tho flower is different, with the French Or Swiss Rousseau, cry “ Voila la Pervmche!"

LXXVI.

Eureka! I have found it! What I meanTo say is, not that love is idleness,

But that in lovo such idleness has beenAn accessory, as I have cause to guess.

Hard labour's an indifferent go-between;

Your men of business are not apt to expressMuch passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo,Convey’d Medea as her supercargo.

Lxxvn.

w Beatus Me procul /” from “ negoiiisSaith Horace: the great little poet's wrong:

His other maxim, *• Noscitur a sociiis much more to the purpose of hia soDg;

WORKS.

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,Unless good company bo kept too long:

But, in his teeth, whate’er their state or station,Thrice happy they who have an occupation!

XXXVIIT.

Adam exchang’d his Paradise for ploughing:

Eve made up millinery with fig leaves—

The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,As far as I know, that the church receives :

Anti since that time it need not cost much showingThat many of the ills o'er which man grieves.And still more women, spring from not employingSome hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.

LXXIX.

And hence high life is oft a dreary void,

A rack of pleasures, where we must inventA something wherewithal to be annoy'd.

Bards may sing what they please about Content:Contented, when translated, means but cloy’d ;

And beuce arise the woes of sentiment,

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances,Reduc'd to practice, and perform’d like dances.

LXXX.

I do declare, upon an affidavit,

Romances I ne’er read like those I’ve seen,-Nor, if unto the world I over gave it,

Would some believe that such a tale had beon:But such intent I never bad, Dor havo it:

Some truths are better kept behind a screen,Especially when they would look like lies.

I therefore deal in generalities.

IXXXT.

“ An oyster may be cross’d in love,”—and why 9Because he mopeth idly in his shell,

And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh.

Much as a monk may do within bis cell:

And a-propos of monks, their piety

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;

Those vegetables of the Catholic creed,

Are apt, exceedingly, to run to seed.

lxxxii.

O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown.

Whose merit none enough can sing or say.

Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down,Thou moral Washington of Africa !

But there’s another little thing, I own,

Which you should perpetrate, some summer'^day,

And set the other half of caTth to rights;

You have freed the blacks —now pray shut up thewhites.

LXXXIII.

Shut up the bald-coot bully, Alexander;

Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal :

Teach them that “sauce for goose is sauce fo*gander,”

And ask them how they like to he in thrall.

Shut up each high heroic salamander.

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay's hut small);Shut up—no, not the King, but the Pavilion,

Or else 'twill cost us all another mi’lion.