IV.

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,

And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
"Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,

At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V.

Brave men were living before Agamemnon (1)
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:-I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age

Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);

So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

VI.

Most epic poets plunge in " medias res,”
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road)
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
What went before-by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,

Beside his mistress in some soft abode,

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

VII.

That is the usual method, but not mine

My way

is to begin with the beginning;

The regularity of my design

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,

And therefore I shall open with a line

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,

And also of his mother, if you'd rather.

VIII.

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous for oranges and women-he

Who has not seen it will be much to pity,

So says the proverb-and I quite agree; Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, Cadiz perhaps but that you soon may see:Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.

IX.

His father's name was Jóse-Don, of course,
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,

Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
Than Jóse, who begot our hero, who

Begot-but that's to come- -Well, to renew:

X.

His mother was a learned lady, famed

For every branch of every science known-
In every christian language ever named,

With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded
In their own way by all the things that she did.

XI.

Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart
All Calderon and greater part of Lopé,

So that if any actor miss'd his part

She could have served him for the prompter's copy;

For her Feinagle's were an useless art,

And he himself obliged to shut up shop-he

Could never make a memory so fine as

That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.

XII.

Her favourite science was the mathematical,
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity;
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call
A prodigy-her morning dress was dimity,

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,
And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.

XIII.

She knew the Latin-that is, "the Lord's prayer,"
And Greek—the alphabet-I'm nearly sure;
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure;

For native Spanish she had no great care,
At least her conversation was obscure;

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.