Chapter 4

{37}[51]

["Conscienzia m'assicura, La buona compagnia che l'uom francheggia Sotto l'osbergo del sentirsi pura."

_Inferno_, canto xxviii, lines 115-117.]

[n] _Deemed that her thoughts no more required control_.--[MS.]

{38}[52] [See Ovid, _Metamorph_., vii. 9, sq.]

{39}[53] Campbell's _Gertrude of Wyoming_--(I think)--the opening of Canto Second [Part III. stanza i. lines 1-4]--but quote from memory.

[54] [See Coleridge's _Biographia Literaria_, chap. i. (ed. 1847, i. 14, 15); and _Dejection: An Ode_, lines 86-93.]

{40}[o] _I say this by the way--so don't look stern_. _But if you're angry, reader, pass it by_.--[MS.]

[55] [Juan Boscan, of Barcelona (1500-1544), in concert with his friend Garcilasso, Italianized Castilian poetry. He was the author of the _Leandro_, a poem in blank verse, of canzoni, and sonnets after the model of Petrarch, and of _The Allegory_.--_History of Spanish Literature_, by George Ticknor, 1888, i. 513.]

[56] [Garcias Lasso or Garcilasso de la Vega (1503-1536), of a noble family at Toledo, was a warrior as well as a poet, "now seizing on the sword and now the pen." After serving with distinction in Germany, Africa, and Provence, he was killed at Muy, near Frejus, in 1536, by a stone, thrown from a tower, which fell on his head as he was leading on his battalion. He was the author of thirty-seven sonnets, five canzoni, and three pastorals.--_Vide ibidem_, pp. 522-535.]

{42}[p] _A real wittol always is suspicious_, _But always also hunts in the wrong place_.--[MS.]

{43}[q] _Change horses every hour from night till noon_.--[MS.]

[r] _Except the promises of true theology_.--[MS.]

[57]

["Oh, Susan! I've said, in the moments of mirth, What's devotion to thee or to me? I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, And believe that _that_ heaven's in _thee._"

"The Catalogue," _Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little_, 1803, p. 128.]

{44}[s] _She stood on Guilt's steep brink, in all the sense_ _And full security of Innocence_.--[MS.]

{45}[t] _To leave these two young people then and there.--[MS.]_

{46}[58] ["Age Xerxes.. eo usque luxuria gaudens, ut edicto præmium ei proponeret, qui novum voluptatis genus reperisset."--Val. Max, _De Dictis, etc._, lib. ix. cap. 1, ext. 3.]

[59] ["You certainly will be damned for all this scene."--[H.]]

{48}[60] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza iii. line 2, _Poetical Works_, ii. 329, note 3.]

[u] _Our coming, nor look brightly till we come_.--[MS.]

[v] _Sweet is a lawsuit to the attorney--sweet, etc_.--[MS.]

[61] [So, too, Falstaff, _Henry IV._, act ii. sc. 2, lines 79, 80.]

{49}[w] _Who've made us wait--God knows how long already,_ _For an entailed estate, or country-seat,_ _Wishing them not exactly damned, but dead--he_ _Knows nought of grief, who has not so been worried--_ _'T is strange old people don't like to be buried_.--[MS.]

[62] [Byron has not been forgotten at Harrow, though it is a bend of the Cam (Byron's Pool), not his favourite Duck Pool (now "Ducker") which bears his name.]

{50}[63] [The reference is to the metallic tractors of Benjamin Charles Perkins, which were advertised as a "cure for all disorders, Red Noses," etc. Compare _English Bards, etc._, lines 131, 132--

"What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas."

See _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 307, note 3.]

[64] [Edward Jenner (1749-1823) made his first experiments in vaccination, May 14, 1796. Napoleon caused his soldiers to be vaccinated, and imagined that the English would be gratified by his recognition of Jenner's discovery.

Sir William Congreve (1772-1828) invented "Congreve rockets" or shells in 1804. They were used with great effect at the battle of Leipzig, in 1813.]

[65] ["Mon cher ne touchez pas à la petite Vérole."--[H.]--[Revise.]]

[66] [Experiments in galvanism were made on the body of Forster the murderer, by Galvani's nephew, Professor Aldini, January and February, 1803.]

[67] ["Put out these lines, and keep the others."--[H.]--[_Revise._]]

{51}[68] [Sir Humphry Davy, P.R.S. (1778-1829), invented the safety-lamp in 1815.]

[69] [In a critique of _An Account of the Empire of Marocco_.... _To which is added an_ ... _account of Tombuctoo, the great Emporium of Central Africa,_ by James Grey Jackson, London, 1809, the reviewer comments on the author's pedantry in correcting "the common orthography of African names." "We do not," he writes, "greatly object to ... _Fas_ for _Fez,_ or even _Timbuctoo_ for _Tombuctoo,_ but _Marocco_ for _Morocco_ is a little too much."--_Edinburgh Review_, July, 1809 vol. xiv. p. 307.]

[70] [Sir John Ross (1777-1856) published _A Voyage of Discovery_ ... _for the purpose of Exploring Baffin's Bay, etc.,_ in 1819; Sir W.E. Parry (1790-1855) published his _Journal of a Voyage of Discovery to the Arctic Regions between 4th April and 18th November_, 1818, in 1820.]

[x] _Not only pleasure's sin, but sin's a pleasure_.--[MS.]

[y] _And lose in shining snow their summits blue_.--[MS.]

[z] _'Twas midnight--dark and sombre was the night, etc_.--[MS.]

[aa] _And supper, punch, ghost-stories, and such chat_.--[MS.]

[71] ["'All that, Egad,' as Bayes says" [in the Duke of Buckingham's play _The Rehearsal_].--Letter to Murray, September 28, 1820, _Letters_, 1901, v. 80.]

[72] ["Lobster-sallad, _not_ a lobster-salad. Have you been at a London _ball_, and not known a Lobster-_sallad?_"--[H.]--[_Revise._] ]

[73] ["To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed me poring over _Don Juan_, she stumbled by mere chance on the 137th stanza of the First Canto, and asked me what it meant. I told her, 'Nothing,--but your husband is coming.' As I said this in Italian with some emphasis, she started up in a fright, and said, _'Oh, my God, is_ he _coming?'_ thinking it was _her own_....You may suppose we laughed when she found out the mistake. You will be amused, as I was;--it happened not three hours ago."--Letter to Murray, November 8, 1819, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 374.

It should be borne in mind that the loves of Juan and Julia, the irruption of Don Alfonso, etc., were rather of the nature of prophecy than of reminiscence. The First Canto had been completed before the Countess Guiccioli appeared on the scene.]

[ab] _And thus as 'twere herself from out them crept_.--[MS. M.]

{54}[ac] _Ere I the wife of such a man had been!_--[MS.]

{55}[ad] _But while this search was making, Julia's tongue_.--[MS.]

[74] The Spanish "Cortejo" is much the same as the Italian "Cavalier Servente."

{56}[75] Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly did not take Algiers--but Algiers very nearly took him: he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and not much credit, from before that city, in the year 1775.

[Alexander O'Reilly, born 1722, a Spanish general of Irish extraction, failed in an expedition against Algiers in 1775, in which the Spaniards lost four thousand men. In 1794 he was appointed commander-in-chief of the forces equipped against the army of the French National Convention. He died March 23, 1794.]

[76] [The Italian names have an obvious signification.]

[ae] _The chimney--fit retreat for any lover!_--[MS.]

{58}[af] ---- _may deplore_.--[Alternative reading. MS. M.]

{59}[77] ["Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh" (_Job_ ii. 10).]

[78] ["Don't be read aloud."--[H.]--[_Revise._]]

{60}[ag] ---- _than be put_ _To drown with Clarence in his Malmsey butt_.--[MS.]

[ah] _And reckon up our balance with the devil_.--[MS.]

{62}[79] ["Carissimo, do review the whole scene, and think what you would say of it, if written by another."--[H.] "I would say, read 'The Miracle' ['A Tale from Boccace'] in Hobhouse's poems, and 'January and May,' and 'Paulo Purganti,' and 'Hans Carvel,' and 'Joconde.' _These_ are laughable: it is the _serious_--Little's poems and _Lalla Rookh_--that affect seriously. Now Lust is a serious passion, and cannot be excited by the ludicrous."--[B.]--_Marginal Notes in Revise_.]

For the "Miracle," see _Imitations and Translations_, 1809, pp. 111-128. "January and May" is Pope's version of Chaucer's _Merchant's Tale_. "Paulo Purganti" and "Hans Carvel" are by Matthew Prior; and for "Joconde" (_Nouvelle Tirée de L'Ariosto_, canto xxviii.) see _Contes et Nouvelles en Vers_, de Mr. de la Fontaine, 1691, i. 1-19.]

{63}[80] [Compare "The use made in the French tongue of the word _tact_, to denote that delicate sense of propriety, which enables a man to _feel his way_ in the difficult intercourse of polished society, seems to have been suggested by similar considerations (i.e. similar to those which suggested the use of the word _taste_)."--_Outlines of Moral Philosophy_, by Dugald Stewart, Part I. sect. x. ed. 1855, p. 48. For D'Alembert's use of _tact_, to denote "that peculiar delicacy of perception (which, like the nice touch of a blind man) arises from habits of close attention to those slighter feelings which escape general notice," see _Philosophical Essays_, by Dugald Stewart, 1818, p. 603.]

{64}[ai] _With base suspicion now no longer haunted._--[MS.]

[81] [For the incident of the shoes, Lord Byron was probably indebted to the Scottish ballad--

"Our goodman came hame at e'en, and hame came he; He spy'd a pair of jack-boots, where nae boots should be, What's this now, goodwife? What's this I see? How came these boots there, without the leave o' me! Boots! quo' she: Ay, boots, quo' he. Shame fa' your cuckold face, and ill mat ye see, It's but a pair of water stoups the cooper sent to me," etc.

See James Johnson's _Musical Museum_, 1787, etc., v. 466.]

{66}[aj] _Found--heaven knows how--his solitary way._--[MS.]

[82] [William Brodie Gurney (1777-1855), the son and grandson of eminent shorthand writers, "reported the proceedings against the Duke of York in 1809, the trials of Lord Cochrane in 1814, and of Thistlewood in 1820, and the proceedings against Queen Caroline."--_Dict. of Nat. Biog_., art. "Gurney."]

{67}[83] ["Venice, December 7, 1818.

"After _that stanza_ in the first canto of _Don Juan_ (sent by Lord Lauderdale) towards the _conclusion_ of the canto--I speak of the stanza whose two last lines are--

"'The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey,'

insert the following stanzas, 'But Donna Inez,' etc."--B.

The text is based on a second or revised copy of stanzas cxc.-cxcviii. Many of the corrections and emendations which were inserted in the first draft are omitted in the later and presumably improved version. Byron's first intention was to insert seven stanzas after stanza clxxxix., descriptive and highly depreciatory of Brougham, but for reasons of "fairness" (_vide infra_) he changed his mind. The casual mention of "blundering Brougham" in _English Bards, etc._ (line 524, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 338, note 2), is a proof that his suspicions were not aroused as to the authorship of the review of _Hours of Idleness_ (_Edin. Rev._, January, 1808), and it is certain that Byron's animosity was due to the part played by Brougham at the time of the Separation. (In a letter to Byron, dated February 18, 1817, Murray speaks of a certain B. "as your incessant persecutor--the source of all affected public opinion respecting you.") The stanzas, with the accompanying notes, are not included in the editions of 1833 or 1837, and are now printed for the first time.

I.

"'Twas a fine cause for those in law delighting-- 'Tis pity that they had no Brougham in Spain, Famous for always talking, and ne'er fighting, For calling names, and taking them again; For blustering, bungling, trimming, wrangling, writing, Groping all paths to power, and all in vain-- Losing elections, character, and temper, A foolish, clever, fellow--_Idem semper!_

II.

"Bully in Senates, skulker in the Field,[*A] The Adulterer's advocate when duly feed, The libeller's gratis Counsel, dirty shield Which Law affords to many a dirty deed; A wondrous Warrior against those who yield-- A rod to Weakness, to the brave a reed-- The People's sycophant, the Prince's foe, And serving him the more by being so.

III.

"Tory by nurture, Whig by Circumstance, A Democrat some once or twice a year, Whene'er it suits his purpose to advance His vain ambition in its vague career: A sort of Orator by sufferance, Less for the comprehension than the ear; With all the arrogance of endless power, Without the sense to keep it for an hour.

IV.

"The House-of-Commons Damocles of words-- Above him, hanging by a single hair, On each harangue depend some hostile Swords; And deems he that we _always_ will forbear? Although Defiance oft declined affords A blotted shield no Shire's true knight would wear: Thersites of the House. Parolles[*B] of Law, The double Bobadill[*C] takes Scorn for Awe.

V.

"How noble is his language--never pert-- How grand his sentiments which ne'er run riot! As when he swore 'by God he'd sell his shirt To head the poll!' I wonder who would buy it The skin has passed through such a deal of dirt In grovelling on to power--such stains now dye it-- So black the long-worn Lion's hide in hue, You'd swear his very heart had sweated through.

VI.

"Panting for power--as harts for cooling streams-- Yet half afraid to venture for the draught; A go-between, yet blundering in extremes, And tossed along the vessel fore and aft; Now shrinking back, now midst the first he seems, Patriot by force, and courtisan[*D] by craft; Quick without wit, and violent without strength-- A disappointed Lawyer, at full length.

VII.

"A strange example of the force of Law, And hasty temper on a kindling mind-- Are these the dreams his young Ambition saw? Poor fellow! he had better far been blind! I'm sorry thus to probe a wound so raw-- But, then, as Bard my duty to Mankind, For warning to the rest, compels these raps-- As Geographers lay down a Shoal in Maps."

[[*A] For Brougham's Fabian tactics with regard to duelling, _vide post_, Canto XIII. stanza lxxxiv. line 1, p. 506, note 1.]

[[*B] _Vide post_, Canto XIII. stanza lxxxiv. line 1, p. 506, note 1.]

[[*C] For "Captain Bobadill, a Paul's man," see Ben Jonson's _Every Man in his Humour_, act iv. sc. 5, _et passim_.]

[[*D] The _N. Eng. Dict._, quotes a passage in _Phil. Trans._, iv. 286 (1669), as the latest instance of "courtisan" for "courtier."]

NOTE TO THE ANNEXED STANZAS ON BROUGHAM.

"Distrusted by the Democracy, disliked by the Whigs, and detested by the Tories, too much of a lawyer for the people, and too much of a demagogue for Parliament, a contestor of counties, and a Candidate for cities, the refuse of half the Electors of England, and representative at last upon sufferance of the proprietor of some rotten borough, which it would have been more independent to have purchased, a speaker upon all questions, and the outcast of all parties, his support has become alike formidable to all his enemies (for he has no friends), and his vote can be only valuable when accompanied by his Silence. A disappointed man with a bad temper, he is endowed with considerable but not first-rate abilities, and has blundered on through life, remarkable only for a fluency, in which he has many rivals at the bar and in the Senate, and an eloquence in which he has several Superiors. 'Willing to wound and _not_ afraid to strike, until he receives a blow in return, he has not yet betrayed any illegal ardour, or Irish alacrity, in accepting the defiances, and resenting the disgraceful terms which his proneness to evil-speaking have (sic) brought upon him. In the cases of Mackinnon and Manners,[*E] he sheltered himself behind those parliamentary privileges, which Fox, Pitt, Canning, Castlereagh, Tierney, Adam, Shelburne, Grattan, Corry, Curran, and Clare disdained to adopt as their buckler. The House of Commons became the Asylum of his Slander, as the Churches of Rome were once the Sanctuary of Assassins.

"His literary reputation (with the exception of one work of his early career) rests upon some anonymous articles imputed to him in a celebrated periodical work; but even these are surpassed by the Essays of others in the same Journal. He has tried every thing and succeeded in nothing; and he may perhaps finish as a Lawyer without practice, as he has already been occasionally an orator without an audience, if not soon cut short in his career.

"The above character is _not_ written impartially, but by one who has had occasion to know some of the baser parts of it, and regards him accordingly with shuddering abhorrence, and just so much fear as he deserves. In him is to be dreaded the crawling of the centipede, not the spring of the tiger--the venom of the reptile, not the strength of the animal--the rancour of the miscreant, not the courage of the Man.

"In case the prose or verse of the above should be actionable, I put my name, that the man may rather proceed against me than the publisher--not without some faint hope that the brand with which I blast him may induce him, however reluctantly, to a manlier revenge."

[*E] [Possibly George Manners (1778-1853), editor of _The Satirist_, whose appointment to a foreign consulate Brougham sharply criticized in the House of Commons, July 9, 1817 (_Parl. Deb._, vol. xxxvi. pp. 1320, 1321); and Daniel Mackinnon (1791-1836), the nephew of Henry Mackinnon, who fell at Ciudad Rodrigo. Byron met "Dan" Mackinnon at Lisbon in 1809, and (Gronow, _Reminiscences_, 1889, ii. 259, 260) was amused by his "various funny stories."]

EXTRACT FROM LETTER TO MURRAY.

"I enclose you the stanzas which were intended for 1st Canto, after the line

'Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey:'

but I do not mean them for present publication, because I will not, at this distance, publish _that_ of a Man, for which he has a claim upon another too remote to give him redress.

"With regard to the Miscreant Brougham, however, it was only long after the fact, and I was made acquainted with the language he had held of me on my leaving England (with regard to the D^ss^ of D.'s house),[*F] and his letter to Me. de Staël, and various matters for all of which the first time he and I foregather--be it in England, be it on earth--he shall account, and one of the two be carried home.

"As I have no wish to have mysteries, I merely prohibit the _publication_ of these stanzas in _print_, for the reasons of fairness mentioned; but I by no means wish _him not_ to _know_ their existence or their tenor, nor my intentions as to himself: he has shown no forbearance, and he shall find none. You may show them to _him_ and to all whom it may concern, with the explanation that the only reason that I have not had satisfaction of this man has been, that I have never had an opportunity since I was aware of the facts, which my friends had carefully concealed from me; and it was only by slow degrees, and by piecemeal, that I got at them. I have not sought him, nor gone out of my way for him; but I will _find_ him, and then we can have it out: he has shown so little courage, that he _must_ fight at last in his absolute necessity to escape utter degradation.

"I send you the stanzas, which (except the last) have been written nearly two years, merely because I have been lately copying out most of the MSS. which were in my drawers."

[*F] [Byron's town-house, in 1815-1816, No. 13, Piccadilly, belonged to the Duchess of Devonshire. When he went abroad in April, 1816, the rent was still unpaid. The duchess, through her agent, distrained, but was unable to recover the debt. See Byron's "Letter to Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire," November 3, 1817, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 178.]

{71}[ak] _Julia was sent into a nunnery_, _And there, perhaps, her feelings may be better_.--[MS. M.]

[al] _Man's love is of his life_----.--[MS. M.]

[84] ["Que les hommes sont heureux d'aller à la guerre, d'exposer leur vie, de se livrer à l'enthousiasme de l'honneur et du danger! Mais il n'y a rien au-dehors qui soulage les femmes."--_Corinne, ou L'Italie_, Madame de Staël, liv., xviii. chap. v. ed. 1835, iii. 209.]

[am] _To mourn alone the love which has undone._ or, _To lift our fatal love to God from man._

Take that which, of these three, seems the best prescription.--B.

{72}[an] _You will proceed in beauty and in pride_, _You will return_----.--[MS. M.]

[ao] / fatal now \ Or, _That word is < lost for me >--but let it go_.--[MS. M.] \ deadly now /

[ap] _I struggle, but can not collect my mind_.--[MS.]

[aq] _As turns the needle trembling to the pole_ _It ne'er can reach--so turns to you my soul_.--[MS.]

[ar] _With a neat crow-quill, rather hard, but new_.--[MS.]

{73}[85] [Byron had a seal bearing this motto.]

[as] _And there are other incidents remaining_ _Which shall be specified in fitting time,_ _With good discretion, and in current rhyme_.--[MS.]

{74}[at] _To newspapers, to sermons, which the zeal_ _Of pious men have published on his acts_.--[MS.]

[au] _I'll call the work "Reflections o'er a Bottle_."--[MS.]

[86] [Here, and elsewhere in _Don Juan_, Byron attacked Coleridge fiercely and venomously, because he believed that his _protégé_ had accepted patronage and money, and, notwithstanding, had retailed scandalous statements to the detriment and dishonour of his advocate and benefactor (see letter to Murray, November 24, 1818, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 272; and "Introduction to the _Vision of Judgment," Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 475). Byron does not substantiate his charge of ingratitude, and there is nothing to show whether Coleridge ever knew why a once friendly countenance was changed towards him. He might have asked, with the Courtenays, _Ubi lapsus, quid feci?_ If Byron had been on his mind or his conscience he would have drawn up an elaborate explanation or apology; but nothing of the kind is extant. He took the abuse as he had taken the favours--for the unmerited gifts of the blind goddess Fortune. (See, too, _Letter_ ..., by John Bull, 1821, p. 14.)]

{76}[87] [Compare Byron's "Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's Review," _Letters_, 1900, iv. Appendix VII. 465-470; and letter to Murray, August 24, 1819, ibid., p. 348: "I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning letter for publication, addressed to the buffoon Roberts, who has thought proper to tie a canister to his own tail. It was written off-hand, and in the midst of circumstances not very favourable to facetiousness, so that there may, perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of small acid punch." The letter was in reply to a criticism of _Don Juan_ (Cantos I., II.) in the _British Review_ (No. xxvii., 1819, vol. 14, pp. 266-268), in which the Editor assumed, or feigned to assume, that the accusation of bribery was to be taken _au grand sérieux_.]

{77}[88] [Hor., _Od._ III. C. xiv. lines 27, 28.]

[av] _I thought of dyeing it the other day_.--[MS.]

[89] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto III. stanza cvii. line 2.]

{78}[90]

"Me nec femina, nec puer Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui, Nec certare juvat mero; Nec vincire novis tempora floribus."

Hor., _Od._ IV. i. 30.

[In the revise the words _nec puer Jam_ were omitted. On this Hobhouse comments, "Better add the whole or scratch out all after femina."--"Quote the whole then--it was only in compliance with your _settentrionale_ notions that I left out the remnant of the line."--[B.]]

[91] [For "How Fryer Bacon made a Brazen head to speak," see _The Famous Historie of Fryer Bacon_ (Reprint, London, 1815, pp. 13-18); see, too, _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, by Robert Greene, ed. Rev. Alexander Dyce, 1861, pp. 153-181.]

[92]

["Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?" etc.

Beattie's _Minstrel_, Bk. I. stanza i. lines 1, 2.]

{79}[aw] _A book--a damned bad picture--and worse bust_.--[MS.]

["Don't swear again--the third 'damn.'"--[H.]--[_Revise._]]

[93] [Byron sat for his bust to Thorwaldsen, in May, 1817.]

[94] [This stanza appears to have been suggested by the following passage in the _Quarterly Review_, April, 1818, vol. xix. p. 203: "[It was] the opinion of the Egyptians, that the soul never deserted the body while the latter continued in a perfect state. To secure this union, King Cheops is said, by Herodotus, to have employed three hundred and sixty thousand of his subjects for twenty years in raising over the 'angusta domus' destined to hold his remains, a pile of stone equal in weight to six millions of tons, which is just three times that of the vast Breakwater thrown across Plymouth Sound; and, to render this precious dust still more secure, the narrow chamber was made accessible only by small, intricate passages, obstructed by stones of an enormous weight, and so carefully closed externally as not to be perceptible.--Yet, how vain are all the precautions of man! Not a bone was left of Cheops, either in the stone coffin, or in the vault, when Shaw entered the gloomy chamber.]

{80}[ax] _Must bid you both farewell in accents bland_.--[MS.]

[95] [Lines 1-4 are taken from the last stanza of the _Epilogue to the Lay of the Laureate_, entitled "L'Envoy." (See _Poetical Works_ of Robert Southey, 1838, x. 174.)]

CANTO THE SECOND.[96]

I.

OH ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions-- It mends their morals, never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations In Juan's case were but employed in vain, Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty.[ay]

II.

Had he but been placed at a public school, In the third form, or even in the fourth, His daily task had kept his fancy cool, At least, had he been nurtured in the North; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worth-- A lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III.

I can't say that it puzzles me at all, If all things be considered: first, there was His lady-mother, mathematical, A----never mind;--his tutor, an old ass; A pretty woman--(that's quite natural, Or else the thing had hardly come to pass) A husband rather old, not much in unity With his young wife--a time, and opportunity.

IV.

Well--well; the World must turn upon its axis, And all Mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The King commands us, and the Doctor quacks us, The Priest instructs, and so our life exhales, A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,--perhaps a name.

V.

I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz-- A pretty town, I recollect it well-- 'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is, (Or was, before Peru learned to rebel), And such sweet girls![97]--I mean, such graceful ladies, Their very walk would make your bosom swell; I can't describe it, though so much it strike, Nor liken it--I never saw the like:[az]

VI.

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb New broke, a camelopard, a gazelle, No--none of these will do;--and then their garb, Their veil and petticoat--Alas! to dwell Upon such things would very near absorb A canto--then their feet and ankles,--well, Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready, (And so, my sober Muse--come, let's be steady--

VII.

Chaste Muse!--well,--if you must, you must)--the veil Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, Flashes into the heart:--All sunny land Of Love! when I forget you, may I fail To----say my prayers--but never was there planned A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.[98] VIII.

But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent Her son to Cadiz only to embark; To stay there had not answered her intent, But why?--we leave the reader in the dark-- 'T was for a voyage the young man was meant, As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, To wean him from the wickedness of earth, And send him like a Dove of Promise forth.

IX.

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things According to direction, then received A lecture and some money: for four springs He was to travel; and though Inez grieved (As every kind of parting has its stings), She hoped he would improve--perhaps believed: A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice--and two or three of credit.

X.

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school For naughty children, who would rather play (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; Infants of three years old were taught that day, Dunces were whipped, or set upon a stool: The great success of Juan's education Spurred her to teach another generation.[ba]

XI.

Juan embarked--the ship got under way, The wind was fair, the water passing rough; A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, As I, who've crossed it oft, know well enough; And, standing on the deck, the dashing spray Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough: And there he stood to take, and take again, His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.

XII.

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new: I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,[99] But almost every other country's blue, When gazing on them, mystified by distance, We enter on our nautical existence.

XIII.

So Juan stood, bewildered on the deck: The wind sung, cordage strained, and sailors swore, And the ship creaked, the town became a speck, From which away so fair and fast they bore. The best of remedies is a beef-steak Against sea-sickness: try it, Sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer--so may you.

XIV.

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, Beheld his native Spain receding far: First partings form a lesson hard to learn, Even nations feel this when they go to war; There is a sort of unexpressed concern, A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar, At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places--one keeps looking at the steeple.

XV.

But Juan had got many things to leave, His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve Than many persons more advanced in life: And if we now and then a sigh must heave At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears-- That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

XVI.

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion: I'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse, And such light griefs are not a thing to die on; Young men should travel, if but to amuse Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

XVII.

And Juan wept, and much he sighed and thought, While his salt tears dropped into the salt sea, "Sweets to the sweet;" (I like so much to quote; You must excuse this extract,--'t is where she, The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought Flowers to the grave;) and, sobbing often, he Reflected on his present situation, And seriously resolved on reformation.

XVIII.

"Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!" he cried, "Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(here he drew Her letter out again, and read it through.)

XIX.

"And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear-- But that's impossible, and cannot be-- Sooner shall this blue Ocean melt to air, Sooner shall Earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! Or think of anything, excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic-- (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick.)

XX.

"Sooner shall Heaven kiss earth--(here he fell sicker) Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?-- (For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor; Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) Julia, my love!--(you rascal, Pedro, quicker)-- Oh, Julia!--(this curst vessel pitches so)-- Belovéd Julia, hear me still beseeching!" (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

XXI.

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary's art, The loss of Love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends: No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

XXII.

Love's a capricious power: I've known it hold Out through a fever caused by its own heat, But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, And find a quinsy very hard to treat; Against all noble maladies he's bold, But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

XXIII.

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein,[100] Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else[bb] Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?

XXIV.

The ship, called the most holy "Trinidada,"[101] Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born: They were relations, and for them he had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

XXV.

His suite consisted of three servants and A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, Who several languages did understand, But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow And, rocking in his hammock, longed for land, His headache being increased by every billow; And the waves oozing through the port-hole made His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

XXVI.

'T was not without some reason, for the wind Increased at night, until it blew a gale; And though 't was not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen would have looked a little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: At sunset they began to take in sail, For the sky showed it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

XXVII.

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, Started the stern-post, also shattered the Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift Herself from out her present jeopardy, The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

XXVIII.

One gang of people instantly was put Upon the pumps, and the remainder set To get up part of the cargo, and what not; But they could not come at the leak as yet; At last they did get at it really, but Still their salvation was an even bet: The water rushed through in a way quite puzzling, While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

XXIX.

Into the opening; but all such ingredients Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, Despite of all their efforts and expedients, But for the pumps: I'm glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence, For fifty tons of water were upthrown By them per hour, and they had all been undone, But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.[102]

XXX.

As day advanced the weather seemed to abate, And then the leak they reckoned to reduce, And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet Kept two hand--and one chain-pump still in use. The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust--which all descriptive power transcends-- Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

XXXI.

There she lay, motionless, and seemed upset; The water left the hold, and washed the decks, And made a scene men do not soon forget; For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, Or any other thing that brings regret Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talked of by the divers, And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

XXXII.

Immediately the masts were cut away, Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, The main-mast followed: but the ship still lay Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted), And then with violence the old ship righted.[103]

XXXIII.

It may be easily supposed, while this Was going on, some people were unquiet, That passengers would find it much amiss To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; That even the able seaman, deeming his Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, As upon such occasions tars will ask For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

XXXIV.

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion: thus it was, Some plundered, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, The high wind made the treble, and as bass The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws: Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, Clamoured in chorus to the roaring Ocean.

XXXV.

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for[bc] Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-room, and stood before It with a pair of pistols;[104] and their fears, As if Death were more dreadful by his door Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.

XXXVI.

"Give us more grog," they cried, "for it will be All one an hour hence." Juan answered, "No! 'T is true that Death awaits both you and me, But let us die like men, not sink below Like brutes:"--and thus his dangerous post kept he, And none liked to anticipate the blow; And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

XXXVII.

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, And made a loud and pious lamentation; Repented all his sins, and made a last Irrevocable vow of reformation; Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) To quit his academic occupation, In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.

XXXVIII.

But now there came a flash of hope once more; Day broke, and the wind lulled: the masts were gone The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore, The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.[105] They tried the pumps again, and though before Their desperate efforts seemed all useless grown, A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale-- The stronger pumped, the weaker thrummed a sail.

XXXIX.

Under the vessel's keel the sail was passed, And for the moment it had some effect; But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect? But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 'T is never too late to be wholly wrecked: And though 't is true that man can only die once, 'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.[bd]

XL.

There winds and waves had hurled them, and from thence, Without their will, they carried them away; For they were forced with steering to dispense, And never had as yet a quiet day On which they might repose, or even commence A jurymast or rudder, or could say The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, Still swam--though not exactly like a duck.

XLI.

The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less, But the ship laboured so, they scarce could hope To weather out much longer; the distress Was also great with which they had to cope For want of water, and their solid mess Was scant enough: in vain the telescope Was used--nor sail nor shore appeared in sight, Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

XLII.

Again the weather threatened,--again blew A gale, and in the fore and after hold Water appeared; yet, though the people knew All this, the most were patient, and some bold, Until the chains and leathers were worn through Of all our pumps:--a wreck complete she rolled, At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are Like human beings during civil war.

XLIII.

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he Could do no more: he was a man in years, And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, And if he wept at length they were not fears That made his eyelids as a woman's be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,-- Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

XLIV.

The ship was evidently settling now Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, Some went to prayers again, and made a vow Of candles to their saints[106]--but there were none To pay them with; and some looked o'er the bow; Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one That begged Pedrillo for an absolution, Who told him to be damned--in his confusion.[107]

XLV.

Some lashed them in their hammocks; some put on Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; Some cursed the day on which they saw the Sun, And gnashed their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair; And others went on as they had begun, Getting the boats out, being well aware That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.[108]

XLVI.

The worst of all was, that in their condition, Having been several days in great distress, 'T was difficult to get out such provision As now might render their long suffering less: Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;[be] Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress: Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.

XLVII.

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so; Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below,[109] And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon-- Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

XLVIII.

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had Been stove in the beginning of the gale;[110] And the long-boat's condition was but bad, As there were but two blankets for a sail,[111] And one oar for a mast, which a young lad Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board.

XLIX.

'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown[bf] Of one whose hate is masked but to assail. Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear[bg] Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

L.

Some trial had been making at a raft, With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laughed,[112] If any laughter at such times could be, Unless with people who too much have quaffed, And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Half epileptical, and half hysterical:-- Their preservation would have been a miracle.

LI.

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,[113] For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars, The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short.[114]

LII.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell-- Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave,-- Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,[115] As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawned around her like a hell, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die.

LIII.

And first one universal shriek there rushed, Louder than the loud Ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gushed, Accompanied by a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

LIV.

The boats, as stated, had got off before, And in them crowded several of the crew; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reaching any shore; And then they were too many, though so few-- Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat.

LV.

All the rest perished; near two hundred souls Had left their bodies; and what's worse, alas! When over Catholics the Ocean rolls, They must wait several weeks before a mass Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, Because, till people know what's come to pass, They won't lay out their money on the dead-- It costs three francs for every mass that's said.

LVI.

Juan got into the long-boat, and there Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; It seemed as if they had exchanged their care, For Juan wore the magisterial face Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair Of eyes were crying for their owner's case: Battista, though, (a name called shortly Tita), Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

LVII.

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, But the same cause, conducive to his loss, Left him so drunk, he jumped into the wave, As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; They could not rescue him although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute, And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it.

LVIII.

A small old spaniel,--which had been Don José's, His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes With tenderness--stood howling on the brink, Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepped Off threw him in, then after him he leaped.[116]

LIX.

He also stuffed his money where he could About his person, and Pedrillo's too, Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, Not knowing what himself to say, or do, As every rising wave his dread renewed; But Juan, trusting they might still get through, And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Thus re-embarked his tutor and his spaniel.

LX.

'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, That the sail was becalmed between the seas,[117] Though on the wave's high top too much to set, They dared not take it in for all the breeze: Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them wet, And made them bale without a moment's ease,[118] So that themselves as well as hopes were damped, And the poor little cutter quickly swamped.

LXI.

Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still Kept above water, with an oar for mast, Two blankets stitched together, answering ill Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; Though every wave rolled menacing to fill, And present peril all before surpassed,[119] They grieved for those who perished with the cutter, And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

LXII.

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale: to run Before the sea until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done: A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Were served out to the people, who begun[120] To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, And most of them had little clothes but rags.

LXIII.

They counted thirty, crowded in a space Which left scarce room for motion or exertion; They did their best to modify their case, One half sate up, though numbed with the immersion, While t' other half were laid down in their place, At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they filled their boat, With nothing but the sky for a great coat.[121]

LXIV.

'T is very certain the desire of life Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians, When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, Survive through very desperate conditions, Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, And makes men's misery of alarming brevity.

LXV.

'T is said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others,--God knows why, Unless to plague the grantors,--yet so true it is, That some, I really think, _do_ never die: Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, And _that's_ their mode of furnishing supply: In my young days they lent me cash that way, Which I found very troublesome to pay.[122]

LXVI.

'T is thus with people in an open boat, They live upon the love of Life, and bear More than can be believed, or even thought, And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear; And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there; She had a curious crew as well as cargo, Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

LXVII.

But man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think, beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

LXVIII.

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; For on the third day there came on a calm, And though at first their strength it might renew, And lying on their weariness like balm, Lulled them like turtles sleeping on the blue Of Ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

LXIX.

The consequence was easily foreseen-- They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, In spite of all remonstrances, and then On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual.

LXX.

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, And Ocean slumbered like an unweaned child: The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild-- With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) What could they do? and Hunger's rage grew wild: So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, Was killed, and portioned out for present eating.[123]

LXXI.

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, And Juan, who had still refused, because The creature was his father's dog that died, Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, With some remorse received (though first denied) As a great favour one of the fore-paws,[124] Which he divided with Pedrillo, who Devoured it, longing for the other too.

LXXII.

The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun Blistered and scorched, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, Save in the breeze that came not: savagely They glared upon each other--all was done, Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

LXXIII.

At length one whispered his companion, who Whispered another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew, An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 'T was but his own, suppressed till now, he found: And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellow's food.

LXXIV.

But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remained of shoes; And then they looked around them, and despaired, And none to be the sacrifice would choose; At length the lots were torn up,[125] and prepared, But of materials that must shock the Muse-- Having no paper, for the want of better, They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.

LXXV.

The lots were made, and marked, and mixed, and handed, In silent horror,[126] and their distribution Lulled even the savage hunger which demanded, Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or planned it, 'T was Nature gnawed them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter-- And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.

LXXVI.

He but requested to be bled to death: The surgeon had his instruments, and bled[127] Pedrillo, and so gently ebbed his breath, You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a Catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they're bred, And first a little crucifix he kissed, And then held out his jugular and wrist.

LXXVII.

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; But being thirstiest at the moment, he Preferred a draught from the fast-flowing veins:[128] Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who followed o'er the billow-- The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.

LXXVIII.

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Who were not quite so fond of animal food; To these was added Juan, who, before Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could Feel now his appetite increased much more; 'T was not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master.

LXXIX.

'T was better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme; For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad[129]--Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions racked, Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyæna-laughter, died despairing.

LXXX.

Their numbers were much thinned by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others pondered on a new dissection, As if not warned sufficiently by those Who had already perished, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly.

LXXXI.

And next they thought upon the master's mate, As fattest; but he saved himself, because, Besides being much averse from such a fate, There were some other reasons: the first was, He had been rather indisposed of late; And--that which chiefly proved his saving clause-- Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, By general subscription of the ladies.

LXXXII.

Of poor Pedrillo something still remained, But was used sparingly,--some were afraid, And others still their appetites constrained, Or but at times a little supper made; All except Juan, who throughout abstained, Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead:[130] At length they caught two Boobies, and a Noddy,[131] And then they left off eating the dead body.

LXXXIII.

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, Remember Ugolino[132] condescends To eat the head of his arch-enemy The moment after he politely ends His tale: if foes be food in Hell, at sea 'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, When Shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante.

LXXXIV.

And the same night there fell a shower of rain, For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain, Men really know not what good water's worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famished boat's-crew had your berth, Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.

LXXXV.

It poured down torrents, but they were no richer Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, And when they deemed its moisture was complete, They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher[133] Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking.

LXXXVI.

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,[134] Sucked in the moisture, which like nectar streamed; Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black, As the rich man's in Hell, who vainly screamed To beg the beggar, who could not rain back A drop of dew, when every drop had seemed To taste of Heaven--If this be true, indeed, Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

LXXXVII.

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view, But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance at him, and said, "Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan.[135]

LXXXVIII.

The other father had a weaklier child, Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;[136] But the boy bore up long, and with a mild And patient spirit held aloof his fate; Little he said, and now and then he smiled, As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart, With the deep deadly thought, that they must part.

LXXXIX.

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed, And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth--but in vain.[137]

XC.

The boy expired--the father held the clay, And looked upon it long, and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully, until away 'T was borne by the rude wave wherein't was cast;[138] Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.

XCI.

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; And all within its arch appeared to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Waxed broad and waving, like a banner free, Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwrecked men.

XCII.

It changed, of course; a heavenly Chameleon, The airy child of vapour and the sun, Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, And blending every colour into one, Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle (For sometimes we must box without the muffle).

XCIII.

Our shipwrecked seamen thought it a good omen-- It is as well to think so, now and then; 'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, And may become of great advantage when Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men Had greater need to nerve themselves again Than these, and so this rainbow looked like Hope-- Quite a celestial Kaleidoscope.

XCIV.

About this time a beautiful white bird, Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size And plumage (probably it might have erred Upon its course), passed oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard The men within the boat, and in this guise It came and went, and fluttered round them till Night fell:--this seemed a better omen still.[139]

XCV.

But in this case I also must remark, 'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shattered bark Was not so safe for roosting as a church; And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, Returning there from her successful search, Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, They would have eat her, olive-branch and all.

XCVI.

With twilight it again came on to blow, But not with violence; the stars shone out, The boat made way; yet now they were so low, They knew not where nor what they were about; Some fancied they saw land, and some said "No!" The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt-- Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns,[140] And all mistook about the latter once.

XCVII.

As morning broke, the light wind died away, When he who had the watch sung out and swore, If 't was not land that rose with the Sun's ray, He wished that land he never might see more;[141] And the rest rubbed their eyes and saw a bay, Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore; For shore it was, and gradually grew Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.

XCVIII.

And then of these some part burst into tears, And others, looking with a stupid stare,[142] Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, And seemed as if they had no further care; While a few prayed--(the first time for some years)-- And at the bottom of the boat three were Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head, And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.

XCIX.

The day before, fast sleeping on the water, They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her,[143] Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind Proved even still a more nutritious matter, Because it left encouragement behind: They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance.

C.

The land appeared a high and rocky coast, And higher grew the mountains as they drew, Set by a current, toward it: they were lost In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been tost, So changeable had been the winds that blew; Some thought it was Mount Ætna, some the highlands Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.

CI.

Meantime the current, with a rising gale, Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: Their living freight was now reduced to four, And three dead, whom their strength could not avail To heave into the deep with those before, Though the two sharks still followed them, and dashed The spray into their faces as they splashed.

CII.

Famine--despair--cold--thirst and heat, had done Their work on them by turns, and thinned them to Such things a mother had not known her son Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;[144] By night chilled, by day scorched, thus one by one They perished, until withered to these few, But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

CII.

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen Unequal in its aspect here and there, They felt the freshness of its growing green, That waved in forest-tops, and smoothed the air, And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare-- Lovely seemed any object that should sweep Away the vast--salt--dread--eternal Deep.

CIV.

The shore looked wild, without a trace of man, And girt by formidable waves; but they Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay: A reef between them also now began To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, But finding no place for their landing better, They ran the boat for shore,--and overset her.[145]

CV.

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, Had often turned the art to some account: A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, He could, perhaps, have passed the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.[146]

CVI.

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, He buoyed his boyish limbs, and strove to ply With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, The beach which lay before him, high and dry: The greatest danger here was from a shark, That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; As for the other two, they could not swim, So nobody arrived on shore but him.

CVII.

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, Which, providentially for him, was washed Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, And the hard wave o'erwhelmed him as 't was dashed Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he thereto was lashed; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he Rolled on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea:

CVIII.

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: And there he lay, full length, where he was flung, Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, With just enough of life to feel its pain, And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain.

CIX.

With slow and staggering effort he arose, But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand; and then he looked for those Who long had been his mates upon the sea; But none of them appeared to share his woes, Save one, a corpse, from out the famished three, Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground.

CX.

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand Swam round and round, and all his senses passed: He fell upon his side, and his stretched hand Drooped dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), And, like a withered lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was formed of clay.

CXI.

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay[147] He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, And Time had nothing more of night nor day For his congealing blood, and senses dim; And how this heavy faintness passed away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seemed throbbing back to life, For Death, though vanquished, still retired with strife.

CXII.

His eyes he opened, shut, again unclosed, For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, And wished it Death in which he had reposed, And then once more his feelings back were brought, And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen A lovely female face of seventeen.

CXIII.

'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth Seemed almost prying into his for breath; And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recalled his answering spirits back from Death: And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe Each pulse to animation, till beneath Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh To these kind efforts made a low reply.

CXIV.

Then was the cordial poured, and mantle flung Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung; And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, Pillowed his death-like forehead; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drenched by every storm; And watched with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom--and hers, too.

CXV.

And lifting him with care into the cave, The gentle girl, and her attendant,--one Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, And more robust of figure,--then begun To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave Light to the rocks that roofed them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and fair.

CXVI.

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair-- Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were rolled In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould, They nearly reached her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a Lady in the land.

CXVII.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as Death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew; 'T is as the snake late coiled, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

CXVIII.

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye Like twilight rosy still with the set sun; Short upper lip--sweet lips! that make us sigh Ever to have seen such; for she was one[bh] Fit for the model of a statuary (A race of mere impostors, when all's done-- I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).[bi][148]

CXIX.

I'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just One should not rail without a decent cause: There was an Irish lady,[149] to whose bust I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model; and if e'er she must Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne'er compassed, nor less mortal chisel wrought.

CXX.

And such was she, the lady of the cave: Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish) The basquiña and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay.[150]

CXXI.

But with our damsel this was not the case: Her dress was many-coloured, finely spun; Her locks curled negligently round her face, But through them gold and gems profusely shone: Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace Flowed in her veil, and many a precious stone Flashed on her little hand; but, what was shocking, Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.

CXXII.

The other female's dress was not unlike, But of inferior materials: she Had not so many ornaments to strike, Her hair had silver only, bound to be Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free; Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes As black, but quicker, and of smaller size.

CXXIII.

And these two tended him, and cheered him both With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, Which are--as I must own--of female growth, And have ten thousand delicate inventions: They made a most superior mess of broth, A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, But the best dish that e'er was cooked since Homer's Achilles ordered dinner for new comers.[151]

CXXIV.

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, Lest they should seem Princesses in disguise; Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize; And so, in short, the girls they really were They shall appear before your curious eyes, Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter Of an old man, who lived upon the water.

CXXV.

A fisherman he had been in his youth, And still a sort of fisherman was he; But other speculations were, in sooth, Added to his connection with the sea, Perhaps not so respectable, in truth: A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres.

CXXVI.

A fisher, therefore, was he,--though of men, Like Peter the Apostle, and he fished For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, And sometimes caught as many as he wished; The cargoes he confiscated, and gain He sought in the slave-market too, and dished Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.

CXXVII.

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) A very handsome house from out his guilt, And there he lived exceedingly at ease; Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, A sad old fellow was he, if you please; But this I know, it was a spacious building, Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.

CXXVIII.

He had an only daughter, called Haidée, The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles; Besides, so very beautiful was she, Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Rejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn.

CXXIX.

And walking out upon the beach, below The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Insensible,--not dead, but nearly so,-- Don Juan, almost famished, and half drowned; But being naked, she was shocked, you know, Yet deemed herself in common pity bound, As far as in her lay, "to take him in, A stranger" dying--with so white a skin.

CXXX.

But taking him into her father's house Was not exactly the best way to save, But like conveying to the cat the mouse, Or people in a trance into their grave; Because the good old man had so much "νους"[Greek: "nous"], Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, He would have hospitably cured the stranger, And sold him instantly when out of danger.

CXXXI.

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies) To place him in the cave for present rest: And when, at last, he opened his black eyes, Their charity increased about their guest; And their compassion grew to such a size, It opened half the turnpike-gates to Heaven-- (St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given).

CXXXII.

They made a fire,--but such a fire as they Upon the moment could contrive with such Materials as were cast up round the bay,-- Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch Were nearly tinder, since, so long they lay, A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch; But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, That there was fuel to have furnished twenty.

CXXXIII.

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,[bj] For Haidée stripped her sables off to make His couch; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case by chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, She and her maid,--and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.

CXXXIV.

And thus they left him to his lone repose: Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows), Just for the present; and in his lulled head Not even a vision of his former woes Throbbed in accurséd dreams, which sometimes spread[bk] Unwelcome visions of our former years, Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.

CXXXV.

Young Juan slept all dreamless:--but the maid, Who smoothed his pillow, as she left the den Looked back upon him, and a moment stayed, And turned, believing that he called again. He slumbered; yet she thought, at least she said (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), He had pronounced her name--but she forgot That at this moment Juan knew it not.

CXXXVI.

And pensive to her father's house she went, Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, She being wiser by a year or two: A year or two's an age when rightly spent, And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge Which is acquired in Nature's good old college.

CXXXVII.

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still Fast in his cave, and nothing clashed upon His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, And the young beams of the excluded Sun, Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; And need he had of slumber yet, for none Had suffered more--his hardships were comparative[bl] To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative."[152]

CXXXVIII.

Not so Haidée: she sadly tossed and tumbled, And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, Dreamed of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, And handsome corpses strewed upon the shore; And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, And called her father's old slaves up, who swore In several oaths--Armenian, Turk, and Greek-- They knew not what to think of such a freak.

CXXXIX.

But up she got, and up she made them get, With some pretence about the Sun, that makes Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet With mist, and every bird with him awakes, And night is flung off like a mourning suit Worn for a husband,--or some other brute.[bm]

CXL.

I say, the Sun is a most glorious sight, I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late I have sat up on purpose all the night,[bn][153] Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; And so all ye, who would be in the right In health and purse, begin your day to date From daybreak, and when coffined at fourscore, Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.

CXLI.

And Haidée met the morning face to face; Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race From heart to cheek is curbed into a blush, Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; Or the Red Sea--but the sea is not red.[154]

CXLII.

And down the cliff the island virgin came, And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, While the Sun smiled on her with his first flame, And young Aurora kissed her lips with dew, Taking her for a sister; just the same Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, Had all the advantage, too, of not being air.[bo]

CXLIII.

And when into the cavern Haidée stepped All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw That like an infant Juan sweetly slept; And then she stopped, and stood as if in awe (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept And wrapped him closer, lest the air, too raw, Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as Death Bent, with hushed lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath.

CXLIV.

And thus like to an Angel o'er the dying Who die in righteousness, she leaned; and there All tranquilly the shipwrecked boy was lying, As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair Must breakfast--and, betimes, lest they should ask it, She drew out her provision from the basket.

CXLV.

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, And that a shipwrecked youth would hungry be; Besides, being less in love, she yawned a little, And felt her veins chilled by the neighbouring sea; And so, she cooked their breakfast to a tittle; I can't say that she gave them any tea, But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, With Scio wine,--and all for love, not money.

CXLVI.

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and The coffee made, would fain have wakened Juan; But Haidée stopped her with her quick small hand, And without word, a sign her finger drew on Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand; And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one, Because her mistress would not let her break That sleep which seemed as it would ne'er awake.

CXLVII.

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek A purple hectic played like dying day On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, Where the blue veins looked shadowy, shrunk, and weak; And his black curls were dewy with the spray, Which weighed upon them yet, all damp and salt, Mixed with the stony vapours of the vault.

CXLVIII.

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, Hushed as the babe upon its mother's breast, Drooped as the willow when no winds can breathe, Lulled like the depth of Ocean when at rest, Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest;[bp] In short, he was a very pretty fellow, Although his woes had turned him rather yellow.

CXLIX.

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, But the fair face which met his eyes forbade Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain Had further sleep a further pleasure made: For Woman's face was never formed in vain For Juan, so that even when he prayed He turned from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.

CL.

And thus upon his elbow he arose, And looked upon the lady, in whose cheek The pale contended with the purple rose, As with an effort she began to speak; Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, Although she told him, in good modern Greek, With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat.

CLI.

Now Juan could not understand a word, Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird,[155] So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard;[bq] The sort of sound we echo with a tear, Without knowing why--an overpowering tone, Whence Melody descends as from a throne.

CLII.

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke By a distant organ, doubting if he be Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke By the watchman, or some such reality, Or by one's early valet's curséd knock; At least it is a heavy sound to me, Who like a morning slumber--for the night Shows stars and women in a better light.

CLIII.

And Juan, too, was helped out from his dream, Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling A most prodigious appetite; the steam Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing Upon his senses, and the kindling beam Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling, To stir her viands, made him quite awake And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak.

CLIV.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on: But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on; Others are fair and fertile, among which This, though not large, was one of the most rich.

CLV.

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking That the old fable of the Minotaur-- From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore A cow's shape for a mask--was only (sinking The allegory) a mere type, no more, That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, To make the Cretans bloodier in battle.

CLVI.

For we all know that English people are Fed upon beef--I won't say much of beer, Because 't is liquor only, and being far From this my subject, has no business here; We know, too, they are very fond of war, A pleasure--like all pleasures--rather dear; So were the Cretans--from which I infer, That beef and battles both were owing to her.

CLVII.

But to resume. The languid Juan raised His head upon his elbow, and he saw A sight on which he had not lately gazed, As all his latter meals had been quite raw, Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised, And, feeling still the famished vulture gnaw, He fell upon whate'er was offered, like A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.

CLVIII.

He ate, and he was well supplied; and she, Who watched him like a mother, would have fed Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see Such appetite in one she had deemed dead: But Zoe, being older than Haidée, Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) That famished people must be slowly nurst, And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

CLIX.

And so she took the liberty to state, Rather by deeds than words, because the case Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, Unless he wished to die upon the place-- She snatched it, and refused another morsel, Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill.

CLX.

Next they--he being naked, save a tattered Pair of scarce decent trowsers--went to work, And in the fire his recent rags they scattered, And dressed him, for the present, like a Turk, Or Greek--that is, although it not much mattered, Omitting turban, slippers, pistol, dirk,-- They furnished him, entire, except some stitches, With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches.

CLXI.

And then fair Haidée tried her tongue at speaking, But not a word could Juan comprehend, Although he listened so that the young Greek in Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; And, as he interrupted not, went eking Her speech out to her protégé and friend, Till pausing at the last her breath to take, She saw he did not understand Romaic.

CLXII.

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, And read (the only book she could) the lines Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, The answer eloquent, where the Soul shines And darts in one quick glance a long reply; And thus in every look she saw expressed A world of words, and things at which she guessed.

CLXIII.

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, And words repeated after her, he took A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise, No doubt, less of her language than her look: As he who studies fervently the skies Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, Thus Juan learned his _alpha beta_ better From Haidée's glance than any graven letter.

CLXIV.

'T is pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been;[156] They smile so when one's right, and when one's wrong They smile still more, and then there intervene Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss;--[br] I learned the little that I know by this:

CLXV.

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, Italian not at all, having no teachers;[bs] Much English I cannot pretend to speak, Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week I study, also Blair--the highest reachers Of eloquence in piety and prose-- I hate your poets, so read none of those.

CLXVI.

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, A wanderer from the British world of Fashion,[157] Where I, like other "dogs, have had my day," Like other men, too, may have had my passion-- But that, like other things, has passed away, And all her fools whom I _could_ lay the lash on: Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me But dreams of what has been, no more to be.[bt]

CLXVII.

Return we to Don Juan. He begun[158] To hear new words, and to repeat them; but Some feelings, universal as the Sun, Were such as could not in his breast be shut More than within the bosom of a nun: He was in love,--as you would be, no doubt, With a young benefactress,--so was she, Just in the way we very often see.

CLXVIII.

And every day by daybreak--rather early For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest-- She came into the cave, but it was merely To see her bird reposing in his nest;[159] And she would softly stir his locks so curly, Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth,[bu] As o'er a bed of roses the sweet South.

CLXIX.

And every morn his colour freshlier came, And every day helped on his convalescence; 'T was well, because health in the human frame Is pleasant, besides being true Love's essence, For health and idleness to Passion's flame Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, Without whom Venus will not long attack us.[160]

CLXX.

While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli,-- For Love must be sustained like flesh and blood,-- While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food;[bv] But who is their purveyor from above Heaven knows,--it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.

CLXXI.

When Juan woke he found some good things ready, A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes That ever made a youthful heart less steady, Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; But I have spoken of all this already-- A repetition's tiresome and unwise,-- Well--Juan, after bathing in the sea, Came always back to coffee and Haidée.

CLXXII.

Both were so young, and one so innocent, That bathing passed for nothing; Juan seemed To her, as 't were, the kind of being sent, Of whom these two years she had nightly dreamed, A something to be loved, a creature meant To be her happiness, and whom she deemed To render happy; all who joy would win Must share it,--Happiness was born a Twin.

CLXXIII.

It was such pleasure to behold him, such Enlargement of existence to partake Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: To live with him for ever were too much; But then the thought of parting made her quake; He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast Like a rich wreck--her first love, and her last.[bw]

CLXXIV.

And thus a moon rolled on, and fair Haidée Paid daily visits to her boy, and took Such plentiful precautions, that still he Remained unknown within his craggy nook; At last her father's prows put out to sea, For certain merchantmen upon the look, Not as of yore to carry off an Io, But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio.

CLXXV.

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, So that, her father being at sea, she was Free as a married woman, or such other Female, as where she likes may freely pass, Without even the encumbrance of a brother, The freest she that ever gazed on glass: I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison.

CLXXVI.

Now she prolonged her visits and her talk (For they must talk), and he had learnt to say So much as to propose to take a walk,-- For little had he wandered since the day On which, like a young flower snapped from the stalk, Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,-- And thus they walked out in the afternoon, And saw the sun set opposite the moon.[bx]

CLXXVII.

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host, With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore A better welcome to the tempest-tost; And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar, Save on the dead long summer days, which make The outstretched Ocean glitter like a lake.

CLXXVIII.

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpassed the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,--the more because they preach in vain,-- Let us have Wine and Woman,[161] Mirth and Laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

CLXXIX.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of Life is but intoxication: Glory, the Grape, Love, Gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of Life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion! But to return,--Get very drunk, and when You wake with headache--you shall see what then!

CLXXX.

Ring for your valet--bid him quickly bring Some hock and soda-water,[162] then you'll know A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king; For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow,[163] Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow,[by] After long travel, Ennui, Love, or Slaughter, Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water!

CLXXXI.

The coast--I think it was the coast that I Was just describing--Yes, it _was_ the coast-- Lay at this period quiet as the sky, The sands untumbled, the blue waves untossed, And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, And dolphin's leap, and little billow crossed By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret Against the boundary it scarcely wet.

CLXXXII.

And forth they wandered, her sire being gone, As I have said, upon an expedition; And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, Save Zoe, who, although with due precision She waited on her lady with the Sun, Thought daily service was her only mission, Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, And asking now and then for cast-off dresses.

CLXXXIII.

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, Circling all Nature, hushed, and dim, and still, With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill Upon the other, and the rosy sky With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

CLXXXIV.

And thus they wandered forth, and hand in hand, Over the shining pebbles and the shells, Glided along the smooth and hardened sand, And in the worn and wild receptacles Worked by the storms, yet worked as it were planned In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, They turned to rest; and, each clasped by an arm, Yielded to the deep Twilight's purple charm.

CLXXXV.

They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy Ocean, vast and bright;[bz] They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad Moon rose circling into sight; They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low, And saw each other's dark eyes darting light Into each other--and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;

CLXXXVI.

A long, long kiss, a kiss of Youth, and Love, And Beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, Where Heart, and Soul, and Sense, in concert move, And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,--for a kiss's strength, I think, it must be reckoned by its length.

CLXXXVII.

By length I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long--no doubt they never reckoned; And if they had, they could not have secured The sum of their sensations to a second: They had not spoken, but they felt allured, As if their souls and lips each other beckoned, Which, being joined, like swarming bees they clung-- Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.[ca]

CLXXXVIII.

They were alone, but not alone as they Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; The silent Ocean, and the starlight bay, The twilight glow, which momently grew less, The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay Around them, made them to each other press, As if there were no life beneath the sky Save theirs, and that their life could never die.

CLXXXIX.

They feared no eyes nor ears on that lone beach; They felt no terrors from the night; they were All in all to each other: though their speech Was broken words, they _thought_ a language there,-- And all the burning tongues the Passions teach[cb] Found in one sigh the best interpreter Of Nature's oracle--first love,--that all Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.

CXC.

Haidée spoke not of scruples, asked no vows, Nor offered any; she had never heard Of plight and promises to be a spouse, Or perils by a loving maid incurred; She was all which pure Ignorance allows, And flew to her young mate like a young bird; And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she Had not one word to say of constancy.

CXCI.

She loved, and was belovéd--she adored, And she was worshipped after Nature's fashion-- Their intense souls, into each other poured, If souls could die, had perished in that passion,-- But by degrees their senses were restored, Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; And, beating 'gainst _his_ bosom, Haidée's heart Felt as if never more to beat apart.

CXCII.

Alas! they were so young, so beautiful, So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour Was that in which the Heart is always full, And, having o'er itself no further power, Prompts deeds Eternity can not annul, But pays off moments in an endless shower Of hell-fire--all prepared for people giving Pleasure or pain to one another living.

CXCIII.

Alas! for Juan and Haidée! they were So loving and so lovely--till then never, Excepting our first parents, such a pair Had run the risk of being damned for ever: And Haidée, being devout as well as fair, Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, And Hell and Purgatory--but forgot Just in the very crisis she should not.

CXCIV.

They look upon each other, and their eyes Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps Round Juan's head, and his around her lies Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, He hers, until they end in broken gasps; And thus they form a group that's quite antique, Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.

CXCV.

And when those deep and burning moments passed, And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, Sustained his head upon her bosom's charms; And now and then her eye to Heaven is cast, And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, Pillowed on her o'erflowing heart, which pants With all it granted, and with all it grants.[cc]

CXCVI.

An infant when it gazes on a light, A child the moment when it drains the breast, A devotee when soars the Host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest, A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.

CXCVII.

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, All that it hath of Life with us is living; So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving; All it hath felt, inflicted, passed, and proved, Hushed into depths beyond the watcher's diving: There lies the thing we love with all its errors And all its charms, like Death without its terrors.

CXCVIII.

The Lady watched her lover--and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude O'erflowed her soul with their united power; Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, Where nought upon their passion could intrude, And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.

CXCIX.

Alas! the love of Women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 't is lost, Life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs--what they inflict they feel.

CC.

They are right; for Man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to Women: one sole bond Awaits them--treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage--and what rests beyond? A thankless husband--next, a faithless lover-- Then dressing, nursing, praying--and all's over.

CCI.

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares, Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; Few changes e'er can better their affairs, Theirs being an unnatural situation, From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:[cd] Some play the devil, and then write a novel.[164]

CCII.

Haidée was Nature's bride, and knew not this; Haidée was Passion's child, born where the Sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond,--her heart beat _here_.

CCIII.

And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! How much it costs us! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good--I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em.

CCIV.

And now 't was done--on the lone shore were plighted Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallowed and united, Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:[ce] And they were happy--for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth Paradise.

CCV.

Oh, Love! of whom great Cæsar was the suitor, Titus the master,[165] Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars--Ovid tutor-- Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave All those may leap who rather would be neuter-- (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)-- Oh, Love! thou art the very God of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee Devil.

CCVI.

Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: Cæsar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,[166] Have much employed the Muse of History's pen: Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, Such worthies Time will never see again; Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.

CCVII.

Thou mak'st philosophers; there's Epicurus And Aristippus, a material crew! Who to immoral courses would allure us By theories quite practicable too; If only from the Devil they would insure us, How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), "Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.[167]

CCVIII.

But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia? And should he have forgotten her so soon? I can't but say it seems to me most truly a Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon Does these things for us, and whenever newly a Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

CCIX.

I hate inconstancy--I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast No permanent foundation can be laid; Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, And yet last night, being at a masquerade, I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, Which gave me some sensations like a villain.

CCX.

But soon Philosophy came to my aid, And whispered, "Think of every sacred tie!" "I will, my dear Philosophy!" I said, "But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye! I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, Or neither--out of curiosity." "Stop!" cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian;)

CCXI.

"Stop!" so I stopped.--But to return: that which Men call inconstancy is nothing more Than admiration due where Nature's rich Profusion with young beauty covers o'er Some favoured object; and as in the niche A lovely statue we almost adore, This sort of adoration of the real Is but a heightening of the _beau ideal_.

CCXII.

'T is the perception of the Beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which Life would be extremely dull; In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is formed of fiery dust.[cf]

CCXIII.

Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 'T would save us many a heartache, many a shilling, (For we must get them anyhow, or grieve), Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver!

CCXIV.

The Heart is like the sky, a part of Heaven, But changes night and day, too, like the sky; Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, And Darkness and Destruction as on high: But when it hath been scorched, and pierced, and riven, Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye Pours forth at last the Heart's blood turned to tears, Which make the English climate of our years.

CCXV.

The liver is the lazaret of bile, But very rarely executes its function, For the first passion stays there such a while, That all the rest creep in and form a junction, Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil--[168] Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction-- So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like Earthquakes from the hidden fire called "central."

CCXVI.

In the mean time, without proceeding more In this anatomy, I've finished now Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,[cg] That being about the number I'll allow Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidée to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

FOOTNOTES:

[96] Begun at Venice, December 13, 1818,-finished January 20, 1819.

{81}[ay] _Lost that most precious stone of stones--his modesty_.--[MS.]

{82}[97] [Compare "The Girl of Cadiz," _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 1, and note 1.

[az] _But d----n me if I ever saw the like_.--[MS.]

{83}[98] _Fazzioli_--literally, little handkerchiefs--the veils most availing of St. Mark.

["_I fazzioli_, or kerchiefs (a white kind of veil which the lower orders wear upon their heads)."--Letter to Rogers, March 3, 1818, _Letters,_ 1900, iv. 208.]

[ba] _Their manners mending, and their morals curing. She taught them to suppress their vice--and urine_.--[MS.]

{84}[99] [Compare--

"And fast the white rocks faded from his view * * * * * And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he."

_Childe Harold_, Canto I. stanza xii. lines 3-6, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 24.]

{87}[100] ["To breathe a vein ... to lance it so as to let blood." Compare--

"_Rosalind_. Is the fool sick? _Biron_. Sick at heart. _Ros_. Alack, let it blood." _Love's Labour's Lost_, act ii. sc. I, line 185.]

[bb] _Sea-sickness death; then pardon Juan--how else_ _Keep down his stomach ne'er at sea before_?--[MS. M.]

[101] ["With regard to the charges about the Shipwreck, I think that I told you and Mr. Hobhouse, years ago, that there was not a _single circumstance_ of it _not_ taken from _fact_: not, indeed, from any _single_ shipwreck, but all from _actual_ facts of different wrecks."---Letter to Murray, August 23, 1821. In the _Monthly Magazine_, vol. liii. (August, 1821, pp. 19-22, and September, 1821, pp. 105-109), Byron's indebtedness to Sir G. Dalzell's _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_ (1812, 8vo) is pointed out, and the parallel passages are printed in full.]

[102] ["Night came on worse than the day had been; and a _sudden shift of wind,_ about midnight, _threw the ship into the trough of the sea, which struck her aft, tore away the rudder, started the stern-post, and shattered the whole of her stern-frame. The pumps_ were _immediately sounded,_ and in the course of a few minutes the water had increased to _four feet_....

_"One gang was instantly put on them, and the remainder of the people employed in getting up_ rice from the run of the ship, and heaving it over, _to come at the leak,_ if possible. After three or four hundred bags were thrown into the sea, _we did get at it,_ and found _the water rushing_ into the ship with astonishing rapidity; therefore we _thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, tales of muslin,_ and everything of the like description that could be got, _into the opening._

"Notwithstanding the pumps _discharged fifty tons of water an hour,_ the ship certainly _must have gone down,_ had not our _expedients_ been attended with some success. _The pumps,_ to the excellent construction of which I owe the preservation of my life, _were made by Mr. Mann of London. As the next day advanced, the weather appeared to moderate,_ the men continued incessantly at the pumps, and every exertion was made to _keep the ship afloat._"--See "Loss of the American ship _Hercules,_ Captain Benjamin Stout, June 16, 1796," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea,_ 1812, iii. 316, 317.]

{90}[103] ["Scarce was this done, when _a gust, exceeding in violence everything of the kind I had ever seen, or could conceive, laid the ship on her beam ends_....

"The ship _lay motionless_, and, to all appearance, irrevocably overset.... _The water forsook the hold_, and appeared between decks....

"Immediate directions were given _to cut away the main and mizen masts_, trusting when the ship righted, to be able to wear her. On cutting one or two lanyards, the _mizen-mast went first over_, but without producing the smallest effect on the ship, and, on cutting the lanyard of one shroud, the _main-mast followed_. I had next the mortification to see the _foremast and bowsprit also go over_. On this, _the ship immediately righted with great violence_."--"Loss of the _Centaur_ Man-of-War, 1782, by Captain Inglefield," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 41.]

[bc] _Perhaps the whole would have got drunk, but for_.--[MS.]

{91}[104] ["A midshipman was appointed to guard the spirit-room, to repress that unhappy desire of a devoted crew _to die in a state of intoxication._ The sailors, though in other respects orderly in conduct, here pressed eagerly upon him.

"_'Give us some grog,'_ they exclaimed, _'it will be all one an hour hence.'--'I know we must die,'_ replied the gallant officer, coolly, _'but let us die like men!'--Armed with a brace of pistols,_ he kept his post, even while the ship was sinking."--"Loss of the _Earl of Abergavenny,_ February 5, 1805," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 418. John Wordsworth, the poet's brother, was captain of the _Abergavenny_. See _Life of William Wordsworth_, by Professor Knight, 1889, i. 370-380; see, too, Coleridge's _Anima Poetæ_, 1895, p. 132. For a contemporary report, see a Maltese paper, _Il Cartaginense_, April 17, 1805.]

[105] ["However, by great exertions of the chain-pumps, we _held our own_.... All who were not seamen by profession, had been employed in _thrumming a sail which was passed under the ship's bottom, and I thought_ had some effect....

"_The Centaur laboured so much_, that I _could scarce hope she would swim_ till morning: ... our sufferings _for want of water_ were very great....

"_The weather again threatened_, and by noon _it blew a storm_. The ship laboured greatly; _the water appeared in the fore and after-hold_. I was informed by the carpenter also that _the leathers_ were nearly consumed, and the _chains of the pumps_, by constant exertion, and friction of the coils, were rendered almost useless....

"At this period the carpenter acquainted me that the well was stove in.... and the chain-pumps displaced and totally useless.... Seeing their efforts useless, many of them [the people] burst into tears, and wept like children....

"I perceived _the ship settling by the head._"--"Loss of the _Centaur_," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. pp. 45-49.]

{92}[bd] _'T is ugly dying in the Gulf of Lyons_.--[MS.]

{93}[106] [Byron may have had in mind the story of the half-inaudible vow of a monster wax candle, to be offered to St. Christopher of Paris, which Erasmus tells in his _Naufragium_. The passage is scored with a pencil-mark in his copy of the _Colloquies_.]

[107] [Stanza xliv. recalls Cardinal de Retz's description of the storm at sea in the Gulf of Lyons: "Everybody were at their prayers, or were confessing themselves.... The private captain of the galley caused, in the greatest height of the danger, _his embroidered coat and his red scarf_ to be brought to him, saying, that a true Spaniard ought to die bearing his King's Marks of distinction. He sat himself down in a great elbow chair, and with his foot struck a poor Neapolitan in the chops, who, not being able to stand upon the Coursey of the Galley, was crawling along, crying out aloud, _'Sennor Don Fernando, por l'amor de Dios, Confession.'_ The captain, when he struck him, said to him, _'Inimigo de Dios piedes Confession!'_ And as I was representing to him, that his inference was not right, he said that that old man gave offence to the whole galley. You can't imagine the horror of a great storm; you can as little imagine the Ridicule mixed with it. A Sicilian Observantine monk was preaching at the foot of the great mast, that St. Francis had appeared to him, and had assured him that we should not perish. I should never have done, should I undertake to describe all the ridiculous frights that are seen on these occasions."--_Memoirs of Cardinal de Retz_, 1723, iii. 353.]

{94}[108] ["Some appeared perfectly resigned, _went to their hammocks,_ and desired their messmates _to lash them in_; others were securing themselves to gratings and small rafts; but the most predominant idea was that _of putting on their best_ and _cleanest clothes_. The boats ... were got over the side."--"Loss of the _Centaur_," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 49, 50.]

[be] _Men will prove hungry, even when next perdition_.--[MS.]

{95}[109] ["Eight bags of rice, _six casks of water_, and a _small quantity of salted beef and pork_, were put into the long-boat, as provisions for the whole."--"Wreck of the _Sidney_, 1806," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 434.]

[110] ["The _yawl was stove_ alongside and sunk."--"Loss of the _Centaur_," _ibid._, iii. 50.]

[111] ["_One oar_ was erected for a _main-mast_, and the other broke to the breadth of the _blankets for a yard_."--"Loss of the _Duke William_ Transport, 1758," _ibid_., ii. 387.]

[bf] _Which being withdrawn, discloses but the frown_.--[MS. erased.]

[bg] _Of one who hates us, so the night was shown_ _And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale_, _And hopeless eyes, which o'er the deep alone_ _Gazed dim and desolate_----.--[MS.]

{96}[112] ["As _rafts_ had been mentioned by the carpenter, I thought it right _to make the attempt_.... It was impossible for any man to deceive himself with the hopes of being saved on a raft in such a sea."--"Loss of the _Centaur_," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 50. 51.]

[113] ["_Spars, booms, hencoops_, and _every thing_ buoyant, was therefore _cast loose_, that the men might have some chance to save themselves."--"Loss of the _Pandora_," ibid., iii. 197.]

[114] ["We had scarce quitted the ship, when she gave a heavy _lurch to port_, and _then went down, head foremost._"--"Loss of the _Lady Hobart_," ibid., iii. 378.]

[115] ["At this moment, one of the officers told the captain that she was going down.... and bidding him farewell, leapt overboard: ... the crew had just time to _leap overboard_, which they did, uttering _a most dreadful yell_."--"Loss of the _Pandora_," ibid., iii. 198.]

{98}[116] ["The boat, being fastened to the rigging, was no sooner cleared of the greatest part of the water, than a dog of mine came to me running along the gunwale. _I took him in_."--"Shipwreck of the Sloop _Betsy_, on the Coast of Dutch Guiana, August 5, 1756 (Philip Aubin, Commander)," _Remarkable Shipwrecks_, Hartford, 1813, p. 175.]

[117] [Qy. "My good Sir! when the sea runs very high this is the case, as _I know_, but if _my authority_ is not enough, see Bligh's account of his run to Timor, after being cut adrift by the mutineers headed by Christian."--[B.]

"Pray tell me who was the Lubber who put the query? surely not _you_, Hobhouse! We have both of us seen too much of the sea for that. You may rely on my using no nautical word not founded on authority, and no circumstances not grounded in reality."]

{99}[118] ["It blew a violent storm, and the sea ran very high, so that between the seas the sail was becalmed; and when _on the top of the sea, it was too much to have set_, but I was obliged to carry it, for we were now in very imminent danger and distress; _the sea curling over the stern_ of the boat, which obliged us _to bale with all our might_."--_A Narrative of the Mutiny of the Bounty_, by William Bligh, 1790, p. 23.]

[119] ["Before it was dark, _a blanket_ was discovered in the boat. This was immediately bent to one of the stretchers, and under it, _as a sail_, we scudded all night, in expectation of being _swallowed up by every wave._"--"Loss of the _Centaur_," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 52.]

[120] ["_The sun rose very fiery and red, a sure indication of a severe gale of wind_.--We could do nothing more than keep before the sea.--_I now served a tea-spoonful of rum to each person_, ... with a quarter of a bread-fruit, which was scarce eatable, for dinner."--_A Narrative, etc._, by W. Bligh, 1790, pp. 23, 24.]

{100}[121] ["[As] our lodgings were very miserable and confined, I had only in my power to remedy the latter defect, by putting ourselves _at watch and watch_; so that _one half_ always sat up, while the other half _lay down_ on the boat's bottom, with _nothing to cover us but the heavens."--A Narrative of the Mutiny of the Bounty_, by William Bligh, 1790, p. 28.]

[122] [For Byron's debts to Mrs. Massingberd, "Jew" King, etc., and for money raised on annuities, see _Letters_, 1898, ii. 174, note 2, and letter to Hanson, December 11, 1817, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 187, "The list of annuities sent by Mr. Kinnaird, including Jews and Sawbridge, amounts to twelve thousand eight hundred and some odd pounds."]

{101}[123] ["The third day we began to suffer exceedingly ... from hunger and thirst. I then seized my dog, and plunged the knife in his throat. We caught his blood in the hat, receiving in our hands and drinking what ran over; we afterwards drank in turn out of the hat, and felt ourselves refreshed."--"Shipwreck of the _Betsy_," _Remarkable Shipwrecks_, Hartford, 1813, p. 177.]

{102}[124] ["One day, when I was at home in my hut with my Indian dog, a party came to my door, and told me their necessities were such that they must eat the creature or starve. Though their plea was urgent, I could not help using some arguments to endeavour to dissuade them from killing him, as his faithful services and fondness deserved it at my hands; but, without weighing my arguments, they took him away by force and killed him.... Three weeks after that I was glad to make a meal of his paws and skin which, upon recollecting the spot where they had killed him, I found thrown aside and rotten."--_The Narrative of the Honourable John Byron, etc._, 1768, pp. 47, 48.]

{103}[125] [Being driven to distress for want of food, "they _soaked their shoes_, and two _hairy caps_ in water; and when sufficiently softened ate portions of the leather." But day after day having passed, and the cravings of hunger pressing hard upon them, they fell upon the horrible and dreadful expedient of eating each other; and in order to prevent any contention about who should become the food of the others, "they cast lots to determine the sufferer."--"Sufferings of the Crew of the _Thomas_ [Twelve Men in an Open Boat, 1797]," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii 356.]

[126] ["_The lots were drawn_: 'the captain, summoning all his strength, wrote upon slips of paper the name of each man, folded them up, put them into a hat, and shook them together. The crew, meanwhile, preserved _an awful silence_; each eye was fixed and each mouth open, while terror was strongly impressed upon every countenance.' The unhappy person, with manly fortitude, resigned himself to his miserable associates."--"Famine in the American Ship _Peggy_, 1765," _Remarkable Shipwrecks_, Hartford, 1813, pp. 358, 359.]

[127] ["_He requested to be bled to death, the surgeon_ being with them, and having _his case of instruments_ in his pocket when he quitted the vessel."--"Sufferings of the Crew of the _Thomas," Shipwrecks, etc._, 1812, iii. 357.]

{104}[128] ["Yet scarce was the vein divided when the operator, applying his own parched lips, _drank the stream as it flowed_, and his comrades anxiously watched the last breath of the victim, that they might prey upon his flesh."--_Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 357.]

[129] ["Those who indulged their cannibal appetite to excess speedily perished in _raging madness_," etc.--_Ibid_.]

{105}[130] ["Another expedient we had frequent recourse to, on finding it supplied our mouths with temporary moisture, was _chewing_ any substance we could find, generally a bit of canvas, or even _lead_."--"The Shipwreck of the _Juno_ on the Coast of Aracan," 1795, _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 270.]

[131] ["At noon, some noddies came so near to us that one of them was caught by hand.... I divided it into eighteen portions. In the evening we saw several _boobies_."--_A Narrative of the Mutiny of the Bounty_, by William Bligh, 1790, p. 41.]

[132]

["Quand' ebbe detto ciò, con gli occhi torti Riprese il teschio misero coi denti, Che furo all' osso, come d'un can forti."

Dante, _Inferno_, canto xxxiii. lines 76-78.]

{106}[133] ["Whenever a heavy shower afforded us a few mouthfuls of fresh water, either by catching the drops as they fell or by squeezing them out of our clothes, it infused new life and vigour into us, and for a while we had almost forgot our misery."--_Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 270. Compare _The Island_, Canto I. stanza ix. lines 193, 194, _Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 595.]

[134] [Compare--

"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked."

_Ancient Mariner_, Part III. line 157.]

{107}[135] ["Mr. Wade's boy, a _stout healthy lad, died early_, and almost without a groan; while another, of the same age, but of a less promising appearance, held out much longer. Their fathers were both in the fore-top, when the boys were taken ill. [Wade], hearing of his son's illness, answered, with indifference, that _he could do nothing for him_, and left him to his fate."--"Narrative of the Shipwreck of the _Juno_, 1795," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 273.]

[136] ["_The other [Father]_ hurried down.... By that time only three or four planks of the quarter-deck remained, just over the quarter gallery. To this spot the unhappy man led his son, making him fast to the rail, to prevent his being washed away."--_Ibid_.]

[137] ["Whenever the _boy was seized_ with a fit of retching, the father lifted him up and _wiped away the foam from his lips_; and if a _shower came_, he made him open his mouth to _receive the drops_, or gently _squeezed them into it from a rag."--Ibid_.]

{108}[138] ["In this affecting situation both remained four or five days, till _the boy expired_. The unfortunate parent, as if unwilling to believe the fact, raised the body, looked _wistfully_ at it, and when he could no _longer entertain any doubt_, watched it in silence _until_ it was carried _off by sea_; then wrapping himself in a piece of canvas, _sunk down_, and rose no more; though he must have lived two days longer, as we judged from the _quivering of his limbs_ when a wave broke over him."--"Narrative of the Shipwreck of the _Juno_, 1795," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, p. 274.]

{109}[139] [_"About this time a beautiful white bird, web-footed, and not unlike a dove in size and plumage_, hovered over the mast-head of the cutter, and, notwithstanding the pitching of the boat, frequently _attempted to perch on it_, and continued _fluttering there till dark_. Trifling as such an incident may appear, we all considered it a _propitious omen_."--"Loss of the _Lady Hobart_, 1803," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 389.]

[140] ["I found it necessary to caution the people against being deceived by the _appearance of land_, or calling out till we were quite convinced of its reality, more especially as _fog-banks_ are often mistaken for land: several of the poor fellows nevertheless repeatedly exclaimed _they heard breakers_, and some the _firing of guns_."--"Loss of the _Lady Hobart," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii. 391.]

{110}[141] ["_At length one of them broke out into a most immoderate swearing fit of joy_, which I could not restrain, and declared, that _he had never seen land in his life, if what he now saw was not so_."--"Loss of the _Centaur," ibid_., p. 55.]

[142] ["The joy at a speedy relief affected us all in a most remarkable way. Many _burst into tears; some looked at each other with a stupid stare, as if doubtful_ of the reality of what they saw; while several were in such a lethargic condition, that no animating words could rouse them to exertion. At this affecting period, I proposed offering up our solemn thanks to Heaven for the miraculous deliverance."--"Loss of the _Lady Hobart," ibid_., p. 391.]

[143] [After having suffered the horrors of hunger and thirst for many days, "they accidentally descried a _small_ turtle _floating on the surface of the water asleep_."--"Sufferings of the Crew of the _Thomas," ibid_., p. 356.]

{111}[144] ["An indifferent spectator would have been at a loss which most to admire; the eyes of famine sparkling at immediate relief, or the horror of their preservers at the sight of so many spectres, whose ghastly countenances, if the cause had been unknown, would rather have excited terror than pity. Our bodies were nothing but skin and bones, our limbs were full of sores, and we were clothed in rags."--_Narrative of the Mutiny of the Bounty_, by William Bligh, 1790, p. 80. Compare _The Siege of Corinth_, lines 1048, 1049, _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 494, note 3.]

{112}[145] ["They discovered land _right ahead_, and steered for it. There being a very _heavy surf_, they endeavoured to turn the boat's head to it, which, from weakness, they were unable to accomplish, and soon afterwards _the boat upset_."--"Sufferings of Six Deserters from St. Helena, 1799," _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea_, 1812, iii, 371.]

[146] [Compare lines "Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos," _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 13, note 1; see, too, _Letters_, 1898, i. 262, 263, note 1.]

{114}[147] [Compare--

"How long in that same fit I lay I have not to declare."

_The Ancient Mariner_, Part V. lines 393, 394.]

{115}[bh] ---- _in short she's one_.--[MS.]

{116}[bi] _A set of humbug rascals, when all's done_-- _I've seen much finer women, ripe and real_, _Than all the nonsense of their d----d ideal_.--[MS.]

[148] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza 1. lines 6-9, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 366, note 1.]

[149] [Probably that "Alpha and Omega of Beauty," Lady Adelaide Forbes (daughter of George, sixth Earl of Granard), whom Byron compared to the Apollo Belvidere. See _Letters_, 1898, ii. 230, note 3.]

[150] ["The _saya_ or _basquiña_ ... the outer petticoat ... is always black, and is put over the indoor dress on going out." Compare Μελανείμονες ἅπαντες τὸ πλέον ἐν σάγοις, [Greek: Melanei/mones a(/pantes to\ ple/on e)n sa/gois,] Strabo, lib. iii. ed. 1807, i. 210. Ford's _Handbook for Spain_, 1855, i. 111.]

{117}[151] ["When Ajax, Ulysses, and Phoenix stand before Achilles, he rushes forth to greet them, brings them into the tent, directs Patroclus to mix the wine, cuts up the meat, dresses it, and sets it before the ambassadors." (_Iliad_, ix. 193, sq.)--_Study of the Classics_, by H.N. Coleridge, 1830, p, 71]

{119}[bj] _And such a bed of furs, and a pelisse_.--[MS.]

{120}[bk] ---- _which often spread_, _And come like opening Hell upon the mind_, _No "baseless fabric" but "a wrack behind."_--[MS.]

{121}[bl] _Had e'er escaped more dangers on the deep_;-- _And those who are not drowned, at least may sleep_.--[MS.]

[152] [Entitled "_A Narrative of the Honourable John Byron_ (Commodore in a late expedition round the world), containing an account of the great distresses suffered by himself and his companions on the coast of Patagonia, from the year 1740, till their arrival in England, 1746. Written by Himself," London, 1768, 40. For the Hon. John Byron, 1723-86, younger brother of William, fifth Lord Byron, see _Letters_, 1898, i. 3.]

[bm] _Wore for a husband--or some such like brute_.--[MS.]

[bn] ---- _although of late_ _I've changed, for some few years, the day to night_.--[MS.]

[153] [The second canto of _Don Juan_ was finished in January, 1819, when the Venetian Carnival was at its height.]

{122}[154] [Strabo (lib. xvi. ed. 1807, p. 1106) gives various explanations of the name, assigning the supposed redness to the refraction of the rays of the vertical sun; or to the shadow of the scorched mountain-sides which form its shores; or, as Ctesias would have it, to a certain fountain which discharged red oxide of lead into its waters. "Abyssinian" Bruce had no doubt that "large trees or plants of coral spread everywhere over the bottom," made the sea "red," and accounted for the name. But, according to Niebuhr, the Red Sea is the Sea of Edom, which, being interpreted, is "Red."]

[bo] ---- _just the same_ _As at this moment I should like to do;--_ _But I have done with kisses--having kissed_ _All those that would--regretting those I missed_.--[MS.]

{124}[bp] _Fair as the rose just plucked to crown the wreath_, _Soft as the unfledged birdling when at rest_.--[MS.]

[155] [Compare _Mazeppa_, lines 829, sq., _Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 232.]

{125}[bq] _That finer melody was never heard_, _The kind of sound whose echo is a tear_, _Whose accents are the steps of Music's throne_.[*]--[MS.]

[*] ["To the Publisher. Take of these varieties which is thought best. I have no choice."]

{128}[156] [Moore, quoting from memory from one of Byron's MS. journals, says that he speaks of "making earnest love to the younger of his fair hostesses at Seville, with the help of a dictionary."--_Life,_ p. 93. See, too, letter to his mother, August 11, 1809, _Letters,_ 1898, i. 240.]

[br] _Pressure of hands, et cetera--or a kiss_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]

[bs] _Italian rather more, having more teachers_.--[MS. erased.]

[157] ["In 1813 ... in the fashionable world of London, of which I then formed an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of something.... I had been the lion of 1812."--Extracts from a Diary, January 19, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 177, 178.]

[bt] _foes, friends, sex, kind, are nothing more to me_ _Than a mere dream of something o'er the sea_.--[MS.]

{129}[158] [For the same archaism or blunder, compare _Manfred_, act i. sc. 4, line 19, _Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 132.]

[159] [Compare _The Prisoner of Chillon_, line 78, _ibid_., p. 16.]

[bu] _Holding her sweet breath o'er his cheek and mouth_, _As o'er a bed of roses, etc_.--[MS.]

[160] [_Vide post_, Canto XVI. stanza lxxxvi. line 6, p. 598, note 1.]

{130}[bv] _For without heart Love is not quite so good_; _Ceres is commissary to our bellies_, _And Love, which also much depends on food_: _While Bacchus will provide with wine and jellies_-- _Oysters and eggs are also living food_.--[MS.]

[bw] _He was her own, her Ocean lover, cast_ _To be her soul's first idol, and its last_.--[MS.]

{131}[bx] _And saw the sunset and the rising moon_.--[MS.]

{132}[161] [The MS. and the editions of 1819, 1823, 1828, read "woman." The edition of 1833 reads "women." The text follows the MS. and the earlier editions.]

[162] [Compare stanza prefixed to Dedication, _vide ante_, p. 2.]

[163] [Compare--

"Yes! thy Sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, See how it sparkles in its vase of snow!"

_Corsair_, Canto I. lines 427, 428, _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 242.]

[by] _A pleasure naught but drunkenness can bring:_ _For not the blest sherbet all chilled with snow._ _Nor the full sparkle of the desert-spring,_ _Nor wine in all the purple of its glow_.--[MS.]

{134}[bz] _Spread like an Ocean, varied, vast, and bright._--[MS.]

[ca] _---- I'm sure they never reckoned;_ _And being joined--like swarming bees they clung,_ _And mixed until the very pleasure stung._

or,

_And one was innocent, but both too young,_ _Their hearts the flowers, etc_.--[MS.]

{135}[cb] _In all the burning tongues the Passions teach_ _They had no further feeling, hope, nor care_ _Save one, and that was Love_.--[MS. erased.]

{136}[cc] _Pillowed upon her beating heart--which panted With the sweet memory of all it granted_.--[MS.]

{138}[cd] _Some drown themselves, some in the vices grovel_.--[MS.]

[164] [Lady Caroline Lamb's _Glenarvon_ was published in 1816. For Byron's farewell letter of dismissal, which Lady Caroline embodied in her novel (vol. iii. chap. ix.), see _Letters_, 1898, ii. 135, note 1. According to Medwin (_Conversations_, 1824, p. 274), Madame de Staël catechized Byron with regard to the relation of the story to fact.]

{139}[ce] _In their sweet feelings holily united,_ _By Solitude (soft parson) they were wed_.--[MS.]

[165] [Titus forebore to marry "Incesta" Berenice (see Juv., _Sat_. vi. 158), the daughter of Agrippa I., and wife of Herod, King of Chalcis, out of regard to the national prejudice against intermarriage with an alien.]

[166] [Cæsar's third wife, Pompeia, was suspected of infidelity with Clodius (see Langhorne's _Plutarch_, 1838, p. 498); Pompey's third wife, Mucia, intrigued with Cæsar (_vide ibid_., p. 447); Mahomet's favourite wife, Ayesha, on one occasion incurred suspicion; Antonina, the wife of Belisarius, was notoriously profligate (see Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_, 1825, iii. 432, 102).]

{140}[167] [Compare _Sardanapalus_, act i. sc. 2, line 252, _Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 23, note 1.]

{141}[cf] _--of ticklish dust_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]

{142}[168] ["Mr. Hobhouse is at it again about indelicacy. There is _no indelicacy_. If he wants _that_, let him read Swift, his great idol; but his imagination must be a dunghill, with a viper's nest in the middle, to engender such a supposition about this poem."--Letter to Murray, May 15, 1819, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 295.]

[cg] _Two hundred stanzas reckoned as before._--[MS.]

CANTO THE THIRD.[169]

I.

HAIL, Muse! _et cetera._--We left Juan sleeping, Pillowed upon a fair and happy breast, And watched by eyes that never yet knew weeping, And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, Had soiled the current of her sinless years, And turned her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

II.

Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast--but place to die-- Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

III.

In her first passion Woman loves her lover, In all the others all she loves is Love, Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, And fits her loosely--like an easy glove,[ch] As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her: One man alone at first her heart can move; She then prefers him in the plural number, Not finding that the additions much encumber.

IV.

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs; But one thing's pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)-- After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had _none_, But those who have ne'er end with only _one_.[170]

V.

'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign Of human frailty, folly, also crime, That Love and Marriage rarely can combine, Although they both are born in the same clime; Marriage from Love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour, sober beverage--by Time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavour Down to a very homely household savour.

VI.

There's something of antipathy, as 't were, Between their present and their future state; A kind of flattery that's hardly fair Is used until the truth arrives too late-- Yet what can people do, except despair? The same things change their names at such a rate; For instance--Passion in a lover's glorious, But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

VII.

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; They sometimes also get a little tired (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: The same things cannot always be admired, Yet 't is "so nominated in the bond,"[171] That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.

VIII.

There's doubtless something in domestic doings Which forms, in fact, true Love's antithesis; Romances paint at full length people's wooings, But only give a bust of marriages; For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?[ci]

IX.

All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage; The future states of both are left to faith, For authors fear description might disparage The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady.[172]

X.

The only two that in my recollection, Have sung of Heaven and Hell, or marriage, are Dante[173] and Milton,[174] and of both the affection Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruined the connection (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar); But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.

XI.

Some persons say that Dante meant Theology By Beatrice, and not a mistress--I, Although my opinion may require apology, Deem this a commentator's phantasy, Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he Decided thus, and showed good reason why; I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics Meant to personify the Mathematics.[175]

XII.

Haidée and Juan were not married, but The fault was theirs, not mine: it is not fair, Chaste reader, then, in any way to put The blame on me, unless you wish they were; Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut The book which treats of this erroneous pair, Before the consequences grow too awful; 'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.

XIII.

Yet they were happy,--happy in the illicit Indulgence of their innocent desires; But more imprudent grown with every visit, Haidée forgot the island was her Sire's; When we have what we like 't is hard to miss it, At least in the beginning, ere one tires; Thus she came often, not a moment losing, Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.

XIV.

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a Prime Minister but change His title, and 't is nothing but taxation; But he, more modest, took an humbler range Of Life, and in an honester vocation Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,[cj] And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

XV.

The good old gentleman had been detained By winds and waves, and some important captures; And, in the hope of more, at sea remained, Although a squall or two had damped his raptures, By swamping one of the prizes; he had chained His prisoners, dividing them like chapters In numbered lots; they all had cuffs and collars, And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.

XVI.

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold To his Tunis correspondents, save one man Tossed overboard unsaleable (being old); The rest--save here and there some richer one, Reserved for future ransom--in the hold, Were linked alike, as, for the common people, he Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

XVII.

The merchandise was served in the same way, Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, Except some certain portions of the prey, Light classic articles of female want, French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray,[ck] Guitars and castanets from Alicant, All which selected from the spoil he gathers, Robbed for his daughter by the best of fathers.

XVIII.

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,[176] Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, He chose from several animals he saw-- A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance: These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper altogether.

XIX.

Then, having settled his marine affairs, Despatching single cruisers here and there, His vessel having need of some repairs, He shaped his course to where his daughter fair Continued still her hospitable cares; But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, His port lay on the other side o' the isle.

XX.

And there he went ashore without delay, Having no custom-house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way, About the time and place where he had been: He left his ship to be hove down next day, With orders to the people to careen; So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.

XXI.

Arriving at the summit of a hill Which overlooked the white walls of his home, He stopped.--What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill-- With love for many, and with fears for some; All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.

XXII.

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, After long travelling by land or water, Most naturally some small doubt inspires-- A female family's a serious matter, (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires-- But they hate flattery, so I never flatter); Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

XXIII.

An honest gentleman at his return May not have the good fortune of Ulysses; Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses; The odds are that he finds a handsome urn To his memory--and two or three young misses Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches-- And that _his_ Argus[177]--bites him by the breeches.

XXIV.

If single, probably his plighted Fair Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair May quarrel, and, the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care As cavalier servente, or despise her; And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Writes odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

XXV.

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already Some chaste _liaison_ of the kind--I mean An honest friendship with a married lady-- The only thing of this sort ever seen To last--of all connections the most steady, And the true Hymen, (the first's but a screen)-- Yet, for all that, keep not too long away-- I've known the absent wronged four times a day.[cl]

XXVI.

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had Much less experience of dry land than Ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.

XXVII.

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, His garden trees all shadowy and green; He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, The distant dog-bark; and perceived between The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen Of arms (in the East all arm)--and various dyes Of coloured garbs, as bright as butterflies.

XXVIII.

And as the spot where they appear he nears, Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears--alas! no music of the spheres, But an unhallowed, earthly sound of fiddling! A melody which made him doubt his ears, The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after-- A most unoriental roar of laughter.

XXIX.

And still more nearly to the place advancing, Descending rather quickly the declivity, Through the waved branches o'er the greensward glancing, 'Midst other indications of festivity, Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing Like Dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance[178] so martial, To which the Levantines are very partial.

XXX.

And further on a troop of Grecian girls,[179] The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, Were strung together like a row of pearls, Linked hand in hand, and dancing; each too having Down her white neck long floating auburn curls-- (The least of which would set ten poets raving);[cm] Their leader sang--and bounded to her song With choral step and voice the virgin throng.

XXXI.

And here, assembled cross-legged round their trays, Small social parties just begun to dine; Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; Above them their dessert grew on its vine;-- The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er, Dropped in their laps, scarce plucked, their mellow store.

XXXII.

A band of children, round a snow-white ram,[180] There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; While peaceful as if still an unweaned lamb, The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers His sober head, majestically tame, Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers His brow, as if in act to butt, and then Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

XXXIII.

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, The innocence which happy childhood blesses, Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; So that the philosophical beholder Sighed for their sakes--that they should e'er grow older.

XXXIV.

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales To a sedate grey circle of old smokers, Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, Of rocks bewitched that open to the knockers, Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, Transformed their lords to beasts (but that's a fact).

XXXV.

Here was no lack of innocent diversion For the imagination or the senses, Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, Perceiving in his absence such expenses, Dreading that climax of all human ills, The inflammation of his weekly bills.

XXXVI.

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ[181] The happiest mortals even after dinner! A day of gold from out an age of iron Is all that Life allows the luckiest sinner; Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a Siren, That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner; Lambro's reception at his people's banquet Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

XXXVII.

He--being a man who seldom used a word Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise (In general he surprised men with the sword) His daughter--had not sent before to advise Of his arrival, so that no one stirred; And long he paused to re-assure his eyes, In fact much more astonished than delighted, To find so much good company invited.

XXXVIII.

He did not know (alas! how men will lie) That a report (especially the Greeks) Avouched his death (such people never die), And put his house in mourning several weeks,-- But now their eyes and also lips were dry; The bloom, too, had returned to Haidée's cheeks: Her tears, too, being returned into their fount, She now kept house upon her own account.

XXXIX.

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, Which turned the isle into a place of pleasure; The servants all were getting drunk or idling, A life which made them happy beyond measure. Her father's hospitality seemed middling, Compared with what Haidée did with his treasure; 'T was wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving.[cn]

XL.

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast, He flew into a passion, and in fact There was no mighty reason to be pleased; Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, To teach his people to be more exact, And that, proceeding at a very high rate, He showed the royal _penchants_ of a pirate.

XLI.

You're wrong.--He was the mildest mannered man That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; With such true breeding of a gentleman, You never could divine his real thought; No courtier could, and scarcely woman can Gird more deceit within a petticoat; Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, He was so great a loss to good society.

XLII.

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, Boded no good, whatever it expressed, He asked the meaning of this holiday; The vinous Greek to whom he had addressed His question, much too merry to divine The questioner, filled up a glass of wine,

XLIII.

And without turning his facetious head, Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, "Talking's dry work, I have no time to spare." A second hiccuped, "Our old Master's dead, You'd better ask our Mistress who's his heir." "Our Mistress!" quoth a third: "Our Mistress!--pooh!-- You mean our Master--not the old, but new."

XLIV.

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom They thus addressed--and Lambro's visage fell-- And o'er his eye a momentary gloom Passed, but he strove quite courteously to quell The expression, and endeavouring to resume His smile, requested one of them to tell The name and quality of his new patron, Who seemed to have turned Haidée into a matron.

XLV.

"I know not," quoth the fellow, "who or what He is, nor whence he came--and little care; But this I know, that this roast capon's fat, And that good wine ne'er washed down better fare; And if you are not satisfied with that, Direct your questions to my neighbour there; He'll answer all for better or for worse, For none likes more to hear himself converse."[182]

XLVI.

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, And certainly he showed the best of breeding, Which scarce even France, the Paragon of nations, E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; He bore these sneers against his near relations, His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, The insults, too, of every servile glutton, Who all the time was eating up his mutton.

XLVII.

Now in a person used to much command-- To bid men come, and go, and come again-- To see his orders done, too, out of hand-- Whether the word was death, or but the chain-- It may seem strange to find his manners bland; Yet such things are, which I cannot explain, Though, doubtless, he who can command himself Is good to govern--almost as a Guelf.

XLVIII.

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, But never in his real and serious mood; Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, He lay coiled like the Boa in the wood; With him it never was a word and blow, His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, But in his silence there was much to rue, And his _one_ blow left little work for _two_.

XLIX.

He asked no further questions, and proceeded On to the house, but by a private way, So that the few who met him hardly heeded, So little they expected him that day; If love paternal in his bosom pleaded For Haidée's sake, is more than I can say, But certainly to one deemed dead returning, This revel seemed a curious mode of mourning.

L.

If all the dead could now return to life, (Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many, For instance, if a husband or his wife[co] (Nuptial examples are as good as any), No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, The present weather would be much more rainy-- Tears shed into the grave of the connection Would share most probably its resurrection.

LI.

He entered in the house no more his home, A thing to human feelings the most trying, And harder for the heart to overcome, Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; To find our hearthstone turned into a tomb, And round its once warm precincts palely lying The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, Beyond a _single gentleman's_ belief.

LII.

He entered in the house--his home no more, For without hearts there is no home;--and felt The solitude of passing his own door Without a welcome: _there_ he long had dwelt, There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt Over the innocence of that sweet child, His only shrine of feelings undefiled.

LIII.

He was a man of a strange temperament, Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, Moderate in all his habits, and content With temperance in pleasure, as in food, Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant For something better, if not wholly good; His Country's wrongs and his despair to save her Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver.

LIV.

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, The hardness by long habitude produced, The dangerous life in which he had grown old, The mercy he had granted oft abused, The sights he was accustomed to behold, The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised, Had cost his enemies a long repentance, And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance.

LV.

But something of the spirit of old Greece Flashed o'er his soul a few heroic rays, Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece His predecessors in the Colchian days; 'T is true he had no ardent love for peace-- Alas! his country showed no path to praise: Hate to the world and war with every nation He waged, in vengeance of her degradation.

LVI.

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime Shed its Ionian elegance, which showed Its power unconsciously full many a time,-- A taste seen in the choice of his abode, A love of music and of scenes sublime, A pleasure in the gentle stream that flowed Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, Bedewed his spirit in his calmer hours.

LVII.

But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed On that belovéd daughter; she had been The only thing which kept his heart unclosed Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, A lonely pure affection unopposed: There wanted but the loss of this to wean His feelings from all milk of human kindness, And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.[cp]

LVIII.

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; The Ocean when its yeasty war is waging Is awful to the vessel near the rock; But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, Their fury being spent by its own shock, Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire[cq] Of a strong human heart, and in a Sire.

LIX.

It is a hard although a common case To find our children running restive--they In whom our brightest days we would retrace, Our little selves re-formed in finer clay, Just as old age is creeping on apace, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.

LX.

Yet a fine family is a fine thing (Provided they don't come in after dinner); 'T is beautiful to see a matron bring Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her); Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.

LXI.

Old Lambro passed unseen a private gate, And stood within his hall at eventide; Meantime the lady and her lover sate At wassail in their beauty and their pride: An ivory inlaid table spread with state Before them, and fair slaves on every side;[183] Gems, gold, and silver, formed the service mostly, Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.

LXII.

The dinner made about a hundred dishes; Lamb and pistachio nuts--in short, all meats, And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, Dressed to a Sybarite's most pampered wishes; The beverage was various sherbets Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.

LXIII.

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast, And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine China cups, came in at last; Gold cups of filigree, made to secure The hand from burning, underneath them placed; Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boiled Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoiled.

LXIV.

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made Of velvet panels, each of different hue, And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid; And round them ran a yellow border too; The upper border, richly wrought, displayed, Embroidered delicately o'er with blue, Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, From poets, or the moralists their betters.

LXV.

These Oriental writings on the wall, Quite common in those countries, are a kind Of monitors adapted to recall, Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind, The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, And took his kingdom from him: You will find, Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure.

LXVI.

A Beauty at the season's close grown hectic, A Genius who has drunk himself to death, A Rake turned methodistic, or Eclectic--[184] (For that's the name they like to pray beneath)--[cr] But most, an Alderman struck apoplectic, Are things that really take away the breath,-- And show that late hours, wine, and love are able To do not much less damage than the table.

LXVII.

Haidée and Juan carpeted their feet On crimson satin, bordered with pale blue; Their sofa occupied three parts complete Of the apartment--and appeared quite new; The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun embossed in gold, whose rays of tissue, Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.[cs]

LXVIII.

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats, And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain Their bread as ministers and favourites (that's To say, by degradation) mingled there As plentiful as in a court, or fair.

LXIX.

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The tables, most of ebony inlaid With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, Fretted with gold or silver:--by command The greater part of these were ready spread With viands and sherbets in ice--and wine-- Kept for all comers at all hours to dine.

LXX.

Of all the dresses I select Haidée's: She wore two jelicks--one was of pale yellow; Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise-- 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow: With buttons formed of pearls as large as peas, All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flowed round her.

LXXI.

One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely arm, Lockless--so pliable from the pure gold That the hand stretched and shut it without harm, The limb which it adorned its only mould; So beautiful--its very shape would charm, And clinging, as if loath to lose its hold, The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin That e'er by precious metal was held in.[185]

LXXII.

Around, as Princess of her father's land, A like gold bar above her instep rolled[186] Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand; Her hair was starred with gems; her veil's fine fold Below her breast was fastened with a band Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furled About the prettiest ankle in the world.

LXXIII.

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel Flowed like an Alpine torrent which the sun Dyes with his morning light,--and would conceal Her person[187] if allowed at large to run, And still they seemed resentfully to feel The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan.

LXXIV.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,[188] The very air seemed lighter from her eyes, They were so soft and beautiful, and rife With all we can imagine of the skies, And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife-- Too pure even for the purest human ties; Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel.[189]

LXXV.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged (It is the country's custom, but in vain), For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, The glossy rebels mocked the jetty stain, And in their native beauty stood avenged: Her nails were touched with henna; but, again, The power of Art was turned to nothing, for They could not look more rosy than before.

LXXVI.

The henna should be deeply dyed to make The skin relieved appear more fairly fair; She had no need of this, day ne'er will break On mountain tops more heavenly white than her: The eye might doubt if it were well awake, She was so like a vision; I might err, But Shakespeare also says, 't is very silly "To gild refinéd gold, or paint the lily."[190]

LXXVII.

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, But a white baracan, and so transparent The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, Like small stars through the milky way apparent; His turban, furled in many a graceful fold, An emerald aigrette, with Haidée's hair in 't, Surmounted as its clasp--a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

LXXVIII.

And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, Which made their new establishment complete; The last was of great fame, and liked to show it; His verses rarely wanted their due feet-- And for his theme--he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirise or flatter, As the Psalm says, "inditing a good matter."

LXXIX.

He praised the present, and abused the past, Reversing the good custom of old days, An Eastern anti-jacobin at last He turned, preferring pudding to _no_ praise-- For some few years his lot had been o'ercast By his seeming independent in his lays, But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha-- With truth like Southey, and with verse[191] like Crashaw.[ct]

LXXX.

He was a man who had seen many changes, And always changed as true as any needle; His Polar Star being one which rather ranges, And not the fixed--he knew the way to wheedle: So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges; And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill), He lied with such a fervour of intention-- There was no doubt he earned his laureate pension.

LXXXI.

But _he_ had genius,--when a turncoat has it, The _Vates irritabilis_[192] takes care That without notice few full moons shall pass it; Even good men like to make the public stare:-- But to my subject--let me see--what was it?-- Oh!--the third canto--and the pretty pair-- Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode Of living in their insular abode.

LXXXII.

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but, no less,[cu] In company a very pleasant fellow, Had been the favourite of full many a mess Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow;[cv] And though his meaning they could rarely guess, Yet still they deigned to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause, Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause.[cw]

LXXXIII.

But now being lifted into high society, And having picked up several odds and ends Of free thoughts in his travels for variety, He deemed, being in a lone isle, among friends, That, without any danger of a riot, he Might for long lying make himself amends; And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, Agree to a short armistice with Truth.

LXXXIV.

He had travelled 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, And knew the self-loves of the different nations; And having lived with people of all ranks, Had something ready upon most occasions-- Which got him a few presents and some thanks. He varied with some skill his adulations; To "do at Rome as Romans do,"[193] a piece Of conduct was which _he_ observed in Greece.

LXXXV.

Thus, usually, when _he_ was asked to sing, He gave the different nations something national; 'T was all the same to him--"God save the King," Or "Ça ira," according to the fashion all: His Muse made increment of anything, From the high lyric down to the low rational;[cx][194] If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

LXXXVI.

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In England a six canto quarto tale; In Spain he'd make a ballad or romance on The last war--much the same in Portugal; In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on Would be old Goethe's--(see what says De Staël);[195] In Italy he'd ape the "Trecentisti;" In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye:[196]

1.

The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of War and Peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their Sun, is set.

2.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The Hero's harp, the Lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your Sires' "Islands of the Blest."[197]

3.

The mountains look on Marathon--[cy] And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

4.[198]

A King sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;--all were his! He counted them at break of day-- And, when the Sun set, where were they?

5.

And where are they? and where art thou, My Country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now-- The heroic bosom beats no more![cz] And must thy Lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

6.

'T is something, in the dearth of Fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.

7.

Must _we_ but weep o'er days more blest? Must _we_ but blush?--Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

8.

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;--the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise,--we come, we come!" 'T is but the living who are dumb.

9.

In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- How answers each bold Bacchanal!

10.

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,[199] Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave-- Think ye he meant them for a slave?

11.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served--but served Polycrates--[200] A Tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

12.

The Tyrant of the Chersonese Was Freedom's best and bravest friend; _That_ tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

13.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.[da]

14.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks--[201] They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

15.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

16.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,[202] Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

LXXXVII.

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, Yet in these times he might have done much worse: His strain displayed some feeling--right or wrong; And feeling,[203] in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling; but they are such liars, And take all colours--like the hands of dyers.

LXXXVIII.

But words are things,[204] and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think; 'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper--even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!

LXXXIX.

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. Oblivion long has sank, Or graven stone found in a barrack's station In digging the foundation of a closet,[db] May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.

XC.

And Glory long has made the sages smile; 'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind-- Depending more upon the historian's style Than on the name a person leaves behind: Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle:[205] The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe.[206]

XCI.

Milton's the Prince of poets--so we say; A little heavy, but no less divine: An independent being in his day-- Learned, pious, temperate in love and wine; But, his life falling into Johnson's way, We're told this great High Priest of all the Nine Was whipped at college--a harsh sire--odd spouse, For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.[207]

XCII.

All these are, _certes_, entertaining facts, Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest acts;[208] Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes);[209] Like Cromwell's pranks;[210]--but although Truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes, As most essential to their Hero's story, They do not much contribute to his glory.

XCIII.

All are not moralists, like Southey, when He prated to the world of "Pantisocracy;"[211] Or Wordsworth unexcised,[212] unhired, who then Seasoned his pedlar poems with Democracy;[dc] Or Coleridge[213] long before his flighty pen Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;[dd] When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).[214]

XCIV.

Such names at present cut a convict figure, The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, Are good manure for their more bare biography; Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger Than any since the birthday of typography; A drowsy, frowzy poem, called the "Excursion," Writ in a manner which is my aversion.

XCV.

He there builds up a formidable dyke Between his own and others' intellect; But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like Joanna Southcote's Shiloh[215] and her sect, Are things which in this century don't strike The public mind,--so few are the elect; And the new births of both their stale Virginities Have proved but Dropsies, taken for Divinities.

XCVI.

But let me to my story: I must own, If I have any fault, it is digression, Leaving my people to proceed alone, While I soliloquize beyond expression: But these are my addresses from the throne, Which put off business to the ensuing session: Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.

XCVII.

I know that what our neighbours call _"longueurs,"_ (We've not so good a _word_, but have the _thing_, In that complete perfection which insures An epic from Bob Southey every spring--) Form not the true temptation which allures The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring Some fine examples of the _Epopée_, To prove its grand ingredient is _Ennui_.[216]

XCVIII.

We learn from Horace, "Homer sometimes sleeps;"[217] We feel without him,--Wordsworth sometimes wakes,-- To show with what complacency he creeps, With his dear "_Waggoners_," around his lakes.[218] He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps-- Of Ocean?--No, of air; and then he makes Another outcry for "a little boat," And drivels seas to set it well afloat.[219]

XCIX.

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, And Pegasus runs restive in his "Waggon," Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? Or pray Medea for a single dragon?[220] Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, He feared his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?

C.

"Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Waggons!" Oh! ye shades Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hiss-- The "little boatman" and his _Peter Bell_ Can sneer at him who drew "Achitophel!"[221]

CI.

T' our tale.--The feast was over, the slaves gone, The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; The Arab lore and Poet's song were done, And every sound of revelry expired; The lady and her lover, left alone, The rosy flood of Twilight's sky admired;-- Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

CII.

Ave Maria! blesséd be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth--so beautiful and soft-- While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,[de] Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer.

CIII.

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 't is the hour of Love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty Dove-- What though 't is but a pictured image?--strike-- That painting is no idol,--'t is too like.

CIV.

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print[df]--that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into Heaven the shortest way; My altars are the mountains and the Ocean, Earth--air--stars,[222]--all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the Soul.

CV.

Sweet Hour of Twilight!--in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,[223] Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee![224]

CVI.

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And Vesper bell's that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learned from this example not to fly From a true lover,--shadowed my mind's eye.[225]

CVII.

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things--[226] Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, The welcome stall to the o'erlaboured steer; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gathered round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

CVIII.

Soft Hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of Vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;[227] Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely Nothing dies but Something mourns!

CIX.

When Nero perished by the justest doom Which ever the Destroyer yet destroyed, Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world overjoyed, Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his tomb:[228] Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when Power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

CX.

But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, Or any such like sovereign buffoons,[dg] To do with the transactions of my hero, More than such madmen's fellow man--the moon's? Sure my invention must be down at zero, And I grown one of many "Wooden Spoons" Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please To dub the last of honours in degrees).

CXI.

I feel this tediousness will never do-- T' is being _too_ epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two; They'll never find it out, unless I own The fact, excepting some experienced few; And then as an improvement 't will be shown: I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is From Aristotle _passim_.--See ΠΟΙΗΤΙΚΗΣ[Greek: POIÊTIKÊS].[229]

FOOTNOTES:

[169] [November 30, 1819. Copied in 1820 (MS.D.). Moore (_Life_, 421) says that Byron was at work on the third canto when he stayed with him at Venice, in October, 1819. "One day, before dinner, [he] read me two or three hundred lines of it; beginning with the stanzas "Oh Wellington," etc., which, at the time, formed the opening of the third canto, but were afterwards reserved for the commencement of the ninth." The third canto, as it now stands, was completed by November 8, 1819; see _Letters_, 1900, iv. 375. The date on the MS. may refer to the first fair copy.]

{144}[ch] _And fits her like a stocking or a glove_.--[MS. D.]

[170] ["On peut trouver des femmes qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie, mais il est rare d'en trouver qui n'en aient jamais eu qu'une."--_Réflexions_ ... du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, No. lxxiii.

Byron prefixed the maxim as a motto to his "Ode to a Lady whose Lover was killed by a Ball, which at the same time shivered a Portrait next his Heart."--_Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 552.]

{145}[171] [_Merchant of Venice_, act iv. sc. 1, line 254.]

[ci] _Had Petrarch's passion led to Petrarch's wedding,_ _How many sonnets had ensued the bedding?_--[MS.]

[172] [The Ballad of "Death and the Lady" was printed in a small volume, entitled _A Guide to Heaven_, 1736, 12mo. It is mentioned in _The Vicar of Wakefield_ (chap. xvii.), _Works of Oliver Goldsmith_, 1854, i. 369. See _Old English Popular Music_, by William Chappell, F.S.A., 1893, ii. 170, 171.]

{146}[173] [See _The Prophecy of Dante,_ Canto I. lines 172-174, _Poetical Works,_ 1901, iv. 253, note 1.]

[174] Milton's first wife ran away from him within the first month. If she had not, what would John Milton have done?

[Mary Powell did not "run away," but at the end of the honeymoon obtained her husband's consent to visit her family at Shotover, "upon a promise of returning at Michaelmas." "And in the mean while his studies went on very vigorously; and his chief diversion, after the business of the day, was now and then in an evening to visit the Lady Margaret Lee.... This lady, being a woman of excellent wit and understanding, had a particular honour for our author, and took great delight in his conversation; as likewise did her husband, Captain Hobson." See, too, his sonnet "To the Lady Margaret Ley."--_The Life of Milton_ (by Thomas Newton, D.D.), _Paradise Regained,_ ed. (Baskerville), 1758, pp. xvii., xviii.]

[175] ["Yesterday a very pretty letter from Annabella.... She is a poetess--a mathematician--a metaphysician."--_Journal_ November 30, 1813, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 357.]

{147}[cj] _Displayed much more of nerve, perhaps, of wit,_ _Than any of the parodies of Pitt_.--[MS.]

{148}[ck] _---- toothpicks, a bidet_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]

"_Dr. Murray--As you are squeamish you may put 'teapot, tray,' in case the other piece of feminine furniture frightens you.--B._"

[176] [For Byron's menagerie, see _Werner_, act i. sc. 1, line 216, _Poetical Works_, 1902, v. 348, note 1.]

{149}[177] ["But as for canine recollections ... I had one (half a _wolf_ by the she-side) that doted on me at ten years old, and very nearly ate me at twenty. When I thought he was going to enact Argus, he bit away the backside of my breeches, and never would consent to any kind of recognition, in despite of all kinds of bones which I offered him."--Letter to Moore, January 19, 1815, _Letters_, 1899, iii. 171, 172. Compare, too, _Childe Harold_, Canto I. Song, stanza ix., _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 30.]

{150}[cl] _Yet for all that don't stay away too long,_ _A sofa, like a bed, may come by wrong_.--[MS.] _I've known the friend betrayed_----.--[MS. D.]

{151}[178] [The Pyrrhic war-dance represented "by rapid movements of the body, the way in which missiles and blows from weapons were avoided, and also the mode in which the enemy was attacked" (_Dict. of Ant._). Dodwell (_Tour through Greece_, 1819, ii. 21, 22) observes that in Thessaly and Macedon dances are performed at the present day by men armed with their musket and sword. See, too, Hobhouse's description (_Travels in Albania_, 1858, i. 166, 167) of the Albanian war-dance at Loutráki.]

[179] ["Their manner of dancing is certainly the same that Diana is _sung_ to have danced on the banks of Eurotas. The great lady still leads the dance, and is followed by a troop of young girls, who imitate her steps, and, if she sings, make up the chorus. The tunes are extremely gay and lively, yet with something in them wonderfully soft. The steps are varied according to the pleasure of her that leads the dance, but always in exact time, and infinitely more agreeable than any of our dances."--Lady M.W. Montagu to Pope, April 1, O.S., 1817, _Letters, etc._, 1816, p. 138. The "kerchief-waving" dance is the _Romaika_. See _The Waltz_, line 125, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 492, note 1. See, too, _Voyage Pittoresque_ ... by the Comte de Choiseul-Gouffier, 1782, vol. i. Planche 33.]

[cm] _That would have set Tom Moore, though married, raving._--[MS.]

{152}[180] ["Upon the whole, I think the part of _Don Juan_ in which Lambro's return to his home, and Lambro himself are described, is the best, that is, the most individual, thing in all I know of Lord B.'s works. The festal abandonment puts one in mind of Nicholas Poussin's pictures."--_Table Talk_ of S.T. Coleridge, June 7, 1824.]

{153}[181] [Compare _Hudibras_, Part I. canto iii. lines 1, 2--

"Ay me! what perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron!"

Byron's friend, C.S. Matthews, shouted these lines, _con intenzione_, under the windows of a Cambridge tradesman named Hiron, who had been instrumental in the expulsion from the University of Sir Henry Smyth, a riotous undergraduate. (See letter to Murray, October 19, 1820.)]

{154}[cn] _All had been open, heart, and open house,_ _Ever since Juan served her for a spouse._--[MS.]

{155}[182]

["Rispose allor Margutte: a dirtel tosto, Io non credo più al nero ch' all' azzurro; Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto, E credo alcuna volta anche nel burro; Nella cervogia, e quando io n' ho nel mosto, E molto più nell' aspro che il mangurro; Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede, E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede."

Pulci, _Morgante Maggiore_, Canto XVIII. stanza cxv.]

{157}[co] _For instance, if a first or second wife._--[MS.]

{159}[cp] _And send him forth like Samson strong in blindness_.--[MS. D.] _And make him Samson-like--more fierce with blindness_.--[MS. M.]

[cq] _Not so the single, deep, and wordless ire,_ _Of a strong human heart_--.--[MS.]

{160}[183] ["Almost all _Don Juan_ is _real_ life, either my own, or from people I knew. By the way, much of the description of the _furniture_, in Canto Third, is taken from _Tully's Tripoli_ (pray _note this_), and the rest from my own observation. Remember, I never meant to conceal this at all, and have only not stated it, because _Don Juan_ had no preface, nor name to it."--Letter to Murray, August 23, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 346.

The first edition of _"Tully's Tripoli"_ is entitled _Narrative of a Ten Years' Residence in Tripoli In Africa: From the original correspondence in the possession of the Family of the late Richard Tully, Esq., the British Consul_, 1816, 410. The book is in the form of letters (so says the _Preface_) written by the Consul's sister. The description of Haidée's _dress_ is taken from the account of a visit to Lilla Kebbiera, the wife of the Bashaw (p. 30); the description of the furniture and refreshments from the account of a visit to "Lilla Amnani," Hadgi Abderrahmam's Greek wife (pp. 132-137). It is evident that the "Chiel" who took _these_ "notes" was the Consul's _sister_, not the Consul: "Lilla Aisha, the Bey's wife, is thought to be very sensible, though rather haughty. Her apartments were grand, and herself superbly habited. Her chemise was covered with gold embroidery at the neck; over it she wore a gold and silver tissue _jileck_, or jacket without sleeves, and over that another of purple velvet richly laced with gold, with coral and pearl buttons set quite close together down the front; it had short sleeves finished with a gold band not far below the shoulder, and discovered a wide loose chemise of transparent gauze, with gold, silver, and ribband strips. She wore round her ancles ... a sort of fetter made of a thick bar of gold so fine that they bound it round the leg with one hand; it is an inch and a half wide, and as much in thickness: each of these weighs four pounds. Just above this a band three inches wide of gold thread finished the ends of a pair of trousers made of pale yellow and white silk."

Page 132. "[Lilla] rose to take coffee, which was served in very small china cups, placed in silver filigree cups; and gold filigree cups were put under those presented to the married ladies. They had introduced cloves, cinnamon, and saffron into the coffee, which was abundantly sweetened; but this mixture was very soon changed, and replaced by excellent simple coffee for the European ladies...."

Page 133. "The Greek then shewed us the gala furniture of her own room.... The hangings of the room were of tapestry, made in pannels of different coloured velvets, thickly inlaid with flowers of silk damask; a yellow border, of about a foot in depth, finished the tapestry at top and bottom, the upper border being embroidered with Moorish sentences from the Koran in lilac letters. The carpet was of crimson satin, with a deep border of pale blue quilted; this is laid over Indian mats and other carpets. In the best part of the room the sofa is placed, which occupies three sides in an alcove, the floor of which is raised. The sofa and the cushions that lay around were of crimson velvet, the centre cushions were embroidered with a sun in gold of highly embossed work, the rest were of gold and silver tissue. The curtains of the alcove were made to match those before the bed. A number of looking-glasses, and a profusion of fine china and chrystal completed the ornaments and furniture of the room, in which were neither tables nor chairs. A small table, about six inches high, is brought in when refreshments are served; it is of ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, tortoiseshell, ivory, gold and silver, of choice woods, or of plain mahogany, according to the circumstances of the proprietor."

Page 136. "On the tables were placed all sorts of refreshments, and thirty or forty dishes of meat and poultry, dressed different ways; there were no knives nor forks, and only a few spoons of gold, silver, ivory, or coral...."

Page 137. "The beverage was various sherbets, some composed of the juice of boiled raisins, very sweet; some of the juice of pomegranates squeezed through the rind; and others of the pure juice of oranges. These sherbets were copiously supplied in high glass ewers, placed in great numbers on the ground.... After the dishes of meat were removed, a dessert of Arabian fruits, confectionaries, and sweetmeats was served; among the latter was the date-bread. This sweetmeat is made in perfection only by the blacks at Fezzan, of the ripe date of the country.... They make it in the shape of loaves, weighing from twenty to thirty pounds; the stones of the fruit are taken out, and the dates simply pressed together with great weights; thus preserved, it keeps perfectly good for a year."]

{162}[184] ["He writes like a man who has that clear perception of the truth of things which is the result of the guilty knowledge of good and evil; and who, by the light of that knowledge, has deliberately preferred the evil with a proud malignity of purpose, which would seem to leave little for the last consummating change to accomplish. When he calculates that the reader is on the verge of pitying him, he takes care to throw him back the defiance of laughter, as if to let him know that all the Poet's pathos is but the sentimentalism of the drunkard between his cups, or the relenting softness of the courtesan, who the next moment resumes the bad boldness of her degraded character. With such a man, who would wish either to laugh or to weep?"--_Eclectic Review_ (Lord Byron's _Mazeppa_), August, 1819, vol. xii. p. 150.]

[cr] _For that's the name they like to cant beneath._--[MS.]

{163}[cs] _The upholsterer's_ "fiat lux" _had bade to issue._--[MS.]

{164}[185] This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are worn in the manner described. The reader will perceive hereafter, that as the mother of Haidée was of Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. [_Vide ante_, p. 160, note 1.]

[186] The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sovereign rank in the women of the families of the Deys, and is worn as such by their female relatives. [_Vide ibid._]

[187] This is no exaggeration: there were four women whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their hair in this profusion; of these, three were English, the other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that length and quantity, that, when let down, it almost entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a superfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; the Oriental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four.

[188] [Compare--

"Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of Light ne'er seen before, As Fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore."

Song by Rev. C. Wolfe (1791-1823).

Compare, too--

"She was a form of Life and Light That, seen, became a part of sight."

_The Giaour_, lines 1127, 1128.]

{165}[189]

[" ... but Psyche owns no lord-- She walks a goddess from above; All saw, all praised her, all adored, But no one ever dared to love."

_The Golden Ass of Apuleius; in English verse, entitled Cupid and Psyche_, by Hudson Gurney, 1799.]

[190] [_King John_, act iv. sc. 2, line 11.]

{166}[191] ["Richard Crashaw (died 1650), the friend of Cowley, was honoured," says Warton, "with the praise of Pope; who both read his poems and borrowed from them. After he was ejected from his Fellowship at Peterhouse for denying the covenant, he turned Roman Catholic, and died canon of the church at Loretto." Cowley sang his _In Memoriam_--

"_Angels_ (they say) brought the famed _Chappel_ there; And bore the sacred Load in Triumph through the air:-- 'T is surer much they brought thee there, and _They_, And _Thou_, their charge, went _singing_ all the way."

_The Works, etc._, 1668, pp. 29, 30.]

[ct] _Believed like Southey--and perused like Crashaw._--[MS.]

{167}[192] [The second chapter of Coleridge's _Biographia Literaria_ is on the "supposed irritability of men of genius." Ed. 1847, i. 29.]

[cu] _Their poet a sad Southey_.--[MS. D.]

[cv] _Of rogues_--.--[MS. D.]

[cw] _Of which the causers never know the cause_.--[MS. D.]

{168}[193] [_Vide St. August. Epist._, xxxvi., cap. xiv., "Ille [Ambrosius, Mediolanensis Episcopus] adjecit; Quando hic sum, non jejuno sabbato; quando Romae sum, jejuno sabbato."--Migne's _Patrologiæ Cursus_, 1845, xxxiii. 151.]

[cx] _From the high lyrical to the low rational_.--[MS.D.]

[194] [The allusion is to Coleridge's eulogy of Southey in the Biographia Literaria (ed. 1847, i. 61): "In poetry he has attempted almost every species of composition known before, and he has added new ones; and if we except the very highest lyric ... he has attempted every species successfully." But the satire, primarily and ostensibly aimed at Southey, now and again glances at Southey's eulogist.]

[195] ["Goethe pourroit représenter la littérature allemande toute entière."--_De L'Allemagne_, par Mme. la Baronne de Staël-Holstein, 1818, i. 227.]

[196] [The poet is not "a sad Southey," but is sketched from memory. "Lord Byron," writes Finlay (_History of Greece_, vi. 335, note), "used to describe an evening passed in the company of Londos [a Morean landowner, who took part in the first and second Greek Civil Wars], at Vostitza (in 1809), when both were young men, with a spirit that rendered the scene worthy of a place in _Don Juan_. After supper Londos, who had the face and figure of a chimpanzee, sprang upon a table, ... and commenced singing through his nose Rhiga's Hymn to Liberty. A new cadi, passing near the house, inquired the cause of the discordant hubbub. A native Mussulman replied, 'It is only the young primate Londos, who is drunk, and is singing hymns to the new panaghia of the Greeks, whom they call Eleutheria.'" (See letter to Andreas Londos (undated), _Letters_, 1901, vi. 320, note 1.)]

{169}[197] The Μακάρων νῆσοι [Greek: Maka/rôn nê~soi] [Hesiod, _Works and Days_, line 169] of the Greek poets were supposed to have been the Cape de Verd Islands, or the Canaries.

[cy] _Euboea looks on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea, etc._--[MS.]

[198] [See Æschylus, _Persæ_, 463, sq.; and Herodotus, viii. 90. Harpocration records the preservation, in the Acropolis, of the silver-footed throne on which Xerxes sat when he watched the battle of Salamis from the slope of Mount Ægaleos.]

{170}[cz] _The Heroic heart awakes no more_.--[MS. D.]

{171}[199] [For "that most ancient military dance, the _Pyrrhica_," see _Travels_, by E.D. Clarke, 1814, part ii. sect. 11, p. 641; and for specimens of "Cadmean characters," _vide ibid._, p. 593.]

[200] [After his birthplace Teos was taken by the Persians, B.C. 510, Anacreon migrated to Abdera, but afterwards lived at Samos, under the protection of Polycrates.]

[da] _Which Hercules might deem his own._--[MS.]

{172}[201] [See the translation of a speech delivered to the Pargiots, in 1815, by an aged citizen: "I exhort you well to consider, before you yield yourselves up to the English, that the King of England now has in his pay all the kings of Europe--obtaining money for this purpose from his merchants; whence, should it become advantageous to the merchants to sell you, in order to conciliate Ali, and obtain certain commercial advantages in his harbours, the _English will sell you to Ali._" --"Parga," _Edinburgh Review_, October, 1819. vol. 32, pp. 263-293. Here, perhaps, the "Franks" are the Russians. Compare--

"Greeks only should free Greece, Not the barbarian with his masque of peace."

_The Age of Bronze_, lines 298, 299, _Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 557, note 1.]

[202]

Γενοίμαν, ἵν' ὑλᾶεν ἔπεστι πόν- [Greek: Genoi/man, i(/n' y(la~en e)/pesti po/n-] του πρόβλημ' ἁλίκλυστον, ἄ- [Greek: tou pro/blêm' a(li/klyston, a)/-] κραν ὑπὸ πλάκα Σουνίου, κ.τ.λ. [Greek: kran y(po\ pla/ka Souni/ou, k.t.l.]

Sophocles, _Ajax_, lines 1190-1192.]

{173}[203] [Compare--

"What poets feel not, when they make, A pleasure in creating, The world, in _its_ turn, will not take Pleasure in contemplating."

Matthew Arnold (Motto to _Poems_, 1869, vol. i. Fly-leaf).]

[204] [For this "sentence," see _Journal_, November 16, 1813, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 320, note 1; see, too, letter to Rogers, 1814, _Letters_, 1899, iii. 89, note 1.]

[db] _In digging drains for a new water-closet._--[MS.]

[205] [For Edmund Hoyle (1672-1769), see _English Bards, etc._, lines 966-968, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 372, note 4.]

{174}[206] [William Coxe (1747-1828), Archdeacon of Wilts, a voluminous historian and biographer, published _Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough_, in 1817-1819.]

[207] [See _Life of Milton, Works_ of Samuel Johnson, 1825, vii. pp. 67, 68, 80, _et vide ante_, p. 146, note 2.]

[208] [According to Suetonius, the youthful Titus amused himself by copying handwriting, and boasted that he could have made a first-rate _falsarius_. One of Cæsar's "earliest acts" was to crucify some jovial pirates, who had kidnapped him, and with whom he pretended to be on pleasant if not friendly terms.]

[209] [James Currie, M.D. (1756-1805), published, anonymously, the _Works of Robert Burns, with an account of his Life, etc._, in 1800.]

[210] ["He [Cromwell] was very notorious for robbing orchards, a puerile crime ... but grown so scandalous and injurious by the frequent spoyls and damages of Trees, breaking of Hedges, and Inclosures, committed by this _Apple-Dragon_, that many solemn complaints were made both to his Father and Mother for redresse thereof; which missed not their satisfaction and expiation out of his hide," etc.--_Flagellum_, by James Heath, 1663, p. 5. See, too, for his "name of a Royster" at Cambridge, _A Short View of the Late Troubles in England_, by Sir William Dugdale, 1681, p. 459.]

{175}[211] [In _The Friend_, 1818, ii. 38, Coleridge refers to "a plan ... of trying the experiment of human perfectibility on the banks of the Susquehanna;" and Southey, in his _Letter to William Smith, Esq._ (1817), (_Essays Moral and Political_, by Robert Southey, 1832, ii. 17), speaks of his "purpose to retire with a few friends into the wilds of America, and there lay the foundations of a community," etc.; but the word "_Pantisocracy_" is not mentioned. It occurs, perhaps, for the first time in print, in George Dyer's biographical sketch of Southey, which he contributed to _Public Characters of 1799-1800_, p. 225, "Coleridge, no less than Southey, possessed a strong passion for poetry. They commenced, like two young poets, an enthusiastic friendship, and in connection with others, struck out a plan for settling in America, and for having all things in common. This scheme they called Pantisocracy." Hence, the phrase must have "caught on," for, in a footnote to his review of Coleridge's _Literary Life_ (_Edin. Rev._, August, 1817, vol. xxviii. p. 501), Jeffrey speaks of "the Pantisocratic or Lake School."]

[212] [Wordsworth _was_ "hired," but not, like Burns, "excised." Hazlitt (_Lectures on the English Poets_, 1870, p. 174) is responsible for the epithet: "Mr. Wordsworth might have shown the incompatibility between the Muse and the Excise," etc.]

[dc] _Confined his pedlar poems to democracy._--[MS.]

[213] [Coleridge began his poetical contributions to the _Morning Post_ in January, 1798; his poetical articles in 1800.]

[dd] _Flourished its sophistry for aristocracy._--[MS.]

[214] [Coleridge was married to Sarah Fricker, October 5; Southey to her younger sister Edith, November 15, 1795. Their father, Stephen Fricker, who had been an innkeeper, and afterwards a potter at Bristol, migrated to Bath about the year 1780. For the last six years of his life he was owner and manager of a coal wharf. He had inherited a small fortune, and his wife brought him money, but he died bankrupt, and left his family destitute. His widow returned to Bristol, and kept a school. In a letter to Murray, dated September 11, 1822 (_Letters_, 1901, vi. 113), Byron quotes the authority of "Luttrell," and "his friend Mr. Nugent," for the statement that Mrs. Southey and "Coleridge's Sara ... before they were married ... were milliner's or dressmaker's apprentices." The story rests upon their evidence. It is certain that in 1794, when Coleridge appeared upon the scene, the sisters earned their living by going out to work in the houses of friends, and were not, at that time, "milliners of Bath."]

{176}[215] [For Joanna Southcott (1750-1814), see _Letters_, 1899, iii. 128-130, note 2.]

[216] [Here follows, in the original MS.--

"Time has approved Ennui to be the best Of friends, and opiate draughts; your love and wine, Which shake so much the human brain and breast, Must end in languor;--men must sleep like swine: The happy lover and the welcome guest Both sink at last into a swoon divine; Full of deep raptures and of bumpers, they Are somewhat sick and sorry the next day."]

{177}[217] ["Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus."--Hor., _Epist. Ad Pisones_, line 359.]

[218] [Wordsworth's _Benjamin the Waggoner_, was written in 1805, but was not published till 1819. "Benjamin" was servant to William Jackson, a Keswick carrier, who built Greta Hall, and let off part of the house to Coleridge.]

[219]

["There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little Boat, Shaped like the crescent-moon."

Wordsworth's _Peter Bell_, stanza i.]

[220] [For Medea's escape from the wrath of Jason, "Titaniacis ablata draconibus," see Ovid., _Met._, vii. 398.]

[221] [In his "Essay, Supplementary to the Preface," to his "Poems" of 1815, Wordsworth, commenting on a passage on Night in Dryden's _Indian Emperor_, says, "Dryden's lines are vague, bombastic, and senseless.... The verses of Dryden once celebrated are forgotten." He is not passing any general criticism on "him who drew _Achitophel_." In a letter to Sir Walter Scott (November 7, 1805), then engaged on his great edition of Dryden's _Works_, he admits that Dryden is not "as a poet any great favourite of mine. I admire his talents and genius highly, but he is not a poetical genius. The only qualities I can find in Dryden that are _essentially_ poetical, are a certain ardour and impetuosity of mind, with an excellent ear" (_Life of Wordsworth_, by W. Knight, 1889, ii. 26-29). Scott may have remarked on Wordsworth's estimate of Dryden in conversation with Byron.]

{178}[de] _While swung the signal from the sacred tower._--[MS.]

{179}[df] _Are not these pretty stanzas?--some folks say--_ _Downright in print_--.--[MS.]

[222] [Compare Coleridge's _Lines to Nature_, which were published in the _Morning Herald_, in 1815, but must have been unknown to Byron--

"So will I build my altar in the fields, And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be."]

[223] ["As early as the fifth or sixth century of the Christian era, the port of Augustus was converted into pleasant orchards, and a lovely grove of pines covered the ground where the Roman fleet once rode at anchor.... This advantageous situation was fortified by art and _labour_, and in the twentieth year of his age, the Emperor of the West ... retired to ... the walls and morasses of Ravenna."--Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_, 1825, ii. 244, 245.]

[224] ["The first time I had a conversation with Lord Byron on the subject of religion was at Ravenna, my native country, in 1820, while we were riding on horseback in an extensive solitary wood of pines. The scene invited to religious meditation. It was a fine day in spring. 'How,' he said, 'raising our eyes to heaven, or directing them to the earth, can we doubt of the existence of God?--or how, turning them to what is within us, can we doubt that there is something more noble and durable than the clay of which we are formed?'"--Count Gamba.]

{180}[225] [If the _Pineta_ of Ravenna, _bois funèbre_, invited Byron "to religious meditation," the mental picture of the "spectre huntsman" pursuing his eternal vengeance on "the inexorable dame"--"that fatal she," who had mocked his woes--must have set in motion another train of thought. Such lines as these would "speak comfortably" to him--

"Because she deem'd I well deserved to die, And _made a merit_ of her cruelty, ... Mine is the ungrateful maid by heaven design'd: Mercy she would not give, nor mercy shall she find."

"By her example warn'd, the rest beware; More easy, less imperious, were the fair; And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd For one fair female, lost him half the kind."

Dryden's _Theodore and Honoria_ (_sub fine_).]

[226]

Εσπερε παντα φερεις [Greek: Espere panta phereis] Φερεις οινον--φερεις αιγα, [Greek: Phereis oinon--phereis aiga,] Φερεις ματερι παιδα. [Greek: Phereis materi paida.]

_Fragment of Sappho._

[Ϝέσπερε, πάντα φέρων, ὅσα φαίνολις ἐσκέδασ' αὔως· [Greek: We/spere, pa/nta phe/rôn, o(/sa phai/nolis e)ske/das' au)/ôs] Φέρεις οἴν φέρεις αἶγα, Φέρεις ἄπυ ματέρι παῖδα. [Greek: Phe/reis oi)/n phe/reis ai~)ga, Phe/reis a)/py mate/ri pai~da.]

_Sappho_, Memoir, Text, by Henry Thornton Wharton, 1895, p. 136.

"Evening, all things thou bringest Which dawn spread apart from each other; The lamb and the kid thou bringest, Thou bringest the boy to his mother."

J.A. Symonds.

Compare Tennyson's _Locksley Hall, Sixty Years After_--"Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things."]

{181}[227]

"Era già l'ora che volge il disio Ai naviganti, e intenerisce il cuore; Lo di ch' han detto ai dolci amici addio; E che lo nuovo peregrin' damore Punge, se ode squilla di lontano, Che paia il giorno pianger che si more."

Dante's _Purgatory_, canto viii., lines 1-6.

This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by him without acknowledgment.

[228] See Suetonius for this fact.

["The public joy was so great upon the occasion of his death, that the common people ran up and down with caps upon their heads. And yet there were some, who for a long time trimmed up his tomb with spring and summer flowers, and, one while, placed his image upon his rostra dressed up in state robes, another while published proclamations in his name, as if he was yet alive, and would shortly come to Rome again, with a vengeance to all his enemies."--_De XII. Cæs._, lib. vi. cap. lvii.]

[dg] _But I'm digressing--what on earth have Nero And Wordsworth--both poetical buffoons, etc._--[MS.]

{182}[229] [See _De Poeticâ_, cap. xxiv. See, too, the Preface to Dryden's "Dedication" of the _Æneis_ (_Works_ of John Dryden, 1821, xiv. 130-134). Dryden is said to have derived his knowledge of Aristotle from Dacier's translation, and it is probable that Byron derived his from Dryden. See letter to Hodgson (_Letters_, 1891, v. 284), in which he quotes Aristotle as quoted in Johnson's _Life of Dryden_.]

CANTO THE FOURTH.

I.

NOTHING so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, Like Lucifer when hurled from Heaven for sinning; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, Being Pride,[230] which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

II.

But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man,--and, as we would hope,--perhaps the Devil, That neither of their intellects are vast: While Youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, We know not this--the blood flows on too fast; But as the torrent widens towards the Ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion.[231]

III.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wished that others held the same opinion; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere Fancy "falls into the yellow Leaf,"[232] and Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

IV.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'T is that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep[dh] Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,[di] Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep: Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

V.

Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be _very_ fine; But the fact is that I have nothing planned, Unless it were to be a moment merry-- A novel word in my vocabulary.

VI.

To the kind reader of our sober clime This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci[233] was sire of the half-serious rhyme,[dj] Who sang when Chivalry was more quixotic, And revelled in the fancies of the time, True Knights, chaste Dames, huge Giants, Kings despotic; But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet.

VII.

How I have treated it, I do not know; Perhaps no better than _they_ have treated me, Who have imputed such designs as show Not what they saw, but what they wished to see: But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, And tells me to resume my story here.[234]

VIII.

Young Juan and his lady-love were left To their own hearts' most sweet society; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sighed to behold them of their hours bereft, Though foe to Love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy Spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing.

IX.

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, They were all summer; lightning might assail And shiver them to ashes, but to trail A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them--they had too little clay.

X.

They were alone once more; for them to be Thus was another Eden; they were never Weary, unless when separate: the tree Cut from its forest root of years--the river Dammed from its fountain--the child from the knee And breast maternal weaned at once for ever,-- Would wither less than these two torn apart;[dk] Alas! there is no instinct like the Heart--

XI.

The Heart--which may be broken: happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold The long year linked with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told; While Life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die.

XII.

"Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,[235] And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more-- The death of Friendship, Love, Youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old Archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave[236] Which men weep over may be meant to save.

XIII.

Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead-- The Heavens, and Earth, and Air, seemed made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: Each was the other's mirror, and but read Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem. And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection.

XIV.

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, The least glance better understood than words, Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much; A language,[237] too, but like to that of birds, Known but to them, at least appearing such As but to lovers a true sense affords; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard--

XV.

All these were theirs, for they were children still, And children still they should have ever been; They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill, A Nymph and her belovéd, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours.

XVI.

Moons changing had rolled on, and changeless found Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys As rarely they beheld throughout their round; And these were not of the vain kind which cloys, For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound By the mere senses; and that which destroys[dl] Most love--possession--unto them appeared A thing which each endearment more endeared.

XVII.

Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful! But theirs was Love in which the Mind delights To lose itself, when the old world grows dull, And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, Intrigues, adventures of the common school, Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, Whose husband only knows her not a whore.

XVIII.

Hard words--harsh truth! a truth which many know. Enough.--The faithful and the fairy pair, Who never found a single hour too slow, What was it made them thus exempt from care? Young innate feelings all have felt below, Which perish in the rest, but in them were Inherent--what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic.

XIX.

This is in others a factitious state, An opium dream[238] of too much youth and reading, But was in them their nature or their fate: No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding,[dm] For Haidée's knowledge was by no means great, And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding; So that there was no reason for their loves More than for those of nightingales or doves.

XX.

They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour Dear unto all, but dearest to _their_ eyes, For it had made them what they were: the power Of Love had first o'erwhelmed them from such skies, When Happiness had been their only dower, And Twilight saw them linked in Passion's ties; Charmed with each other, all things charmed that brought The past still welcome as the present thought.

XXI.

I know not why, but in that hour to-night, Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, When one is shook in sound, and one in sight: And thus some boding flashed through either frame, And called from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, While one new tear arose in Haidée's eye.

XXII.

That large black prophet eye seemed to dilate And follow far the disappearing sun, As if their last day of a happy date With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone; Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate-- He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance inquired of hers for some excuse For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.

XXIII.

She turned to him, and smiled, but in that sort Which makes not others smile; then turned aside: Whatever feeling shook her, it seemed short, And mastered by her wisdom or her pride; When Juan spoke, too--it might be in sport-- Of this their mutual feeling, she replied-- "If it should be so,--but--it cannot be-- Or I at least shall not survive to see."

XXIV.

Juan would question further, but she pressed His lip to hers, and silenced him with this, And then dismissed the omen from her breast, Defying augury with that fond kiss; And no doubt of all methods 't is the best: Some people prefer wine--'t is not amiss; I have tried both--so those who would a part take May choose between the headache and the heartache.

XXV.

One of the two, according to your choice, Woman or wine, you'll have to undergo; Both maladies are taxes on our joys: But which to choose, I really hardly know; And if I had to give a casting voice, For both sides I could many reasons show, And then decide, without great wrong to either, It were much better to have both than neither.

XXVI.

Juan and Haidée gazed upon each other With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, Which mixed all feelings--friend, child, lover, brother-- All that the best can mingle and express When two pure hearts are poured in one another, And love too much, and yet can not love less; But almost sanctify the sweet excess By the immortal wish and power to bless.

XXVII.

Mixed in each other's arms, and heart in heart, Why did they not then die?--they had lived too long Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong; The World was not for them--nor the World's art For beings passionate as Sappho's song; Love was born _with_ them, _in_ them, so intense, It was their very Spirit--not a sense.

XXVIII.

They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale;[239] they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes Called social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:[dn] How lonely every freeborn creature broods! The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.

XXIX.

Now pillowed cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, Haidée and Juan their siesta took, A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, For ever and anon a something shook Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep; And Haidée's sweet lips murmured like a brook A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.[do]

XXX.

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, The mystical Usurper of the mind-- O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind; Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be) Senseless to feel, and with sealed eyes to see.[dp]

XXXI.

She dreamed of being alone on the sea-shore, Chained to a rock; she knew not how, but stir She could not from the spot, and the loud roar Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; And o'er her upper lip they seemed to pour, Until she sobbed for breath, and soon they were Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high-- Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.

XXXII.

Anon--she was released, and then she strayed O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And stumbled almost every step she made: And something rolled before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid: 'T was white and indistinct, nor stopped to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasped, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasped.

XXXIII.

The dream changed:--in a cave[240] she stood, its walls Were hung with marble icicles; the work Of ages on its water-fretted halls, Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seemed turned to tears, and mirk The sharp rocks looked below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell,--she thought.[dq]

XXXIV.

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that frothed on his dead brow, Which she essayed in vain to clear, (how sweet Were once her cares, how idle seemed they now!) Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat Of his quenched heart: and the sea dirges low Rang in her sad ears like a Mermaid's song, And that brief dream appeared a life too long.

XXXV.

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face Faded, or altered into something new-- Like to her Father's features, till each trace More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew-- With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; And starting, she awoke, and what to view? Oh! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? 'T is--'t is her Father's--fixed upon the pair!

XXXVI.

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see Him whom she deemed a habitant where dwell The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be Perchance the death of one she loved too well: Dear as her father had been to Haidée, It was a moment of that awful kind-- I have seen such--but must not call to mind.

XXXVII.

Up Juan sprang to Haidée's bitter shriek, And caught her falling, and from off the wall Snatched down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak Vengeance on him who was the cause of all: Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, Smiled scornfully, and said, "Within my call, A thousand scimitars await the word; Put up, young man, put up your silly sword."

XXXVIII.

And Haidée clung around him; "Juan, 't is-- 'T is Lambro--'t is my father! Kneel with me-- He will forgive us--yes--it must be--yes. Oh! dearest father, in this agony Of pleasure and of pain--even while I kiss Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy."

XXXIX.

High and inscrutable the old man stood, Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye-- Not always signs with him of calmest mood: He looked upon her, but gave no reply; Then turned to Juan, in whose cheek the blood Oft came and went, as there resolved to die; In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring.

XL.

"Young man, your sword;" so Lambro once more said: Juan replied, "Not while this arm is free." The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, And drawing from his belt a pistol he Replied, "Your blood be then on your own head." Then looked close at the flint, as if to see 'T was fresh--for he had lately used the lock-- And next proceeded quietly to cock.

XLI.

It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; A gentlemanly distance, not too near, If you have got a former friend for foe; But after being fired at once or twice, The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.

XLII.

Lambro presented, and one instant more Had stopped this Canto, and Don Juan's breath, When Haidée threw herself her boy before; Stern as her sire: "On me," she cried, "let Death Descend--the fault is mine; this fatal shore He found--but sought not. I have pledged my faith; I love him--I will die with him: I knew Your nature's firmness--know your daughter's too."

XLIII.

A minute past, and she had been all tears, And tenderness, and infancy; but now She stood as one who championed human fears-- Pale, statue-like, and stern, she wooed the blow; And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, She drew up to her height, as if to show A fairer mark; and with a fixed eye scanned Her Father's face--but never stopped his hand.

XLIV.

He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange How like they looked! the expression was the same; Serenely savage, with a little change In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame; For she, too, was as one who could avenge, If cause should be--a Lioness, though tame. Her Father's blood before her Father's face Boiled up, and proved her truly of his race.

XLV.

I said they were alike, their features and Their stature, differing but in sex and years; Even to the delicacy of their hand[241] There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; And now to see them, thus divided, stand In fixed ferocity, when joyous tears And sweet sensations should have welcomed both, Shows what the passions are in their full growth.

XLVI.

The father paused a moment, then withdrew His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, And looking on her, as to look her through, "Not _I_," he said, "have sought this stranger's ill; Not _I_ have made this desolation: few Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; But I must do my duty--how thou hast Done thine, the present vouches for the past.[dr]

XLVII.

"Let him disarm; or, by my father's head, His own shall roll before you like a ball!" He raised his whistle, as the word he said, And blew; another answered to the call, And rushing in disorderly, though led, And armed from boot to turban, one and all, Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; He gave the word,--"Arrest or slay the Frank."

XLVIII.

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew His daughter; while compressed within his clasp, Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; In vain she struggled in her father's grasp-- His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, The file of pirates--save the foremost, who Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through.

XLIX.

The second had his cheek laid open; but The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took The blows upon his cutlass, and then put His own well in; so well, ere you could look, His man was floored, and helpless at his foot, With the blood running like a little brook From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red-- One on the arm, the other on the head.

L.

And then they bound him where he fell, and bore Juan from the apartment: with a sign Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.[ds] They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar Until they reached some galliots, placed in line; On board of one of these, and under hatches, They stowed him, with strict orders to the watches.

LI.

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, Handsome and young, enjoying all the present,[dt] Just at the very time when he least broods On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, Wounded and chained, so that he cannot move, And all because a lady fell in love.

LII.

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; For if my pure libations exceed three, I feel my heart become so sympathetic, That I must have recourse to black Bohea: 'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, For tea and coffee leave us much more serious,

LIII.

Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac! Sweet Naïad of the Phlegethontic rill! Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,[du]-- And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? I would take refuge in weak punch, but _rack_ (In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, Wakes me next morning with its synonym.[242]

LIV.

I leave Don Juan for the present, safe-- Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half Of those with which his Haidée's bosom bounded? She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, And then give way, subdued because surrounded; Her mother was a Moorish maid from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.

LV.

There the large olive rains its amber store In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er;[243] But there, too, many a poison-tree has root, And Midnight listens to the lion's roar, And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan; And as the soil is, so the heart of man.

LVI.

Afric is all the Sun's, and as her earth Her human clay is kindled; full of power For good or evil, burning from its birth, The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And like the soil beneath it will bring forth: Beauty and love were Haidée's mother's dower; But her large dark eye showed deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.[dv]

LVII.

Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder they display Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, Had held till now her soft and milky way; But overwrought with Passion and Despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the Simoom[244] sweeps the blasted plains.

LVIII.

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, And he himself o'ermastered and cut down; His blood was running on the very floor Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own; Thus much she viewed an instant and no more,-- Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her Sire's arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled.

LIX.

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes[dw] Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;[245] And her head drooped, as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summoned handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, But she defied all means they could employ, Like one Life could not hold, nor Death destroy.

LX.

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill-- With nothing livid, still her lips were red; She had no pulse, but Death seemed absent still; No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead; Corruption came not in each mind to kill All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred New thoughts of Life, for it seemed full of soul-- She had so much, Earth could not claim the whole.

LXI.

The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitely chiselled, still lay there, But fixed as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;[246] O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.--[dx]

LXII.

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Rather the dead, for Life seemed something new, A strange sensation which she must partake Perforce, since whatsoever met her view Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the Furies made a pause.

LXIII.

She looked on many a face with vacant eye, On many a token without knowing what: She saw them watch her without asking why, And recked not who around her pillow sat; Not speechless, though she spoke not--not a sigh Relieved her thoughts--dull silence and quick chat Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.

LXIV.

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; Her Father watched, she turned her eyes away; She recognised no being, and no spot, However dear or cherished in their day; They changed from room to room--but all forgot-- Gentle, but without memory she lay; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, waxed full of fearful meaning.

LXV.

And then a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came, and tuned his instrument; At the first notes, irregular and sharp, On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, Then to the wall she turned as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent; And he began a long low island-song Of ancient days, ere Tyranny grew strong.

LXVI.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune: he changed the theme, And sung of Love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

LXVII.

Short solace, vain relief!--Thought came too quick, And whirled her brain to madness; she arose As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, And flew at all she met, as on her foes; But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Although her paroxysm drew towards its close;-- Hers was a frenzy which disdained to rave, Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.

LXVIII.

Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her Father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence Availed for either; neither change of place, Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep--the power seemed gone for ever.

LXIX.

Twelve days and nights she withered thus; at last, Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show A parting pang, the spirit from her passed: And they who watched her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,[dy] Glazed o'er her eyes--the beautiful, the black-- Oh! to possess such lustre--and then lack!

LXX.

She died, but not alone; she held, within, A second principle of Life, which might Have dawned a fair and sinless child of sin;[dz] But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein Blossom and bough lie withered with one blight; In vain the dews of Heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of Love.

LXXI.

Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her Shall Sorrow light, or Shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful--such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well[247] By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.

LXXII.

That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away; None but her own and Father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, No stone is there to show, no tongue to say, What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's,[ea] Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.

LXXIII.

But many a Greek maid in a loving song Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander With her Sire's story makes the night less long; Valour was his, and Beauty dwelt with her: If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong-- A heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, For soon or late Love is his own avenger.

LXXIV.

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; I don't much like describing people mad, For fear of seeming rather touched myself-- Besides, I've no more on this head to add; And as my Muse is a capricious elf, We'll put about, and try another tack With Juan, left half-killed some stanzas back.

LXXV.

Wounded and fettered, "cabined, cribbed, confined,"[248] Some days and nights elapsed before that he Could altogether call the past to mind; And when he did, he found himself at sea, Sailing six knots an hour before the wind; The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee-- Another time he might have liked to see 'em, But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigeum.

LXXVI.

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is (Flanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea) Entombed the bravest of the brave, Achilles; They say so--(Bryant[249] says the contrary): And further downward, tall and towering still, is The tumulus--of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus-- All heroes, who if living still would slay us.[eb]

LXXVII.

High barrows, without marble, or a name, A vast, untilled, and mountain-skirted plain,[ec] And Ida in the distance, still the same, And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain; The situation seems still formed for fame-- A hundred thousand men might fight again, With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise[250] crawls;[ed]

LXXVIII.

Troops of untended horses; here and there Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare A moment at the European youth Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear;[ee] A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there--but the devil a Phrygian.

LXXIX.

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, O'ershadowed there by many a Hero's grave; Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge A few brief questions; and the answers gave No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation.

LXXX.

He saw some fellow captives, who appeared To be Italians (as they were in fact)-- From them, at least, _their_ destiny he heard, Which was an odd one; a troop going to act In Sicily--all singers, duly reared In their vocation, had not been attacked In sailing from Livorno by the pirate, But sold by the _impresario_ at no high rate.[251]

LXXXI.

By one of these, the _buffo_[252] of the party, Juan was told about their curious case; For although destined to the Turkish mart, he Still kept his spirits up--at least his face; The little fellow really looked quite hearty, And bore him with some gaiety and grace, Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, Than did the prima donna and the tenor.

LXXXII.

In a few words he told their hapless story, Saying, "Our Machiavelian _impresario_, Making a signal off some promontory, Hailed a strange brig--_Corpo di Caio Mario!_ We were transferred on board her in a hurry, Without a single scudo of _salario_; But if the Sultan has a taste for song, We will revive our fortunes before long.

LXXXIII.

"The prima donna, though a little old, And haggard with a dissipated life, And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife, With no great voice, is pleasing to behold; Last carnival she made a deal of strife, By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna From an old Roman Princess at Bologna.

LXXXIV.

"And then there are the dancers; there's the Nini, With more than one profession gains by all; Then there's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, She, too, was fortunate last Carnival, And made at least five hundred good _zecchini_, But spends so fast, she has not now a paul; And then there's the Grotesca--such a dancer! Where men have souls or bodies she must answer.

LXXXV.

"As for the _figuranti_,[253] they are like The rest of all that tribe; with here and there A pretty person, which perhaps may strike-- The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; There's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, Yet has a sentimental kind of air Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour-- The more's the pity, with her face and figure.

LXXXVI.

"As for the men, they are a middling set; The _musico_ is but a cracked old basin, But, being qualified in one way yet, May the seraglio do to set his face in,[ef] And as a servant some preferment get; His singing I no further trust can place in: From all the Pope[254] makes yearly 't would perplex To find three perfect pipes of the _third_ sex.

LXXXVII.

"The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation; And for the bass, the beast can only bellow-- In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow; But being the prima donna's near relation, Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe An ass was practising recitative.

LXXXVIII.

"'T would not become myself to dwell upon My own merits, and though young--I see, Sir--you Have got a travelled air, which speaks you one To whom the opera is by no means new: You've heard of Raucocanti?--I'm the man; The time may come when you may hear me too; You was[255] not last year at the fair of Lugo, But next, when I'm engaged to sing there--do go.

LXXXIX.

"Our baritone I almost had forgot, A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; With graceful action, science not a jot, A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, He always is complaining of his lot, Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth."[eg]

XC.

Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital Was interrupted by the pirate crew, Who came at stated moments to invite all The captives back to their sad berths; each threw A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all From the blue skies derived a double blue, Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) And then went down the hatchway one by one.

XCI.

They heard next day--that in the Dardanelles, Waiting for his Sublimity's firman,[256] The most imperative of sovereign spells, Which everybody does without who can, More to secure them in their naval cells, Lady to lady, well as man to man, Were to be chained and lotted out per couple, For the slave market of Constantinople.

XCII.

It seems when this allotment was made out, There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, Who (after some discussion and some doubt, If the soprano might be deemed to be male, They placed him o'er the women as a scout) Were linked together, and it happened the male Was Juan,--who, an awkward thing at his age, Paired off with a Bacchante blooming visage.

XCIII.

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chained The tenor; these two hated with a hate Found only on the stage, and each more pained With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grained, Instead of bearing up without debate, That each pulled different ways with many an oath, "Arcades ambo," _id est_--blackguards both.[eh]

XCIV.

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, But bred within the march of old Ancona, With eyes that looked into the very soul (And other chief points of a _bella donna_), Bright--and as black and burning as a coal; And through her clear brunette complexion shone a Great wish to please--a most attractive dower, Especially when added to the power.

XCV.

But all that power was wasted upon him, For Sorrow o'er each sense held stern command; Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim: And though thus chained, as natural her hand Touched his, nor that--nor any handsome limb (And she had some not easy to withstand) Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little.

XCVI.

No matter; we should ne'er too much inquire, But facts are facts: no Knight could be more true, And firmer faith no Ladye-love desire; We will omit the proofs, save one or two: 'T is said no one in hand "can hold a fire By thought of frosty Caucasus"[257]--but few, I really think--yet Juan's then ordeal Was more triumphant, and not much less real.

XCVII.

Here I might enter on a chaste description, Having withstood temptation in my youth,[ei] But hear that several people take exception At the first two books having too much truth; Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon, Because the publisher declares, in sooth, Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is To pass, than those two cantos into families.

XCVIII.

'T is all the same to me; I'm fond of yielding, And therefore leave them to the purer page Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, Who say strange things for so correct an age;[258] I once had great alacrity in wielding My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, And recollect the time when all this cant Would have provoked remarks--which now it shan't.

XCIX.

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; But at this hour I wish to part in peace, Leaving such to the literary rabble; Whether my verse's fame be doomed to cease While the right hand which wrote it still is able, Or of some centuries to take a lease, The grass upon my grave will grow as long, And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.

C.

Of poets who come down to us through distance Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, Life seems the smallest portion of existence; Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 'T is as a snowball which derives assistance From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow.

CI.

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, And love of Glory's but an airy lust, Too often in its fury overcoming all Who would as 't were identify their dust From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, Leaves nothing till "the coming of the just"-- Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, And heard Troy doubted;[259] Time will doubt of Rome.

CII.

The very generations of the dead Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an Age is fled, And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? Save a few gleaned from the sepulchral gloom Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, And lose their own in universal Death.

CIII.

I canter by the spot each afternoon Where perished in his fame the hero-boy, Who lived too long for men, but died too soon For human vanity, the young De Foix! A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, But which Neglect is hastening to destroy, Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.[260]

CIV.

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid:[261] A little cupola, more neat than solemn, Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid[ej] To the Bard's tomb, and not the Warrior's column: The time must come, when both alike decayed, The Chieftain's trophy, and the Poet's volume, Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth.

CV.

With human blood that column was cemented, With human filth that column is defiled, As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented To show his loathing of the spot he soiled:[ek] Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild Instinct of gore and glory Earth has known Those sufferings Dante saw in Hell alone.[el]

CVI.

Yet there will still be bards: though Fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke Song in the world, will seek what then they sought;[em] As on the beach the waves at last are broke, Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought Dash into poetry, which is but Passion, Or, at least, was so ere it grew a fashion.

CVII.

If in the course of such a life as was At once adventurous and contemplative, Men who partake all passions as they pass, Acquire the deep and bitter power to give[en] Their images again as in a glass, And in such colours that they seem to live; You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.[262]

CVIII.

Oh! ye, who make the fortunes of all books! Benign Ceruleans of the second sex! Who advertise new poems by your looks, Your "Imprimatur" will ye not annex? What! must I go to the oblivious cooks,[eo] Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? Ah! must I then the only minstrel be, Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea![263]

CIX.

What! can I prove "a lion" then no more? A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? To bear the compliments of many a bore, And sigh, "I can't get out," like Yorick's starling;[264] Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore (Because the world won't read him, always snarling), That Taste is gone, that Fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.[265]

CX.

Oh! "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,"[266] As some one somewhere sings about the sky, And I, ye learnéd ladies, say of you; They say your stockings are so--(Heaven knows why, I have examined few pair of that hue); Blue as the garters which serenely lie Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn The festal midnight, and the levee morn.[ep]

CXI.

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures-- But times are altered since, a rhyming lover, You read my stanzas, and I read your features: And--but no matter, all those things are over; Still I have no dislike to learnéd natures, For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; I knew one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but--quite a fool.[267]

CXIII.

Humboldt, "the first of travellers," but not The last, if late accounts be accurate, Invented, by some name I have forgot, As well as the sublime discovery's date, An airy instrument, with which he sought To ascertain the atmospheric state, By measuring "the _intensity of blue:_"[268] Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you![eq]

CXIII.

But to the narrative:--The vessel bound With slaves to sell off in the capital, After the usual process, might be found At anchor under the seraglio wall; Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, Were landed in the market,[269] one and all; And, there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, Bought up for different purposes and passions.

CXIV.

Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, Warranted virgin; Beauty's brightest colours Had decked her out in all the hues of heaven: Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, Who bade on till the hundreds reached eleven; But when the offer went beyond, they knew 'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.

CXV.

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price Which the West Indian market scarce could bring-- Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice What 't was ere Abolition; and the thing Need not seem very wonderful, for Vice Is always much more splendid than a King: The Virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, Are saving--Vice spares nothing for a rarity.

CXVI.

But for the destiny of this young troop, How some were bought by Pachas, some by Jews, How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, And others rose to the command of crews As renegadoes; while in hapless group, Hoping no very old Vizier might choose, The females stood, as one by one they picked 'em, To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim:[er]

CXVII.

All this must be reserved for further song; Also our Hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant (Because this Canto has become too long),[es] Must be postponed discreetly for the present; I'm sensible redundancy is wrong, But could not for the Muse of me put less in 't: And now delay the progress of Don Juan, Till what is called in Ossian the fifth Duan.

Written Nov. 1819. Copied January, 1820.

FOOTNOTES:

{183}[230]

["Till Pride and worse Ambition threw me down, Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King."

_Paradise Lost_, iv. 40, 41.]

[231]

["Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy: In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r; With listless eyes the dotard views the store, He views, and wonders that they please no more."

Johnson's _Vanity of Human Wishes._]

{184}[232]

[" ... my May of Life Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf."

_Macbeth_, act v. sc. 3, lines 22, 23.]

[dh] _Itself to that fit apathy whose deed._--[MS.]

[di] _First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring._--[MS.]

[233] [See "Introduction to the _Morgante Maggiore_," _Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 280.]

[dj] _Pulci being Father_--.--[MS. Alternative reading.]

{185}[234] ["Cum canerem reges et prælia, Cynthius aurem Vellit, et admonuit." Virgil, _Ecl._ vi. lines 3, 4.]

{186}[dk] ---- _from its mother's knee_ _When its last weaning draught is drained for ever_, _The child divided--it were less to see_, _Than these two from each other torn apart_.--[MS.]

[235] [See Herodotus (_Cleobis and Biton_), i. 31. The sentiment is in a fragment of Menander.

Ὅν οἱ θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν ἀποθνήσκει νέος [Greek: O(/n oi( theoi\ philou~sin a)pothnê/skei ne/os] or Ὅν γὰρ φιλεῖ θεὸς ἀποθνήσκει νέος. [Greek: O(/n ga\r philei~ theo\s a)pothnê/skei ne/os.]

_Menandri at Philomenis reliquiæ_, edidit Augustus Meineke, p. 48.

See _Letters_, 1898, ii. 22, note 1. Byron applied the saying to Allegra in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, dated May 4, 1822, _Letters_, 1901, vi. 57.]

[236] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto II. stanza xcvi. line 7. Compare, too, Young's _Night Thoughts_ ("The Complaint," Night I. ed. 1825, p. 5)]

{187}[237] [Compare Swift's "little language" in his letter to Stella: _Podefar_, for instance, which is supposed to stand for "Poor dear foolish rogue," and Ppt., which meant "Poor pretty thing."--See _The Journal of Stella_, edited by G.A. Aitken, 1901, xxxv. note 1, and "Journal: March, 1710-11," 165, note 2.]

[dl] _For theirs were buoyant spirits, which would bound_ _'Gainst common failings, etc_.--[MS.]

{188}[238] [The reference may be to Coleridge's _Kubla Khan_, which, to Medwin's wonderment, "delighted" Byron (_Conversations_, 1824, p. 264). De Quincy's _Confessions of an English Opium Eater_ appeared in the _London Magazine_, October, November, 1821, after Cantos III., IV., V., of _Don Juan_ were published. But, perhaps, he was contrasting the "simpler blisses" of Juan and Haidée with Shelley's mystical affinities and divagations.]

[dm] _---- had set their hearts a bleeding._--[MS.]

{190}[239]

["The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: There can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses, and record, my woes."

_Two Gentlemen of Verona_, act v. sc. 4, lines 2-6.]

{191}[dn] _Called social, where all Vice and Hatred are._--[MS.]

[do] _Moved with her dream----._--[MS.]

[dp] _Strange state of being!--for 't is still to be--_ _And who can know all false what then we see?_--[MS.]

{192}[240] [Compare the description of the "spacious cave," in _The Island_, Canto IV. lines 121, _sq., Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 629, note 1.]

[dq]---- _methought_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]

{195}[241] [The reader will observe a curious mark of propinquity which the poet notices, with respect to the hands of the father and daughter. Lord Byron, we suspect, is indebted for the first hint of this to Ali Pacha, who, by the bye, is the original of Lambro; for, when his lordship was introduced, with his friend Hobhouse, to that agreeable mannered tyrant, the Vizier said that he knew he was the _Megalos Anthropos_ (i.e. the great Man), by the smallness of his ears and hands.--Galt. See Byron's letter to his mother, November 12, 1809, _Letters_, 1898, i. 251.]

[dr] _And if_ I _did my duty as_ thou _hast_, _This hour were thine, and thy young minions last_.--[MS.]

{196}[ds] _Till further orders should his doom assign_.--[MS.]

[dt] _Loving and loved_--.--[MS.]

{197}[du] _But thou, sweet fury of the fiery rill,_ _Makest on the liver a still worse attack;_ _Besides, thy price is something dearer still_.--[MS.]

[242] ["As squire Sullen says, '\My head aches consumedly,' 'Scrub, bring me a dram!' Drank some Imola wine, and some punch!"--_Extracts from a Diary_, February 25, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 209. For rack or "arrack" punch, see Thackeray's _Vanity Fair, A Novel without a Hero_, chap. vi. ed. 1892, p. 44.]

{198}[243] ["At Fas [Fez] the houses of the great and wealthy have, within-side, spacious courts, adorned with sumptuous galleries, fountains, basons of fine marble, and fish-ponds, shaded with orange, lemon, pomegranate, and fig trees, abounding with fruit, and ornamented with roses, hyacinths, jasmine, violets, and orange flowers, emitting a delectable fragrance."--_Account of the Empire of Marocco and Suez_, by James Grey Jackson, 1811, pp. 69, 70.]

[dv] _Beauty and Passion were the natural dower_ _Of Haidée's mother, but her climate's force_ _Lay at her heart, though sleeping at the source_. or, _But in her large eye lay deep Passion's force_, _Like to a lion sleeping by a source_. or, _But in her large eye lay deep Passion's force_, _As sleeps a lion by a river's source_.--[MS.]

[244] [Compare _Manfred_, act iii. sc. 1, line 128, _Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 125.]

{199}[dw] _The blood gushed from her lips, and ears, and eyes:_ _Those eyes, so beautiful--beheld no more_.--[MS.]

[245] This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis Foscari, on his deposition in 1457, hearing the bells of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, "mourut subitement d'une hémorragie causée par une veine qui s'éclata dans sa poitrine" [see Sismondi, 1815, x. 46, and Daru, 1821, ii. 536; see, too, _The Two Foscari_, act v. sc. i, line 306, and Introduction to the _Two Foscari_, _Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 118, 193], at the age of eighty years, when "_Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?_" (_Macbeth_, act v. sc. 1, lines 34-36.) Before I was sixteen years of age I was witness to a melancholy instance of the same effect of mixed passions upon a young person, who, however, did not die in consequence, at that time, but fell a victim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same kind, arising from causes intimately connected with agitation of mind.

{200}[246] [The view of the Venus of Medici instantly suggests the lines in the "Seasons" [the description of "Musidora bathing" in _Summer_]--

" ... With wild surprise, As if to marble struck, devoid of sense, A stupid moment motionless she stood: So stands the statue that enchants the world."

Hobhouse.

A still closer parallel to this stanza, and to _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanzas xlix., cxl., cxli., clx., clxi., is to be found in Thomson's _Liberty_, pt. iv. lines 131-206, where the "Farnese Hercules," the "Dying Gladiator," the "Venus of Medici," and the "Laocoon" group, are commemorated as typical works of art.]

[dx] _Distinct from life, as being still the same_.--[MS.]

{202}[dy] _--working slow._--[MS.]

[dz] _Have dawned a child of beauty, though of sin._--[MS.]

[247]

[" ... Duncan is in his grave: After life's fitful fever he sleeps well."

_Macbeth_, act iii. sc. 2., lines 22, 23.]

{203}[ea] _No stone is there to read, nor tongue to say_, _No dirge--save when arise the stormy seas_.--[MS.]

[248] ["But now I am cabined, cribbed," etc. _Macbeth_, act iii. sc. 4, line 24.]

{204}[249] [Jacob Bryant (1715-1804) published his _Dissertation concerning the War of Troy, etc._, in 1796. See _The Bride of Abydos_,