117 DON JU A N. CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. IF from great nature's or our own abyss Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. II. But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? III. For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, When nothing shall be either old or new. IV. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day V. 'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where; And there's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it :—when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,-you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it. . VI. 'Tis true, you don't—but, pale and struck with terror, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears-but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do―or do not. VII. But what's this to the purpose? you will say. This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places. VIII. You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind blows;" And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Α Is poesy, according as the mind glows; paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine's a bubble, not blown up for praise, IX. The world is all before me- or behind; X. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke XI. But "why then publish?"(')—There are no rewards It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink-I have had at least my dream. (1) ["But why then publish? - Granville, the polite, POPE.] XII. I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosingThe one is winning, and the other losing. XIII. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, XIV. Love, war, a tempest-surely there's variety; A bird's eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. |