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Best Famous Wedding Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Wedding poems. This is a select list of the best famous Wedding poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Wedding poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of wedding poems.

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by Sylvia Plath |

Berck-Plage

(1)

This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.

Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.

Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly..

A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices

Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,

Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?

Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers

Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.

The sea, that crystallized these, 
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.


(2)

This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot,

The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,

The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes,

Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,

While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed----

Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.

O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....

And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material

Through a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.


(3)

On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things----

Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk

Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,

I am not a smile. 
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,

And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man: his red ribs,

The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye----

A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room

An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.

Where are the eye-stones, yellow and vvaluable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.


(4)

A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.

It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;

They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.

This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit

Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?

They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking: goodbye, goodbye.

Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening. 

It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,

The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.


(5)

The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,

The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife----
Blunt, practical boats

Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house

One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.

This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions

Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather----

The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.

They are flying off into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,

Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place.


(6)

The natural fatness of these lime leaves!----
Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church.

The voice of the priest, in thin air, 
Meets the corpse at the gate,

Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glittler of wheat and crude earth.

What is the name of that color?----
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,

Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,

Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her lace like fine linen,

Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,

Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a fershness,

And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.

(7)

Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.

And I am dark-suited and stil, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.

And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric,sorry and dull,

Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips

Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children

Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,

Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing----

Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.

For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.


by Sylvia Plath |

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it_____
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

(1962)


by Edmund Spenser |

Prothalamion

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air 
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play¡ª 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; 
When I, (whom sullen care, 5 
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 
In princes' court, and expectation vain 
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away 
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain,) 
Walk'd forth to ease my pain 10 
Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames, 
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, 
Was painted all with variable flowers, 
And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems 
Fit to deck maidens' bowers, 15 
And crown their paramours 
Against the bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

There in a meadow by the river's side 
A flock of nymphs I chanc¨¨d to espy, 20 
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied 
As each had been a bride; 
And each one had a little wicker basket 
Made of fine twigs, entrail¨¨d curiously. 25 
In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket, 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously 
The tender stalks on high. 
Of every sort which in that meadow grew 
They gather'd some¡ªthe violet, pallid blue, 30 
The little daisy that at evening closes, 
The virgin lily and the primrose true, 
With store of vermeil roses, 
To deck their bridegrooms' posies 
Against the bridal day, which was not long: 35 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue 
Come softly swimming down along the Lee: 
Two fairer birds I yet did never see; 
The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow 40 
Did never whiter show, 
Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be 
For love of Leda, whiter did appear; 
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, 
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; 45 
So purely white they were 
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare? 
Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare 
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 50 
And mar their beauties bright 
That shone as Heaven's light 
Against their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill? 55 
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood 
As they came floating on the crystal flood; 
Whom when they saw, they stood amaz¨¨d still 
Their wondering eyes to fill; 
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair 60 
Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem 
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; 
For sure they did not seem 
To be begot of any earthly seed, 65 
But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed; 
Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, 
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 
The earth did fresh array; 
So fresh they seem'd as day, 70 
Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 75 
All which upon those goodly birds they threw 
And all the waves did strew, 
That like old Peneus' waters they did seem 
When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore 
Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, 80 
That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, 
Like a bride's chamber-floor. 
Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound 
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, 
The which presenting all in trim array, 85 
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd; 
Whilst one did sing this lay 
Prepared against that day, 
Against their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 90 

"Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament, 
And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 
Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 
Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content 
Of your love's couplement; 95 
And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, 
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, 
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 
All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 
For ever to assoil. 100 
Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, 
And blessed plenty wait upon your board; 
And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, 
That fruitful issue may to you afford 
Which may your foes confound, 105 
And make your joys redound 
Upon your bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song." 

So ended she; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that her undersong, 110 
Which said their bridal day should not be long; 
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birds did pass along 
Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low, 115 
As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue; 
Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 
Making his stream run slow. 
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 120 
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
The lesser stars. So they, enrang¨¨d well, 
Did on those two attend, 
And their best service lend 
Against their wedding day, which was not long: 125 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

At length they all to merry London came, 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
That to me gave this life's first native source, 
Though from another place I take my name, 130 
An house of ancient fame: 
There when they came whereas those bricky towers 
The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride, 
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide, 135 
Till they decay'd through pride; 
Next whereunto there stands a stately place, 
Where oft I gain¨¨d gifts and goodly grace 
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, 
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case: 140 
But ah! here fits not well 
Old woes, but joys to tell 
Against the bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 145 
Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder, 
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, 
And Hercules' two pillars standing near 
Did make to quake and fear: 
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! 150 
That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame 
Joy have thou of thy noble victory, 
And endless happiness of thine own name 
That promiseth the same; 
That through thy prowess and victorious arms 155 
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms, 
And great Elisa's glorious name may ring 
Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms, 
Which some brave Muse may sing 
To ages following: 160 
Upon the bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

From those high towers this noble lord iss¨²ing 
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair 
In th' ocean billows he hath bath¨¨d fair, 165 
Descended to the river's open viewing 
With a great train ensuing. 
Above the rest were goodly to be seen 
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, 
Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 170 
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, 
Fit for so goodly stature, 
That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight 
Which deck the baldric of the heavens bright; 
They two, forth pacing to the river's side, 175 
Received those two fair brides, their love's delight; 
Which, at th' appointed tide, 
Each one did make his bride 
Against their bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 180 


by Lascelles Abercrombie |

Emblems of Love

She

ONLY to be twin elements of joy
In this extravagance of Being, Love,
Were our divided natures shaped in twain;
And to this hour the whole world must consent.
Is it not very marvellous, our lives
Can only come to this out of a long
Strange sundering, with the years of the world between us?

He

Shall life do more than God? for hath not God
Striven with himself, when into known delight
His unaccomplisht joy he would put forth,—
This mystery of a world sign of his striving?
Else wherefore this, a thing to break the mind
With labouring in the wonder of it, that here
Being—the world and we—is suffered to be!—
But, lying on thy breast one notable day,
Sudden exceeding agony of love
Made my mind a trance of infinite knowledge.
I was not: yet I saw the will of God
As light unfashion’d, unendurable flame,
Interminable, not to be supposed;
And there was no more creature except light,—
The dreadful burning of the lonely God’s
Unutter’d joy. And then, past telling, came
Shuddering and division in the light:
Therein, like trembling, was desire to know
Its own perfect beauty; and it became
A cloven fire, a double flaming, each
Adorable to each; against itself
Waging a burning love, which was the world;—
A moment satisfied in that love-strife
I knew the world!—And when I fell from there,
Then knew I also what this life would do
In being twin,—in being man and woman!
For it would do even as its endless Master,
Making the world, had done; yea, with itself
Would strive, and for the strife would into sex
Be cloven, double burning, made thereby
Desirable to itself. Contrivèd joy
Is sex in life; and by no other thing
Than by a perfect sundering, could life
Change the dark stream of unappointed joy
To perfect praise of itself, the glee that loves
And worships its own Being. This is ours!
Yet only for that we have been so long
Sundered desire: thence is our life all praise.—
But we, well knowing by our strength of joy
There is no sundering more, how far we love
From those sad lives that know a half-love only,
Alone thereby knowing themselves for ever
Sealed in division of love, and therefore made
To pour their strength always into their love’s
Fierceness, as green wood bleeds its hissing sap
Into red heat of a fire! Not so do we:
The cloven anger, life, hath left to wage
Its flame against itself, here turned to one
Self-adoration.—Ah, what comes of this?
The joy falters a moment, with closed wings
Wearying in its upward journey, ere
Again it goes on high, bearing its song,
Its delight breathing and its vigour beating
The highest height of the air above the world.

She

What hast thou done to me!—I would have soul,
Before I knew thee, Love, a captive held
By flesh. Now, inly delighted with desire,
My body knows itself to be nought else
But thy heart’s worship of me; and my soul
Therein is sunlight held by warm gold air.
Nay, all my body is become a song
Upon the breath of spirit, a love-song.

He

And mine is all like one rapt faculty,
As it were listening to the love in thee,
My whole mortality trembling to take
Thy body like heard singing of thy spirit.

She

Surely by this, Beloved, we must know
Our love is perfect here,—that not as holds
The common dullard thought, we are things lost
In an amazement that is all unware;
But wonderfully knowing what we are!
Lo, now that body is the song whereof
Spirit is mood, knoweth not our delight?
Knoweth not beautifully now our love,
That Life, here to this festival bid come
Clad in his splendour of worldly day and night,
Filled and empower’d by heavenly lust, is all
The glad imagination of the Spirit?

He

Were it not so, Love could not be at all:
Nought could be, but a yearning to fulfil
Desire of beauty, by vain reaching forth
Of sense to hold and understand the vision
Made by impassion’d body,—vision of thee!
But music mixt with music are, in love,
Bodily senses; and as flame hath light,
Spirit this nature hath imagined round it,
No way concealed therein, when love comes near,
Nor in the perfect wedding of desires
Suffering any hindrance.

She

Ah, but now,
Now am I given love’s eternal secret!
Yea, thou and I who speak, are but the joy
Of our for ever mated spirits; but now
The wisdom of my gladness even through Spirit
Looks, divinely elate. Who hath for joy
Our Spirits? Who hath imagined them
Round him in fashion’d radiance of desire,
As into light of these exulting bodies
Flaming Spirit is uttered?

He

Yea, here the end
Of love’s astonishment! Now know we Spirit,
And Who, for ease of joy, contriveth Spirit.
Now all life’s loveliness and power we have
Dissolved in this one moment, and our burning
Carries all shining upward, till in us
Life is not life, but the desire of God,
Himself desiring and himself accepting.
Now what was prophecy in us is made
Fulfilment: we are the hour and we are the joy,
We in our marvellousness of single knowledge,
Of Spirit breaking down the room of fate
And drawing into his light the greeting fire
Of God,—God known in ecstasy of love
Wedding himself to utterance of himself 


by Anna Akhmatova |

White Flock

Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.com)
Origin: http://www.geocities.com/ilya_shambat/akhmatova.html

 * I * 

We thought we were beggars, we thought we had nothing at all
But then when we started to lose one thing after another,
Each day became
A memorial day --
And then we made songs
Of great divine generosity
And of our former riches.


Unification

I'll leave your quiet yard and your white house -
Let life be empty and with light complete.
I'll sing the glory to you in my verse
Like not one woman has sung glory yet.
And that dear girlfriend you remember
In heaven you created for her sight,
I'm trading product that is very rare -
I sell your tenderness and loving light.



Song about Song

So many stones have been thrown at me
That I don't fear them any longer
Like elegant tower the westerner stands free
Among tall towers, the taller.
I'm grateful to their builders -- so be gone
Their sadness and their worry, go away,
Early from here I can see the dawn
And here triumphant lives the sun's last ray.
And frequently into my room's window
The winds from northern seas begin to blow
And pigeon from my palms eats wheat..
The pages that I did not complete
Divinely light she is and calm,
Will finish Muse's suntanned arm.



x x x

Just like a cold noreaster
At first she'll sting,
And then a single salty tear
The heart will wring.

The evil heart will pity
Something and then regret.
But this light-headed sadness
It will not forget.

I only sow. To harvest.
Others will come. And yes!
The lovely group of harvesters
May true God bless.

And that more perfectly I could
Give to you gratitude,
Allow me to give the world
Love incorruptible.



x x x

My voice is weak, but will does not get weaker.
It has become still better without love,
The sky is tall, the mountain wind is blowing
My thoughts are sinless to true God above.
The sleeplessness has gone to other places,
I do not on grey ashes count my sorrow,
And the skewed arrow of the clock face
Does not look to me like a deadly arrow.
How past over the heart is losing power!
Freedom is near. I will forgive all yet,
Watching, as ray of sun runs up and down
The springtime vine that with spring rain is wet.



x x x

He was jealous, fearful and tender,
He loved me like God's only light,
And that she not sing of the past times
He killed my bird colored white.

He said, in the lighthouse at sundown:
"Love me, laugh and write poetry!"
And I buried the joyous songbird
Behind a round well near a tree.

I promised that I would not mourn her.
But my heart turned to stone without choice,
And it seems to me that everywhere
And always I'll hear her sweet voice.



x x x

True love's memory, You are heavy!
In your smoke I sing and burn,
And the rest -- is only fire
To keep the chilled soul warm.

To keep warm the sated body,
They need my tears for this
Did I for this sing your song, God?
Did I take part of love for this?

Let me drink of such a poison,
That I would be deaf and dumb,
And my unglorious glory
Wash away to the final crumb.



x x x

The blue lacquer dims of heaven,
And the song is better heard.
It's the little trumpet made of dirt,
There's no reason for her to complain.
Why does she forgive me,
And whoever told her of my sins?
Or is that this voice that now repeats
The last poems that you wrote for me?



x x x

Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare,
That does not slake thirst, is not wet.
Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer..
Is it mine to forget?

On how many desert roads have searched I
With him who wasn't dear for me,
How many bows gave in church I
For him, who had well loved me.

I've become more oblivious than inviting,
Quietly years swim.
Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling --
Nothing will give me back him.



x x x

Ah! It is you again. You enter in this house
Not as a kid in love, but as a husband
Courageous, harsh and in control.
The calm before the storm is fearful to my soul.
You ask me what it is that I have done of late
With given unto me forever love and fate.
I have betrayed you. And this to repeat --
Oh, if you could one moment tire of it!
The killer's sleep is haunted, dead man said,
Death's angel thus awaits me at deathbed.
Forgive me now. Lord teaches to forgive.
In burning agony my flesh does live,
And already the spirit gently sleeps,
A garden I recall, tender with autumn leaves
And cries of cranes, and the black fields around..
How sweet it would be with you underground!



x x x
The muse has left along narrow
And winding street,
And with large drops of dew
Were sprinkled her feet.

For long did I ask of her
To wait for winter with me,
But she said, "The grave is here,
How can you breathe, you see?"

I wanted to give her a dove
That is whiter than all the rest
But the bird herself flew above
After my graceful guest.

Looking at her I was silent,
I loved her alone
And like gates into her country
In the sky stood the dawn.



x x x

I have ceased and desisted from smiling
The frosty wind chills lips - say so long
To one hope of which will be lesser,
Instead there will be one more song.
And this song, without my volition,
I will give out for laughter and parable,
For this that the silence of love
Is to me simply unbearable.



x x x

They're on the way, the words of love and freedom,
They're flying faster than the moment flies
And I am in stage fright before singing -
My lips have grown colder than ice.

But soon that place, where, leaning to the windows
The tender birches make dry rustling sound,
The voices will be ringing of the shadows
And roses will in blackened wreaths be wound.

And further onward still -- the light is generous
Unbearably as though ¡®t were red hot wine..
And now the wind, all redolent and heated,
In perfect vigor has enflamed my mind.



x x x

Oh, this was a cold day
In Peter's wonderful town!
The shadow grew dense, and the sundown
Like purple fire lay.

Let him not want my eyes fair
Prophetic and never-changing
All life long verse he'll be catching -
My conceited lips' empty prayer.



x x x

This way I prayed: "Slake the dumb thirst
Of singing with a sweet libation!"
But to the earthling of the earth
There can be no liberation.
Like smoke from sacrifice, that it could not
Fly Strength- and Glory-ward -- alas -
But only clouded at the feet
And, as if praying, kissed the grass.
Thus I, O Lord, before thee bow:
Will reach the fire of the sky
My lashes that are closed for now
And muteness utter and divine?



x x x

In intimacy there exists a line
That can't be crossed by passion or love's art --
In awful silence lips melt into one
And out of love to pieces bursts the heart.

And friendship here is impotent, and years
Of happiness sublime in fire aglow,
When soul is free and does not hear
The dulling of sweet passion, long and slow.

Those who are striving toward it are in fever,
But those that reach it struck with woe that lingers.
Now you have understood, why forever
My heart does not beat underneath your fingers.



x x x

All has been taken: strength as well as love.
Into the unloved town the corpse is thrown.
It does not love the sun. I fear, that blood
Inside of me already cold has grown.

I do not recognize sweet Muse's loving taste:
She looks ahead and does not let a word pass,
And bows a head in the dark garland dressed
Onto my chest, exhausted from the haste.

And only conscience, scarier with each day,
Wants a great ransom and for this abuses.
Closing the face, I answer her this way..
But there remain no tears and no excuses.



x x x

To lose the freshness of the words and sense, for us,
Is it same as for an artist to lose vision,
Or for an actor -- voice and motion,
Or for a gorgeous woman -- her finesse?

But do not seek now for yourself to keep
What heaven has given to you below:
We have been judged -- and we ourselves both know --
To give away, and not to keep.

Or else alone you go to heal the blind,
To know yourself in heavy hour of doubt
The students' smug shaudenfreude
And the uncaring of mankind.


Answer

The quiet April day has sent me
What a strange missive.
You knew that passionately in me
The scary week is still alive.
I did not hear those ringing bells
That swam along in glazier clear.
For seven days sounded copper laugh
Or poured from eyes a silver tear.
And I, then having closed my face
As for eternal parting's moment,
Lay down and waited for her grace
That was not known yet as torment.



x x x

This city by the fearsome river
Was my crib blessed and dear
And a solemn wedding bed
Which the garlands for the head
Your young cherubs held above -
A city loved with bitter love.

The subject of my prayers
Were you, moody, calm, and austere.
There first the groom came to me
Having shown me the pathway holy,
And that sad muse of mine
Led me like one blind.


 * II * 


December 9, 1913
The darkest days of the year
Must become the most clear.
I can't find words to compare -
Your lips are so tender and dear.

Only to raise your eyes do not dare,
Keeping the life of me.
They're lighter than vials premier,
And deadlier for me.

I understand now, that we need no words,
The snowed branches are light, and more,
The birdcatcher, to catch birds,
Has laid nets on the rivershore.



x x x

How can you look at Nieva,
How can on the bridges you rise?
With a reason I'm sad since the time
You appeared before my eyes.
Sharp are black angels' wings,
The last judgment is coming soon,
And raspberry fires, like roses,
In the white snow bloom.



x x x

I do not count mortal days
Under the roof of a chilled empty building,
I'm reading the Apostles' words,
Words of Psalm-singer I am reading.
Sleet is fluffy, and stars turn blue,
And more marvelous is each meeting --
And in the Bible a leaf
On Song of Songs is sitting.



x x x

All year long you are close to me
And, like formerly, happy and young!
Aren't you tortured already
By the traumatized strings' dark song?
Those now only lightly moan
That once, taut, loudly rang
And aimlessly they are torn
By my dry, waxen hand.
Little is necessary to make happy
One who is tender and loving yet,
The young forehead is not touched yet
By jealousy, rage or regret.
He is quiet, does not ask to be tender,
Only stares and stares at me
And with blissful smile does he bear
My oblivion's dreadful insanity.



x x x

Black road wove ahead of me,
Drizzling rain fell,
To accompany me
Someone asked for a spell.
I agreed, but I forgot
To see him in light of day,
And then it was strange
To remember the way.
Like incense of thousand censers
Flowed the fog
And the companion bothered
The heart with a song.
Ancient gates I remember
And the end of the way --
There the man who went with me
"Forgive," did say.
He gave me a copper cross
Like my brother very own
And everywhere I hear the sound
Of the steppe song.
Here I am at home like home --
I cry and I am in rue
Answer to me, my stranger,
I am looking for you!



x x x

How I love, how I loved to stare
At the ironclad shores,
On the balcony, where forever
No foot stepped, not mine, not yours.
And in truth you are -- a capital
For the mad and luminous us;
But when over Nieva sail
Those special, pure hours
And the winds of May fly over
You past the iron beams
You are like a dying sinner
Seeing heavenly dreams



x x x

Ancient city is as if dead,
Strange's my coming here.
Vladimir has raised a black cross
Over the river.
Noisy elm trees, noisy lindens
In the gardens dark,
Raised to God, the needle-bearing
Stars' bright diamond sparks.
Sacrificial and glorious
Way, I am ending here,
With me is but you, my equal,
And my love so dear.



x x x

It seems as though the voice of man
Will never sound in this place,
But only wind from age of stone
Is knocking on black gates.
It seems to me that I alone
Have kept good health under this sky,
Because of this, that first I sought
To drink the deadly wine.



Parting
Evening and slanting,
Downward goes my way.
Yesterday in love still,
"Don't forget" you prayed.
Now there's only shepherds'
Cry, and glancing winds,
And the worried cedars
Stand by clear springs.



x x x

Yellow and fresh are the lanterns,
Black is the road of the garden at sea.
I am very calm. Only please, do not
Talk about him with me.
You're tender and loyal, we'll be friends..
Have fun, kiss, together grow old..
And light months above us will fly like feathers,
Like stars made of snow and as cold.



x x x

We aren't in the forest, there is no need for calling --
You know your jokes do not shine..
Why don't you come to lull into quiet
This wounded conscience of mine?

You possess other worries
You have another wife
And, looking into my dry eyes,
St. Petersburg spring has arrived.

With harsh cough and with evening fever
She will punish and she will kill.
Under the smoke on the river
Nieva's ice is no longer still.



x x x

God is unkind to gardeners and reapers.
Slanted rain coils and falls from up high
And the wide raincoats catch water,
That once had reflected the sky.

In underwater realm are fields and meadows
And the free currents sing a lot,
Plums rupture on bloated branches
And grass strands, lying down, rot.

And through the dense and watery net
I see your darling face,
A quiet park, a round porch
And a Chinese arbour-place.



x x x

All promised him to me:
The heaven's edge, dark and kind,
And lovely Christmas sleep
And multi-ringing Easter wind,

And the red branches of a twig,
And waterfalls inside a park,
And two dragonflies
On rusty iron of a bulwark.

And I could not disbelieve,
That he'll befriend me all alone
When on the mountain slopes I went
Along hot pathway made of stone.



x x x

Every evening I receive
A letter like a bride
To my friend I give
Response late at night.

"I'll be guest of the white death
On my journey down.
You, my tender one, don't do
Harm to anyone."

And there stands a giant star
Between two wood beams,
With such calmness promising
To fulfil your dreams.



x x x

Divine angel, who betrothed us
Secretly on winter morn,
From our sadness-free existence
Does not take his darkened eyes.

For this reason we love sky,
And fresh wind, and air so thin,
And the dark tree branches
Behind fence of iron.

For this reason we love the strict,
Many-watered, and dark city,
And we love the parting,
And brief meetings' hour.



x x x

Somewhere is light and happy, in elation,
Transparent, warm and simple life there is.
A man across the fence has conversation
With girl before the evening, and the bees
Hear only the tenderest of conversation.

And we are living pompously and hard
And follow bitter rituals like sun
When, flight past us, the unreasoned wind
Interrupts speech that's barely begun.

But not for anything will we change the pompous
Granite city of glory, pain and lies,
The glistening wide rivers' ice
Sunless and murky gardens, and the voice,
Though barely audible, of the Muse.



x x x

I remember you only rarely
And your fate I do not view
But the mark won't be stripped from my soul
Of the meaningless meeting with you.

Your red house I avoid on purpose,
Your red house murky river beside,
But I know, that I am disturbing
Gravely your heart-pierced respite.

Would it weren't you that, on to my lips pressing,
Prayed of love, and for love did wish,
Would it weren't you that with golden verses
Immortalized my anguish

Over future I do secret magic
If the evening is truly blue,
And I divine a second meeting,
Unavoidable meeting with you.



x x x

How spacious are these squares,
How resonant bridges and stark!
Heavy, peaceful, and starless
Is the covering of the dark.

And we walk on the fresh snow
As if we were mortal people.
That we are together this hour
Unseparable -- is it not a miracle?

The knees go unwittingly weaker
It seems there's no air -- so long!
You are my life's only blessing,
You are the sun of my song.

Now the dark buildings are stirring
And I'll fall on earth as they shake --
Inside of my village garden
I do not fear to awake.



Escape

"My dear, if we could only
Reach all the way to the seas"
"Be quiet" and descended the stairs
Losing breath and looking for keys.

Past the buildings, where sometime
We danced and had fun and drank wine
Past the white columns of Senate
Where it's dark, dark again.

"What are you doing, you madman!"
"No, I am only in love with thee!
This evening is wide and noisy,
Ship will have lots of fun at the sea!"

Horror tightly clutches the throat,
Shuttle took us at dusk on our turn..
The tough smell of ocean tightrope
Inside trembling nostrils did burn.

"Say, you most probably know:
I don't sleep? Thus in sleep it can be"
Only oars splashed in measured manner
Over Nieva's waves heavy.

And the black sky began to get lighter,
Someone called from the bridge to us,
As with both hands I was clutching
On my chest the rim of the cross.

On your arms, as I lost all my power,
Like a little girl you carried me,
That on deck of a yacht alabaster
Incorruptible day's light we'd meet.



x x x

When with a strong but tired hand
In dreary capital of nation
Upon the whiteness of the page
I did record my recantations,

And wind into the window round
Poured in a wet and silent stream
The sky was burning, burning bright
With smoky dawn, it so did seem.

I did not look at the Nieva,
The dawn-drenched granite did not view,
And it appeared that that I, awake, my
Unforgettable, saw you..

But then the unexpected night
Covered the before-autumn town,
That, so as to assist my flight,
The ashen shadows melted down.

I only took with me the cross,
That you had given on day of treason
That wormwood steppe should be in bloom
And winds, like sirens, sing in season.

And here upon an empty wall
He keeps me from the broodings dour
And I don't fear to recall
Anything - even the final hour.



Village of the Tsar Statue

Upon the swan pond maple leaves
Are gathered already, you see,
And bloodied are the branches dark
Of slowly blooming quicken-tree.

Blindingly elegant is she,
Crossing her legs that don't feel cold
Upon the northern stone sits she
And calmly looks upon the road.

I felt the gloomy, dusky fear
Before this woman of delight
As on her shoulders played alone
The rays of miserable light.

And how could I forgive her yet
Your shining praise by love deluded
Look, she is happily in sorrow,
And in such elegance denuded.



x x x

In the sleep to me is given
Our last eden of stars up high
City of clean water towers,
Golden Bakchisarai

There behind a colored fencing
By the pensive water stalled
Village of the Tsar's gardens
With rejoicing we recalled.

And the eagles of Catherine
Suddenly recognized - it's that!
He had flown to valley bottom
From the ornate bronze-clad gate.

That the song of parting heartache
In the memory longer lives,
The dark-bodied mother autumn
Brought to me the redding leaves

And she sprinkled on her soles
Where we parted in the sun
And from where for land of shadows
You had left, my soothing one.



x x x

I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk,
Meadow circular, water dead,
With most heavy and most shady,
All of this I will never forget.

In the cast-iron gates you will enter,
Blissful tremor the flesh does rile,
You don't live, but you're screaming and ranting
Or you live in another style.

In late autumn fresh and biting
Wanders wind, for its loneliness glad.
In white gowns dressed the black fir trees
On the molten snow stand.

And, filled up with a burning fever,
Dear voice sounds like song without word,
And on copper shoulder of Cytharus
Sits the red-chested bird.



x x x

Immortelle's dry and pink. On the fresh heaven
The clouds are roughly pasted, almost dark.
The leaves of only oak within the park
Are still colorless and thin.

The rays of dusk are burning until midnight.
How nice it is inside my cramped abode!
Today with me converse many-a-bird
About the most tender, in delight.

I'm happy. But the way,
Forest and smooth, is to me most dear,
The crippled bridge, curved a bit here,
And that remain only several days.



x x x

She came up. I did not show my worry,
Calmly looking outside the windows.
She sat down, like ceramic idol
In a long-ago-chosen pose.

To be happy -- is well-accustomed,
But attentive -- is harder just might.
Or the dark shadow has been overpowered
After many a jasmine March night?

Tiring din of the conversations,
Yellow chandelier's lifeless light
And the glimmer of crafty gadgets
Underneath the arm raised and light.

My companion looks at her with hope
And to her flashes a smile..
O my happy and wealthy heir,
Read from my will.

 * III * 



May Snow

Upon fresh ground falls and melts
At once unnoticed a thin film.
The harsh and chilly spring
The ripened buds does kill.
Sight of early death is so horrid
That I can't look at God's creation, and am riven
With sadness, to which king David
Millenia of life has given.



x x x

Why do you pretend to be
A wind, a bird, or a stone?
Why do you smile at me
From the sky with a sudden dawn?

Do not torment me, do not touch!
Leave me to wise cares, away!
The inebriated flame sways
Over dried-up marshes gray.

And Muse in a torn kerchief
Sings disconsolate and at length.
In harsh and youthful anguish
Is her miraculous strength.



x x x

Transparent glass of empty sky
The bleached-out bulky prison building
And churchgoers' solemn singing
Over Volkhov, growing blue with light.

September wind tore leaves birch off
Through branches tossed and screamed with hate
And city recollects its fate:
Here ruled Martha and Arackcheyev.



July 1914

I

Smells like burning. For four weeks now
The dry ground on the swamplands bakes.
Today even birds did not sing songs
And the aspen-tree does not shake.

Sun has stopped in divine displeasure
Easter rain did not pelt fields hard.
A one-legged passerby came here
And alone said in the yard:

"Awful times near. For freshly dug graves
There will be not be enough place soon.
Expect pest, expect plague, expect coward,
And eclipses of Sun and Moon.

But the enemy won't get to divide
Our lands for his fun:
Holy Mary will spread on her own
Over great sorrows a white gown"

II

From the burning forests is flying
Sweet smell of the evergreens.
Over children soldiers' wives are moaning
Cry of widows through village rings.

Not in vain were the prayers rendered,
The earth was thirsty for rain:
The stomped-over fields with red dampness
Were covered and covered remain.

Low, low is the empty heaven,
And quiet is the praying one's voice:
"They will wound your most holy body
And cast dice about your acts of choice."



x x x

That voice, with great quietude arguing,
Had a victory over her.
In me still, like song or woe,
Is last winter before the war.

She was whiter than Smolny Cathedral
More mysterious than summer garden festooned
We didn't know that in parting sadness
We'd be looking back soon.



x x x

To say goodbye we don't know -
It's already nearing night,
We are walking shoulder to shoulder,
You are pensive and I am quiet

We'll walk into church, we'll witness
The singing, the wedding, the cross,
Not seeing each other, we'll exit..
Why are things not working for us?

Or we'll sit on the pressed-down snow
In a cemetery, lightly sigh,
And you with your stick paint the palace
Where together we'll be for all time.



Consolation

You won't hear about him any longer,
You won't hear about him in the wind,
In the mournful fire-consumed Poland
His grave you will not find.

May your spirit be still an peaceful,
There will be no losses now:
He is new warrior of God's army,
Do not be about him in sorrow.

In the dear, beloved home
It's sinful to cry and feel blue.
Think, now you can make prayer
To the man who stood up for you.



x x x

Did for this, and for this only,
In my arms I carry you,
Did for this the strength flash
In your gorgeous eyes of blue?
Tall and elegant you have grown,
You sang songs, Madeira drank,
To the far-off Anatolia
You have driven your mine tank.

On the Malahov's kurgan
They shot an officer with a gun.
Less than a week for 20 years
He saw God's light with eyes so dear.



Prayer

Give me bitter years in malady
Breathlessness, sleeplessness, fever,
Both a friend and a child and mysterious
Gift take away forever --
Thus I pray after your liturgy
After many exhausting days,
That the cloud over dark Russia
Become cloud in the glory of rays.



x x x
"Where is your gypsy boy, tall one,
That over black kerchief did weep,
Where is your small first child
What memory of him do you keep?"

"Mother's role is a sweet torture,
I was not worthy of it.
The gate dissolved into white heaven,
Magdalene took the kid.

"Each day for me is happy and jolly,
I got lost in a too-long spring,
Only arms pine away for a burden
Only his cries in my sleep ring.

"The heart will be restless and weary
And no memory cross my mind,
I still wander in rooms dark and bleary
And his crib still attempt to find."



x x x

How often did I curse
This sky, this earth as well,
The slowly waving arms
Of this ancient windmill.
In a wing there lies a dead man,
Straight and grayhaired, on a bench,
As he did three years ago.
Thus the mice whet with their teeth
Books, thus the stearine candle
Leans its flame to the left.
And the odious tambourine
From the Nizhny Novgorod
Sings an uningenious song
Of my bitter happiness.
And the brightly painted
Dahlias stood straight
Along silver road.
Where are snails and wormwood.
Thus it was: Incarceration
Became second country,
And the first I cannot dare
Recollect even in prayer.



x x x

In boat or in horsecart
This way you cannot go
Deep water stands and lingers
In the decrepit snow
Surrounding the mansion
From every side by now..
Ah! Closely wails it over
The same Robinson Crusoe.
The sled, the skies, the horse
He will come by to see,
And later on the couch
He sits and waits for me
And with a short spore
He tears the rug in two.
Now the brief smile of mine
The mirror will not view.



x x x

Bow of moon I see, I see
Through dense canopy of groves,
Level sound I hear, I hear
Of the free horse's hooves.

What? And you don't want to sleep,
In a year could you forget
Me, nor are you used to find
Empty and unmade your bed?

Not with you then do I speak
Through sharp cries of hunting birds,
Not in your eyes do I look
From white pages full of words?

Why you circle, like a thief
At the quiet habitat?
Or recall the verdict and
Wait for me alive like that?

I'm asleep. In dense dark, moon
Threw a blade just like a dart.
There is knocking. In this way
Beats my warm and precious heart.



x x x

We noiselessly walked through the house,
Not waiting for anything.
They showed me way to the sick man,
And I did not recognize him.

He said, "Now let God have the glory"
And became more thoughtful and blue.
"It's long time that I hit the road,
I've only been waiting for you.

So you bother me in my fever,
I keep those words from you.
Tell me: can you not forgive me?"
And I said, "I can do."

It seemed, that the walls were shining
From floor to the ceiling that day.
Upon the silken blanket
A withered arm lay.

And the thrown-over predatory profile
Became horribly heavy and stark,
And one could not hear the breathing
Through the bitten-up lips turned dark.

But suddenly the last bit of strength
Came alive in the eyes of blue:
"It is good that you released me,
Not always kind were you."

And then the face became younger,
And I recognized him once more.
And then I said, "Holy Father,
Accept a slave of yours."



x x x

I came over to the pine forest.
It is hot, and the road is not short.
He pushed back the door and came out
Greyhaired, luminous, short.

He looked at me, insolent bastard,
And muttered at once, "Christ's bride!
Do not envy success of the happy,
A place for you there does hide.

Do forget your parents' abode,
Get accustomed to open heaven
You will sleep on the straw and dirty,
And will meet a blissful end."

Truly, the priest must have heard
On the way back my singing voice
As I of untold happiness
Marveled and rejoiced.



x x x

The other cranes shout "Cour-lee"
Calling a wounded one
When autumn fields around
Are fallow and warm.

And I, being sick, hear calling,
The noise of golden wings
From dense and low clouds
And thick underbrush.

"It's time to fly, it's time to fly,
Over the field and river.
For you already cannot sing
And wipe a tear from a cheek
With a weakened arm."



x x x

I will quietly in the churchyard
Sleep on wooden boards in the sun,
On the Sunday as guest to mother
You will come, my dear one --
Through the river over the mountain
Can't catch up to grown ones
From afar, the sharp-eyed fellow,
This my cross you'll recognize.
I know, dear one, very little
Can you now recall of me:
Did not scold you, did not fawn you,
Did not hold the cup to thee.



x x x

With pride your spirit is darkened
For this you won't know world at all.
You say that this faith is a dream
And mirage is this capital.

You say that my country is sinful,
Your country is godless, I scream.
May the guilt still lie upon us --
We can correct and redeem.

Around you are water and flowers
Why seek a beggar and sinner, my dear?
I know that you're sick very badly:
You seek death and the end you fear.



x x x

The early chills are most pleasant to me.
Torment releases me when I come there.
Mysterious, dark places of habitation --
Are storehouses of labor and prayer.

The calm and confident loving
I can't surmount in this side of mine:
A drop of Novgorod blood inside me
Is like a piece of ice in foamy wine.

And this can not in any way be corrected,
She has not been melted by great heat,
And what ever I began to glory --
You, quiet one, shine before me yet.



x x x

I dream less of him, dear God be gloried,
Does not shimmer everywhere any more.
Fog has fallen on the whitened road,
Shadows run over water to the shore.

And all day the ringing did not quiet
Over the expanse of ploughed up soil,
Here most powerfully from Jonah
Distant Laurel belltowers do recoil.

I am trimming on the lilac bushes
Branches, that are now in full flower;
Ramparts of the ancient fortifying
Two old monks are slowly walking over.

Dear world, understood and corporeal,
For me, one unseeing, set alive.
Heal this soul of mine, the King of Heaven,
With the icy comfort of not love.



x x x

We'll be with each other, dear,
All now know we are together,
And the wily laughs and putdowns
Like a distant tambourine
Can't insult us any longer
And can't give us injury.
Where we married -- we don't know,
But this church at once did glimmer
With that furious beaming light
That only the angels know
How to bring upon white wings.

And the time is now such,
Fearful city, fearful year.
How can now be parted
Me from you and you from me?



In Memory of June 19, 1914

We have grown old by hundred years, and this
Happened to us in one hour then:
The brief summer was already ending,
Steamed the body of ploughed-up plain.

Suddenly glistened the quiet road,
Cry flew, ringing silverly..
Closing my face, I was praying to God
Before first battle to murder me.

From mind the shades of songs and passions
Disappeared like load from misuse.
To her -- descended -- the Almighty ordered
To be the fearful book of menacing news.



 * IV * 


x x x

Before the spring arrives there are such days:
Under the thick snow cover rests the lawn,
The dry-and-jolly trees are making noise,
Tender and strong, the wind is warm.
And body is amazed at its own lightness,
And your own home is alien to you,
And song that had just previously been tiring
With worry you are singing just like new.



x x x

The fifth time of the year,
Only the praise of his.
Breathe with the final freedom,
Because love is this.
The sky has flown up high,
The objects' contours are light,
And the body does not celebrate any longer
The anniversary of its plight.



x x x

I myself have freely chosen
Fate of the friend of my heart:
To the freedom under gospel
I allowed him to depart.
And the pigeon came back, beating
On the window with all might
Like from shine of divine restments,
In the room it became light.



Sleep

I know that you dreamed of me,
That's why I could not sleep.
The muddy light had turned blue
And showed me the path to keep.

You saw the queen's garden,
White palace, luxurious one,
And the black patterned fence
Before resounding stone perron.

You went, not knowing the way,
And thinking, "Faster, faster!
If only to find her now,
Not wake before meeting her."

And the janitor at the red gate
Shouted at you, "Where to, alack!"
The ice crackled and broke,
Underfoot, water went black.

"This is the lake, and inside
There's an island," thus thought you.
And then suddenly from the dark
Appeared a fire hot-blue.

Awakening, you did moan
In harsh light of a nasty day,
And then at once you called
For me loudly by my name.



White House

Sun is frosty. In parade
Soldiers march with all their might.
I am glad at the January noon,
And my fear is very light.

Here they remember each branch
And every silhouette.
The raspberry light is dripping
Through a snow-whitened net.

Almost white was the house,
Made of glass was the wing.
How many times with numb arm
Did I hold the doorbell's ring.

How many times.. play, soldiers,
I'll make my house, I'll espy
You from a roof that's inclined,
From the ivy that does not die.

But who at last did remove it,
Took away into foreign lands
Or took out from the memory
Forever the road thence..

Snow flies, like a cherry blossom,
Distant bagpipes desist..
And, it seems like, nobody knows
That the white house does not exist.



x x x

He walked over fields and over village,
And asked people from afar:
"Where is she, where is the happy glimmer
Of her eyes that are gray stars?

Here the final days of spring
Come along, in turbid fire.
Still more frequent, still more tender
Are the dreams I have of her."

And he came in the dark city
In the quiet evening time
He was thinking then of Venice
And of London all the same.

At the church both tall and dark
Stepped on shining stairs' granite
And he prayed then of the coming
Meeting with his first delight.

And above the altar made of gold
Flamed away the garden of God's rays:
"Here she is, here is the happy glimmer
Of gray joyous stars that are her eyes."



x x x

Wide and yellow's evening light,
Tender is the April chill,
You are late by many years
But I am glad of you still.

Come and sit right next to me,
With the happy eyes come look:
Here, my childhood poetry
Is in this blue notebook.

That I lived sorrowful and little
Was I glad of the sun, forgive.
And forgive, that in your stead I
Many others did receive.



x x x

Whether to look for you on earth --
I don't know if you're dead or you live --
Or about you in the evening
I should for you, departed, grieve.

All is for you: and the daily prayer
And the sleeplessness' swooning flame
And the white flock of my poems
And my eyes' blue violent flame.

No one was dearer to me, no one,
No one left me this bereft,
Not even he who betrayed me to torment,
Not even he who caressed, then left.



x x x

No, my prince, I am not the one
On whom you'd rather lay your eyes,
And for long these lips of mine
Do not kiss, but prophesize.

Do not think I'm in delirium
Or with boredom I do whine
Loudly I speak of pain:
It's the very trade of mine.

And I know how to teach,
That the unexpected happened,
How to tame for centuries
Her, whose love is so rapid.

You want glory? Ask from me
For advice for this your plight,
Only it is but a trap,
There's no joy here and no light.

Well, go home, and forget
This our meeting, I implore,
And for your sin, my dear one,
I'll respond before the Lord.



x x x

From memory of you I will remove that day,
So that your helpless-foggy look will ask this:
Where did I see the Persian lilac bush,
The swallows and the wooden house?

Oh, how often will you recollect
The sudden angst of the uncalled desires
And in the pensive cities you did seek
That street which was not on the map entire!

Upon the sound of voice behind an open door,
Upon the sight of every accidental letter,
You will remember: "Here has she herself
Come to assist my disbelief unfettered."



x x x

Did not scold me, did not praise me,
Like friends and like enemies.
Only left his soul to me
And then said, "Now keep in peace."

And one thing worries me so:
If this moment he will die,
God's archangel will come to me
For his soul from the sky.

How then will I hide her so,
How to hide it from God's eyes?
She, the soul, that cries and sings so
Must be in His paradise.



x x x

My shadow has remained there and is angstful,
In that blue room she still to this day lives,
She waits for guests from city beyond midnight
And to enamel image gives a kiss.
And things are not quite well around the house:
It still is dark, although they lit the flame..
Not from all this the hostess is in boredom,
Not from all this the host drinks all the same
And hears how on the other side of the thin wall
The guest arrived talks to me at all?



x x x

I see capital through the flurry
On this Monday night twenty-first.
Some do-nothing has made up the story
That love exists on the earth.

And from laziness or from boredom
All believed, and thus they live:
Wait for meeting, fear the parting,
And sing songs of love.

But to others opens a secret
And upon them descends a still..
I by accident came upon this
And since then am as if I'm ill.



x x x

On the blooming lilac bushes
Sky is sowing the light rain.
Beats with wings upon the window
The white, the white Spirits' day.

For a friend to be returning
From the sea - especial hour.
I am dreaming of the far shore,
Of the stone, sand and tower.

I will enter, meeting light,
On the top of one of these towers.
In the land of swamps and fields
There are in memory no towers.

Only I will sit on the porch,
There, where dense shadows lay.
Help me in my fright, at last,
The white, the white Spirits' day.



x x x

I know, that you are my reward
For years of labor and of pain,
For that unto the earthly pleasures
I never did myself betray,
For that I never ever told
Unto my loved one, "You are loved."
For that I did forgive all people
You'll be my angel from above.



x x x

Yes, I had loved them, those meetings of the nights -
Upon small table a glass filled with ice,
Above black coffee thick and smelly steam,
From the red heater heavy winter heat,
The stinging mirth of literary parable
And first look of the friend, helpless and terrible.



x x x

Not mystery and not sadness,
Not the wise will of fate -
These meetings have always given
Impression of fight and hate.

And I, having guessed your coming's
Minute and circumstance,
In the bent arms the slightly
Tingling feeling did sense.

And with dry fingers I mangled
The colorful tablecloth..
I understood even then
How small was this earth.



To my dear one

Do not send a dove in my direction,
Do not write tumultuous notes at all,
Do not fan my face with the March breeze.
I have now entered a green heaven,
Where there's calm for body and for soul
Underneath the shady maple trees.

And from here I can see a town,
Booths and barracks of a palace made of stone
Chinese yellow bridge over the ice.
For three hours now you wait for me -- you're frozen,
But you cannot move from the perron,
At the stars you marvel with your eyes.

Like a gray squirrel you'll jump on the alder,
Like a frightful swallow I will go,
I will then call for you like a swan,
So that the bridegroom would not fear
In the blue and swirling falling snow
To await his deceased bride alone.



x x x

Has my fate really been so altered,
Or is this game truly truly over?
Where are winters, when I fell asleep
In the morning in the sixth hour?

In a new way, severely and calmly,
I now live on the wild shore.
I can no longer pronounce
The tender or idle word.

I can't believe that Christmas-tide is coming.
Touchingly green is this the steppe before
The beaming sun. Like a warm
Wave, licks the tender shore.

When from happiness languid and tired
I was, then of such quiet
With trembling inexpressible I dreamed
And this in my imagining I deemed
The after-mortal wandering of the soul.



x x x

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well,
One memory lies in me.
I cannot and I do not want to struggle,
It is both joy and suffering.

I think that anyone who looks into my
Eyes will all at once see him.
More sad and pensive he'll become
That heard the story of this suffering.

I know that the gods had turned
People to objects, without killing mind,
That divine sadness lived eternally.
You're turned into my memory, I find.



x x x

The first ray -- as the blessing of the Lord --
Across the face of the beloved did creep,
Who, sleeping, went a little pale,
And then again more tightly went to sleep.

It seemed that warmth of ray of sun
Appeared to him just like a kiss...
And long with these my lips I have not touched
The tan strong shoulder or the dear lips.

And now, the deceased spirits in my long
Disconsolate wandering along the way,
I am now flying toward him as a song
And I caress him with a morning ray.



x x x

Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked,
I look with worry on the chambers dark?
Already used to ringing high and raw,
Already judged not by the earthly law,
I, like a criminal, am being drawn along
To place of shame and execution long.
I see the glorious city, and the voice most dear,
As though there is no secret grave to fear,
Where day and night, in heat and in cold bent,
I must await the Final Judgment.



x x x

I was born not late and not early,
This time is blessed and meet,
Only God did not allow a heart
To live long without deceit.

And from this it is dark in the light room,
And from this do the friends I've sought,
Like the sorrowful birds of evening,
Sing of love that was not.



x x x

Best for me loudly the gaming-poems to say,
And for you the hoarse harmonica to play!

And having left, hugging, for the night of late,
Lose a band from a stiff, tight plait.

Best for me your child to rock and sway,
And for you to make fifty rubles in a day,

And to go on memory day to cemetery
There to look upon the white God's lilac tree.



x x x

I will lead a man to dear one --
I don't want the little joy --
And I'll quietly lay to sleep
The glad, tired little boy.

In a chilly room once more
I will pray to Mother of God,
It is hard to be a hermit,
To be happy is also hard.

Only fiery sleep will come to me,
I'll enter a temple on the hill,
Five-domed, white, and stone-hewn,
On the paths remembered well.



x x x

The spring was still mysteriously swooning,
Across the hills wandered transparent wind
And the deep lake was growing blue among us --
A temple forged and kept not by mankind.

You were affrighted of our first encounter,
And prayed already for the second one,
And now today once more is the hot evening --
How low over the mountain dropped the sun..

You aren't with me, but this is not a parting:
For me triumphant news is in each moment.
I know that you can't even pronounce a word
For so complete within you is the torment.



x x x

In Kievan temple of the divine wisdom
Falling to my knees, I did before thee vow
That your way will be my way
Wherever it will go.

Thus heard Yaroslav in a white coffin
And angels made of gold in his stead.
Like pigeons, weave the simple words
And now near the sunny heads.

And if I get weak, I dream of an icon
And there are ten steps on it, all are blessed.
In menacing voice of the Sofian ringing
I hear the sound of your unrest.



x x x

City vanished, the last house's window
Stared like one living and stark...
This place is totally unfamiliar,
Smells of burning, and field is dark.

But when the curtain of thunder
Moon had cut, indecisive and wan,
We could see: On the hill, to the forest,
Hobbled a handicapped man.

It was frightening, that he's overcoming
The three horses, sated and glad,
He stood up and then again waddled
Under his heavy load.

We had almost failed to notice him
Before the nomad-tent taking his place.
Just like stars the blue eyes were shining,
Lighting the tormented face.

And I proffered to him the child,
Raising arms with the trace of a chain
He pronounced with joy and with ringing:
"May your son live and healthy remain."



x x x

Oh, there are unrepeated words,
Who ever said wasted more than he should.
Inexhaustible only is the blue
Of sky and generosity of God.


by George (Lord) Byron |

DON JUAN

BOB SOUTHEY! You 're a poet- Poet-laureate,
    And representative of all the race,
  Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at
    Last,- yours has lately been a common case;
  And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
    With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
  A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
  Like 'four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;'

  'Which pye being open'd they began to sing'
    (This old song and new simile holds good),
  'A dainty dish to set before the King,'
    Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;-
  And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
    But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,-
  Explaining metaphysics to the nation-
  I wish he would explain his Explanation.

  You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
    At being disappointed in your wish
  To supersede all warblers here below,
    And be the only Blackbird in the dish;
  And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
    And tumble downward like the flying fish
  Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
  And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!

  And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excursion
    (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
  Has given a sample from the vasty version
    Of his new system to perplex the sages;
  'T is poetry- at least by his assertion,
    And may appear so when the dog-star rages-
  And he who understands it would be able
  To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

  You- Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
    From better company, have kept your own
  At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
    Of one another's minds, at last have grown
  To deem as a most logical conclusion,
    That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:
  There is a narrowness in such a notion,
  Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

  I would not imitate the petty thought,
    Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
  For all the glory your conversion brought,
    Since gold alone should not have been its price.
  You have your salary; was 't for that you wrought?
    And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
  You're shabby fellows- true- but poets still,
  And duly seated on the immortal hill.

  Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows-
    Perhaps some virtuous blushes;- let them go-
  To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs-
    And for the fame you would engross below,
  The field is universal, and allows
    Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow:
  Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
  'Gainst you the question with posterity.

  For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
    Contend not with you on the winged steed,
  I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
    The fame you envy and the skill you need;
  And recollect a poet nothing loses
    In giving to his brethren their full meed
  Of merit, and complaint of present days
  Is not the certain path to future praise.

  He that reserves his laurels for posterity
    (Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
  Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
    Being only injured by his own assertion;
  And although here and there some glorious rarity
    Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
  The major part of such appelants go
  To- God knows where- for no one else can know.

  If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
    Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time,
  If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
    And makes the word Miltonic' mean 'sublime,'
  He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
    Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
  He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,
  But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

  Think'st thou, could he- the blind Old Man- arise
    Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
  The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
    Or be alive again- again all hoar
  With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,
    And heartless daughters- worn- and pale- and poor;
  Would he adore a sultan? he obey
  The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

  Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
    Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
  And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
    Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore,
  The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,
    With just enough of talent, and no more,
  To lengthen fetters by another fix'd,
  And offer poison long already mix'd.

  An orator of such set trash of phrase
    Ineffably- legitimately vile,
  That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
    Nor foes- all nations- condescend to smile,-
  Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
    From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
  That turns and turns to give the world a notion
  Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

  A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
    And botching, patching, leaving still behind
  Something of which its masters are afraid,
    States to be curb'd and thoughts to be confined,
  Conspiracy or Congress to be made-
    Cobbling at manacles for all mankind-
  A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
  With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.

  If we may judge of matter by the mind,
    Emasculated to the marrow It
  Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
    Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
  Eutropius of its many masters,- blind
    To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
  Fearless- because no feeling dwells in ice,
  Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

  Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
    For I will never feel them?- Italy!
  Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
    Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee-
  Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
    Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
  Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
  And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

  Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,
    In honest simple verse, this song to you.
  And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
    'T is that I still retain my 'buff and blue;'
  My politics as yet are all to educate:
    Apostasy 's so fashionable, too,
  To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean;
  Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?

  VENICE, September 16, 1818.
                   CANTO THE FIRST.

  I WANT a hero: an uncommon want,
    When every year and month sends forth a new one,
  Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
    The age discovers he is not the true one;
  Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
    I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan-
  We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
  Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

  Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
    Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
  Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
    And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
  Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
    Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow:
  France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier
  Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

  Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
    Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
  Were French, and famous people, as we know:
    And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
  Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
    With many of the military set,
  Exceedingly remarkable at times,
  But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

  Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
    And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
  There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
    'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
  Because the army 's grown more popular,
    At which the naval people are concern'd;
  Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
  Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

  Brave men were living before Agamemnon
    And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
  A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
    But then they shone not on the poet's page,
  And so have been forgotten:- I condemn none,
    But can't find any in the present age
  Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
  So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan.

  Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res'
    (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),
  And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
    What went before- by way of episode,
  While seated after dinner at his ease,
    Beside his mistress in some soft abode,
  Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,
  Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

  That is the usual method, but not mine-
    My way is to begin with the beginning;
  The regularity of my design
    Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
  And therefore I shall open with a line
    (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)
  Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,
  And also of his mother, if you 'd rather.

  In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
    Famous for oranges and women- he
  Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
    So says the proverb- and I quite agree;
  Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
    Cadiz perhaps- but that you soon may see;
  Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
  A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.

  His father's name was Jose- Don, of course,-
    A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
  Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
    Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
  A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,
    Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
  Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
  Begot- but that 's to come- Well, to renew:

  His mother was a learned lady, famed
    For every branch of every science known
  In every Christian language ever named,
    With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,
  She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
    And even the good with inward envy groan,
  Finding themselves so very much exceeded
  In their own way by all the things that she did.

  Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart
    All Calderon and greater part of Lope,
  So that if any actor miss'd his part
    She could have served him for the prompter's copy;
  For her Feinagle's were an useless art,
    And he himself obliged to shut up shop- he
  Could never make a memory so fine as
  That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.

  Her favourite science was the mathematical,
    Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,
  Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,
    Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity;
  In short, in all things she was fairly what I call
    A prodigy- her morning dress was dimity,
  Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,
  And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.

  She knew the Latin- that is, 'the Lord's prayer,'
    And Greek- the alphabet- I 'm nearly sure;
  She read some French romances here and there,
    Although her mode of speaking was not pure;
  For native Spanish she had no great care,
    At least her conversation was obscure;
  Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
  As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.

  She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,
    And said there was analogy between 'em;
  She proved it somehow out of sacred song,
    But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em;
  But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong
    And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em,
  ''T is strange- the Hebrew noun which means "I am,"

  Some women use their tongues- she look'd a lecture,
    Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,
  An all-in-all sufficient self-director,
    Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,
  The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector,
    Whose suicide was almost an anomaly-
  One sad example more, that 'All is vanity'
  (The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity').

  In short, she was a walking calculation,
    Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,
  Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,
    Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers,
  Morality's prim personification,
    In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers;
  To others' share let 'female errors fall,'
  For she had not even one- the worst of all.

  Oh! she was perfect past all parallel-
    Of any modern female saint's comparison;
  So far above the cunning powers of hell,
    Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;
  Even her minutest motions went as well
    As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:
  In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
  Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar!

  Perfect she was, but as perfection is
    Insipid in this naughty world of ours,
  Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss
    Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,
  Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss
    (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),
  Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve,
  Went plucking various fruit without her leave.

  He was a mortal of the careless kind,
    With no great love for learning, or the learn'd,
  Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,
    And never dream'd his lady was concern'd;
  The world, as usual, wickedly inclined
    To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd,
  Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two-
  But for domestic quarrels one will do.

  Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,
    A great opinion of her own good qualities;
  Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,
    And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;
  But then she had a devil of a spirit,
    And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities,
  And let few opportunities escape
  Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.

  This was an easy matter with a man
    Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard;
  And even the wisest, do the best they can,
    Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,
  That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;'
    And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,
  And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,
  And why and wherefore no one understands.

  'T is pity learned virgins ever wed
    With persons of no sort of education,
  Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,
    Grow tired of scientific conversation:
  I don't choose to say much upon this head,
    I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,
  But- Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
  Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

  Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd- why,
    Not any of the many could divine,
  Though several thousand people chose to try,
    'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;
  I loathe that low vice- curiosity;
    But if there 's anything in which I shine,
  'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,
  Not having of my own domestic cares.

  And so I interfered, and with the best
    Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;
  I think the foolish people were possess'd,
    For neither of them could I ever find,
  Although their porter afterwards confess'd-
    But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind,
  For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,
  A pail of housemaid's water unawares.

  A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
    And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
  His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
    Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;
  Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in
    Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth
  To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home,
  To teach him manners for the time to come.

  Don Jose and the Donna Inez led
    For some time an unhappy sort of life,
  Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;
    They lived respectably as man and wife,
  Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,
    And gave no outward signs of inward strife,
  Until at length the smother'd fire broke out,
  And put the business past all kind of doubt.

  For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians,
    And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;
  But as he had some lucid intermissions,
    She next decided he was only bad;
  Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions,
    No sort of explanation could be had,
  Save that her duty both to man and God
  Required this conduct- which seem'd very odd.

  She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,
    And open'd certain trunks of books and letters,
  All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;
    And then she had all Seville for abettors,
  Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);
    The hearers of her case became repeaters,
  Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,
  Some for amusement, others for old grudges.

  And then this best and weakest woman bore
    With such serenity her husband's woes,
  Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,
    Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose
  Never to say a word about them more-
    Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,
  And saw his agonies with such sublimity,
  That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!'

  No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,
    Is philosophic in our former friends;
  'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,
    The more so in obtaining our own ends;
  And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus'
    Conduct like this by no means comprehends;
  Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue,
  But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.

  And if your quarrels should rip up old stories,
    And help them with a lie or two additional,
  I 'm not to blame, as you well know- no more is
    Any one else- they were become traditional;
  Besides, their resurrection aids our glories
    By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:
  And science profits by this resurrection-
  Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

  Their friends had tried at reconciliation,
    Then their relations, who made matters worse.
  ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion
    To whom it may be best to have recourse-
  I can't say much for friend or yet relation):
    The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,
  But scarce a fee was paid on either side
  Before, unluckily, Don Jose died.

  He died: and most unluckily, because,
    According to all hints I could collect
  From counsel learned in those kinds of laws
    (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect),
  His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;
    A thousand pities also with respect
  To public feeling, which on this occasion
  Was manifested in a great sensation.

  But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay
    The public feeling and the lawyers' fees:
  His house was sold, his servants sent away,
    A Jew took one of his two mistresses,
  A priest the other- at least so they say:
    I ask'd the doctors after his disease-
  He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian,
  And left his widow to her own aversion.

  Yet Jose was an honourable man,
    That I must say who knew him very well;
  Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan
    Indeed there were not many more to tell;
  And if his passions now and then outran
    Discretion, and were not so peaceable
  As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),
  He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.

  Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,
    Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.
  Let 's own- since it can do no good on earth-
    It was a trying moment that which found him
  Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,
    Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him:
  No choice was left his feelings or his pride,
  Save death or Doctors' Commons- so he died.

  Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir
    To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,
  Which, with a long minority and care,
    Promised to turn out well in proper hands:
  Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,
    And answer'd but to nature's just demands;
  An only son left with an only mother
  Is brought up much more wisely than another.

  Sagest of women, even of widows, she
    Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,
  And worthy of the noblest pedigree
    (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon):
  Then for accomplishments of chivalry,
    In case our lord the king should go to war again,
  He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
  And how to scale a fortress- or a nunnery.

  But that which Donna Inez most desired,
    And saw into herself each day before all
  The learned tutors whom for him she hired,
    Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral;
  Much into all his studies she inquired,
    And so they were submitted first to her, all,
  Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery
  To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.

  The languages, especially the dead,
    The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
  The arts, at least all such as could be said
    To be the most remote from common use,
  In all these he was much and deeply read;
    But not a page of any thing that 's loose,
  Or hints continuation of the species,
  Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious.

  His classic studies made a little puzzle,
    Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,
  Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,
    But never put on pantaloons or bodices;
  His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,
    And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,
  Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology,
  For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

  Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him,
    Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
  Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
    I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,
  Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn
    Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:
  But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one
  Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'

  Lucretius' irreligion is too strong,
    For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;
  I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,
    Although no doubt his real intent was good,
  For speaking out so plainly in his song,
    So much indeed as to be downright rude;
  And then what proper person can be partial
  To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?

  Juan was taught from out the best edition,
    Expurgated by learned men, who place
  Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,
    The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface
  Too much their modest bard by this omission,
    And pitying sore his mutilated case,
  They only add them all in an appendix,
  Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;

  For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,'
    Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages;
  They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop,
    To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,
  Till some less rigid editor shall stoop
    To call them back into their separate cages,
  Instead of standing staring all together,
  Like garden gods- and not so decent either.

  The Missal too (it was the family Missal)
    Was ornamented in a sort of way
  Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all
    Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,
  Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,
    Could turn their optics to the text and pray,
  Is more than I know- But Don Juan's mother
  Kept this herself, and gave her son another.

  Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,
    And homilies, and lives of all the saints;
  To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,
    He did not take such studies for restraints;
  But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,
    So well not one of the aforesaid paints
  As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,
  Which make the reader envy his transgressions.

  This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan-
    I can't but say that his mamma was right,
  If such an education was the true one.
    She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;
  Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,
    You might be sure she was a perfect fright;
  She did this during even her husband's life-
  I recommend as much to every wife.

  Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace;
    At six a charming child, and at eleven
  With all the promise of as fine a face
    As e'er to man's maturer growth was given:
  He studied steadily, and grew apace,
    And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven,
  For half his days were pass'd at church, the other
  Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.

  At six, I said, he was a charming child,
    At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;
  Although in infancy a little wild,
    They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy
  His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd,
    At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy
  Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,
  Her young philosopher was grown already.

  I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,
    But what I say is neither here nor there:
  I knew his father well, and have some skill
    In character- but it would not be fair
  From sire to son to augur good or ill:
    He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair-
  But scandal 's my aversion- I protest
  Against all evil speaking, even in jest.

  For my part I say nothing- nothing- but
    This I will say- my reasons are my own-
  That if I had an only son to put
    To school (as God be praised that I have none),
  'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut
    Him up to learn his catechism alone,
  No- no- I 'd send him out betimes to college,
  For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.

  For there one learns- 't is not for me to boast,
    Though I acquired- but I pass over that,
  As well as all the Greek I since have lost:
    I say that there 's the place- but 'Verbum sat.'
  I think I pick'd up too, as well as most,
    Knowledge of matters- but no matter what-
  I never married- but, I think, I know
  That sons should not be educated so.

  Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
    Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd
  Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;
    And everybody but his mother deem'd
  Him almost man; but she flew in a rage
    And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)
  If any said so, for to be precocious
  Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.

  Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
    Selected for discretion and devotion,
  There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
    Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
  Of many charms in her as natural
    As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
  Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid
  (But this last simile is trite and stupid).

  The darkness of her Oriental eye
    Accorded with her Moorish origin
  (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;
    In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);
  When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,
    Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
  Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,
  Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.

  She married (I forget the pedigree)
    With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
  His blood less noble than such blood should be;
    At such alliances his sires would frown,
  In that point so precise in each degree
    That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
  Marrying their cousins- nay, their aunts, and nieces,
  Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

  This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
    Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;
  For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
    Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
  The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
    But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,
  'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma
  Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.

  However this might be, the race went on
    Improving still through every generation,
  Until it centred in an only son,
    Who left an only daughter; my narration
  May have suggested that this single one
    Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
  I shall have much to speak about), and she
  Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

  Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes)
    Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
  Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
    Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
  And love than either; and there would arise
    A something in them which was not desire,
  But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
  Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.

  Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
    Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;
  Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,
    Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
  Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
    As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,
  Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:
  Her stature tall- I hate a dumpy woman.

  Wedded she was some years, and to a man
    Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;
  And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE
    'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,
  Especially in countries near the sun:
    And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,'
  Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
  Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

  'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
    And all the fault of that indecent sun,
  Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
    But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
  That howsoever people fast and pray,
    The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
  What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
  Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.

  Happy the nations of the moral North!
    Where all is virtue, and the winter season
  Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
    ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
  Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,
    By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on
  The lover, who must pay a handsome price,
  Because it is a marketable vice.

  Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,
    A man well looking for his years, and who
  Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:
    They lived together, as most people do,
  Suffering each other's foibles by accord,
    And not exactly either one or two;
  Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
  For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

  Julia was- yet I never could see why-
    With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
  Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
    For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:
  Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,
    For malice still imputes some private end)
  That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,
  Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

  And that still keeping up the old connection,
    Which time had lately render'd much more chaste,
  She took his lady also in affection,
    And certainly this course was much the best:
  She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection,
    And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;
  And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,
  At least she left it a more slender handle.

  I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair
    With other people's eyes, or if her own
  Discoveries made, but none could be aware
    Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;
  Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,
    Indifferent from the first or callous grown:
  I 'm really puzzled what to think or say,
  She kept her counsel in so close a way.

  Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,
    Caress'd him often- such a thing might be
  Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,
    When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;
  But I am not so sure I should have smiled
    When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;
  These few short years make wondrous alterations,
  Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.

  Whate'er the cause might be, they had become
    Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
  Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
    And much embarrassment in either eye;
  There surely will be little doubt with some
    That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
  But as for Juan, he had no more notion
  Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.

  Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,
    And tremulously gentle her small hand
  Withdrew itself from his, but left behind
    A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
  And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
    'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand
  Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art
  Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.

  And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
    She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
  As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
    She must not own, but cherish'd more the while
  For that compression in its burning core;
    Even innocence itself has many a wile,
  And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
  And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

  But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
    Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
  Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
    Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
  And in whatever aspect it arrays
    Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;
  Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
  Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

  Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
    And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
  And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
    Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
  All these are little preludes to possession,
    Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
  And merely tend to show how greatly love is
  Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.

  Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;
    She felt it going, and resolved to make
  The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
    For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake;
  Her resolutions were most truly great,
    And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:
  She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace,
  As being the best judge of a lady's case.

  She vow'd she never would see Juan more,
    And next day paid a visit to his mother,
  And look'd extremely at the opening door,
    Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another;
  Grateful she was, and yet a little sore-
    Again it opens, it can be no other,
  'T is surely Juan now- No! I 'm afraid
  That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.

  She now determined that a virtuous woman
    Should rather face and overcome temptation,
  That flight was base and dastardly, and no man
    Should ever give her heart the least sensation;
  That is to say, a thought beyond the common
    Preference, that we must feel upon occasion
  For people who are pleasanter than others,
  But then they only seem so many brothers.

  And even if by chance- and who can tell?
    The devil 's so very sly- she should discover
  That all within was not so very well,
    And, if still free, that such or such a lover
  Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell
    Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over;
  And if the man should ask, 't is but denial:
  I recommend young ladies to make trial.

  And then there are such things as love divine,
    Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure,
  Such as the angels think so very fine,
    And matrons who would be no less secure,
  Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;'
    Thus Julia said- and thought so, to be sure;
  And so I 'd have her think, were I the man
  On whom her reveries celestial ran.

  Such love is innocent, and may exist
    Between young persons without any danger.
  A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;
    For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger,
  But hear these freedoms form the utmost list
    Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:
  If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,
  But not my fault- I tell them all in time.

  Love, then, but love within its proper limits,
    Was Julia's innocent determination
  In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its
    Exertion might be useful on occasion;
  And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its
    Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion
  He might be taught, by love and her together-
  I really don't know what, nor Julia either.

  Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced
    In mail of proof- her purity of soul-
  She, for the future of her strength convinced.
    And that her honour was a rock, or mole,
  Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed
    With any kind of troublesome control;
  But whether Julia to the task was equal
  Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel.

  Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,
    And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen
  Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable,
    Or if they did so, satisfied to mean
  Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable-
    A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
  Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
  That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

  And if in the mean time her husband died,
    But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross
  Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd)
    Never could she survive that common loss;
  But just suppose that moment should betide,
    I only say suppose it- inter nos.
  (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought
  In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.)

  I only say suppose this supposition:
    Juan being then grown up to man's estate
  Would fully suit a widow of condition,
    Even seven years hence it would not be too late;
  And in the interim (to pursue this vision)
    The mischief, after all, could not be great,
  For he would learn the rudiments of love,
  I mean the seraph way of those above.

  So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan.
    Poor little fellow! he had no idea
  Of his own case, and never hit the true one;
    In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,
  He puzzled over what he found a new one,
    But not as yet imagined it could be
  Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,
  Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.

  Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,
    His home deserted for the lonely wood,
  Tormented with a wound he could not know,
    His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:
  I 'm fond myself of solitude or so,
    But then, I beg it may be understood,
  By solitude I mean a sultan's, not
  A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.

  'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,
    Where transport and security entwine,
  Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
    And here thou art a god indeed divine.'
  The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,
    With the exception of the second line,
  For that same twining 'transport and security'
  Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.

  The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals
    To the good sense and senses of mankind,
  The very thing which every body feels,
    As all have found on trial, or may find,
  That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals
    Or love.- I won't say more about 'entwined'
  Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before,
  But beg 'Security' will bolt the door.

  Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks,
    Thinking unutterable things; he threw
  Himself at length within the leafy nooks
    Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;
  There poets find materials for their books,
    And every now and then we read them through,
  So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
  Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

  He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued
    His self-communion with his own high soul,
  Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,
    Had mitigated part, though not the whole
  Of its disease; he did the best he could
    With things not very subject to control,
  And turn'd, without perceiving his condition,
  Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

  He thought about himself, and the whole earth
    Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
  And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
    And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,
  How many miles the moon might have in girth,
    Of air-balloons, and of the many bars
  To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;-
  And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.

  In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
    Longings sublime, and aspirations high,
  Which some are born with, but the most part learn
    To plague themselves withal, they know not why:
  'T was strange that one so young should thus concern
    His brain about the action of the sky;
  If you think 't was philosophy that this did,
  I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

  He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,
    And heard a voice in all the winds; and then
  He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
    And how the goddesses came down to men:
  He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,
    And when he look'd upon his watch again,
  He found how much old Time had been a winner-
  He also found that he had lost his dinner.

  Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,
    Boscan, or Garcilasso;- by the wind
  Even as the page is rustled while we look,
    So by the poesy of his own mind
  Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,
    As if 't were one whereon magicians bind
  Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,
  According to some good old woman's tale.

  Thus would he while his lonely hours away
    Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
  Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,
    Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,
  A bosom whereon he his head might lay,
    And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,
  With- several other things, which I forget,
  Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

  Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,
    Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;
  She saw that Juan was not at his ease;
    But that which chiefly may, and must surprise,
  Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease
    Her only son with question or surmise:
  Whether it was she did not see, or would not,
  Or, like all very clever people, could not.

  This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common;
    For instance- gentlemen, whose ladies take
  Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
    And break the- Which commandment is 't they break?
  (I have forgot the number, and think no man
    Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)
  I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous,
  They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.

  A real husband always is suspicious,
    But still no less suspects in the wrong place,
  Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,
    Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,
  By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;
    The last indeed 's infallibly the case:
  And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly,
  He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.

  Thus parents also are at times short-sighted;
    Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover,
  The while the wicked world beholds delighted,
    Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,
  Till some confounded escapade has blighted
    The plan of twenty years, and all is over;
  And then the mother cries, the father swears,
  And wonders why the devil he got heirs.

  But Inez was so anxious, and so clear
    Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
  She had some other motive much more near
    For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
  But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;
    Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
  Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
  In case he thought his wife too great a prize.

  It was upon a day, a summer's day;-
    Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,
  And so is spring about the end of May;
    The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
  But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,
    And stand convicted of more truth than treason,
  That there are months which nature grows more merry in,-
  March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

  'T was on a summer's day- the sixth of June:-
    I like to be particular in dates,
  Not only of the age, and year, but moon;
    They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates
  Change horses, making history change its tune,
    Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,
  Leaving at last not much besides chronology,
  Excepting the post-obits of theology.

  'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour
    Of half-past six- perhaps still nearer seven-
  When Julia sate within as pretty a bower
    As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven
  Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,
    To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
  With all the trophies of triumphant song-
  He won them well, and may he wear them long!

  She sate, but not alone; I know not well
    How this same interview had taken place,
  And even if I knew, I should not tell-
    People should hold their tongues in any case;
  No matter how or why the thing befell,
    But there were she and Juan, face to face-
  When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,
  But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

  How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart
    Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.
  Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,
    Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,
  How self-deceitful is the sagest part
    Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along-
  The precipice she stood on was immense,
  So was her creed in her own innocence.

  She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,
    And of the folly of all prudish fears,
  Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,
    And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:
  I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth,
    Because that number rarely much endears,
  And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,
  Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.

  When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,'
    They mean to scold, and very often do;
  When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,'
    They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;
  In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
    At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true,
  But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
  A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

  Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,
    For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
  By all the vows below to powers above,
    She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
  Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
    And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
  One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
  Quite by mistake- she thought it was her own;

  Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,
    Which play'd within the tangles of her hair:
  And to contend with thoughts she could not smother
    She seem'd by the distraction of her air.
  'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother
    To leave together this imprudent pair,
  She who for many years had watch'd her son so-
  I 'm very certain mine would not have done so.

  The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees
    Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp,
  As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;'
    Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp
  His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze:
    She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,
  Had she imagined such a thing could rouse
  A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

  I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
    But what he did, is much what you would do;
  His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,
    And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew
  In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,-
    Love is so very timid when 't is new:
  She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,
  And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

  The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:
    The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they
  Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon
    Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
  The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
    Sees half the business in a wicked way
  On which three single hours of moonshine smile-
  And then she looks so modest all the while.

  There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
    A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul
  To open all itself, without the power
    Of calling wholly back its self-control;
  The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,
    Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,
  Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws
  A loving languor, which is not repose.

  And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced
    And half retiring from the glowing arm,
  Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;
    Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,
  Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist;
    But then the situation had its charm,
  And then- God knows what next- I can't go on;
  I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.

  Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,
    With your confounded fantasies, to more
  Immoral conduct by the fancied sway
    Your system feigns o'er the controulless core
  Of human hearts, than all the long array
    Of poets and romancers:- You 're a bore,
  A charlatan, a coxcomb- and have been,
  At best, no better than a go-between.

  And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs,
    Until too late for useful conversation;
  The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,
    I wish indeed they had not had occasion,
  But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?
    Not that remorse did not oppose temptation;
  A little still she strove, and much repented
  And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'- consented.

  'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward
    To those who could invent him a new pleasure:
  Methinks the requisition 's rather hard,
    And must have cost his majesty a treasure:
  For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard,
    Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);
  I care not for new pleasures, as the old
  Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.

  Oh Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing,
    Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt:
  I make a resolution every spring
    Of reformation, ere the year run out,
  But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,
    Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout:
  I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed,
  And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd.

  Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take-
    Start not! still chaster reader- she 'll be nice hence-
  Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;
    This liberty is a poetic licence,
  Which some irregularity may make
    In the design, and as I have a high sense
  Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit
  To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

  This licence is to hope the reader will
    Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day,
  Without whose epoch my poetic skill
    For want of facts would all be thrown away),
  But keeping Julia and Don Juan still
    In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'll say
  'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure
  About the day- the era 's more obscure.

  We 'll talk of that anon.- 'T is sweet to hear
    At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
  The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
    By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep;
  'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;
    'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep
  From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high
  The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

  'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
    Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
  'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark
    Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
  'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,
    Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum
  Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
  The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

  Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
    In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
  Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
    From civic revelry to rural mirth;
  Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
    Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
  Sweet is revenge- especially to women,
  Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

  Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
    The unexpected death of some old lady
  Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
    Who 've made 'us youth' wait too- too long already
  For an estate, or cash, or country seat,
    Still breaking, but with stamina so steady
  That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
  Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.

  'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
    By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
  To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
    Particularly with a tiresome friend:
  Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
    Dear is the helpless creature we defend
  Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
  We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

  But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
    Is first and passionate love- it stands alone,
  Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
    The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd- all 's known-
  And life yields nothing further to recall
    Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
  No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
  Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.

  Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use
    Of his own nature, and the various arts,
  And likes particularly to produce
    Some new experiment to show his parts;
  This is the age of oddities let loose,
    Where different talents find their different marts;
  You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost your
  Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture.

  What opposite discoveries we have seen!
    (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)
  One makes new noses, one a guillotine,
    One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets;
  But vaccination certainly has been
    A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,
  With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,
  By borrowing a new one from an ox.

  Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
    And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,
  But has not answer'd like the apparatus
    Of the Humane Society's beginning
  By which men are unsuffocated gratis:
    What wondrous new machines have late been spinning!
  I said the small-pox has gone out of late;
  Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great.

  'T is said the great came from America;
    Perhaps it may set out on its return,-
  The population there so spreads, they say
    'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn,
  With war, or plague, or famine, any way,
    So that civilisation they may learn;
  And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is-
  Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?

  This is the patent-age of new inventions
    For killing bodies, and for saving souls,
  All propagated with the best intentions;
    Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals
  Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
    Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,
  Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
  Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.

  Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what,
    And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;
  'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that
    Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure;
  Few mortals know what end they would be at,
    But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure,
  The path is through perplexing ways, and when
  The goal is gain'd, we die, you know- and then-

  What then?- I do not know, no more do you-
    And so good night.- Return we to our story:
  'T was in November, when fine days are few,
    And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
  And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;
    And the sea dashes round the promontory,
  And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
  And sober suns must set at five o'clock.

  'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;
    No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
  By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
    With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;
  There 's something cheerful in that sort of light,
    Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud:
  I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
  A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

  'T was midnight- Donna Julia was in bed,
    Sleeping, most probably,- when at her door
  Arose a clatter might awake the dead,
    If they had never been awoke before,
  And that they have been so we all have read,
    And are to be so, at the least, once more;-
  The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist
  First knocks were heard, then 'Madam- Madam- hist!

  'For God's sake, Madam- Madam- here 's my master,
    With more than half the city at his back-
  Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!
    'T is not my fault- I kept good watch- Alack!
  Do pray undo the bolt a little faster-
    They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack
  Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly-
  Surely the window 's not so very high!'

  By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,
    With torches, friends, and servants in great number;
  The major part of them had long been wived,
    And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber
  Of any wicked woman, who contrived
    By stealth her husband's temples to encumber:
  Examples of this kind are so contagious,
  Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous.

  I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion
    Could enter into Don Alfonso's head;
  But for a cavalier of his condition
    It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,
  Without a word of previous admonition,
    To hold a levee round his lady's bed,
  And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword,
  To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd.

  Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep
    (Mind- that I do not say- she had not slept),
  Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;
    Her maid Antonia, who was an adept,
  Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,
    As if she had just now from out them crept:
  I can't tell why she should take all this trouble
  To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.

  But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,
    Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who
  Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,
    Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two,
  And therefore side by side were gently laid,
    Until the hours of absence should run through,
  And truant husband should return, and say,
  'My dear, I was the first who came away.'

  Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,
    'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean?
  Has madness seized you? would that I had died
    Ere such a monster's victim I had been!
  What may this midnight violence betide,
    A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?
  Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?
  Search, then, the room!'- Alfonso said, 'I will.'

  He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere,
    Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat,
  And found much linen, lace, and several pair
    Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,
  With other articles of ladies fair,
    To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat:
  Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords,
  And wounded several shutters, and some boards.

  Under the bed they search'd, and there they found-
    No matter what- it was not that they sought;
  They open'd windows, gazing if the ground
    Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;
  And then they stared each other's faces round:
    'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought,
  And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,
  Of looking in the bed as well as under.

  During this inquisition, Julia's tongue
    Was not asleep- 'Yes, search and search,' she cried,
  'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!
    It was for this that I became a bride!
  For this in silence I have suffer'd long
    A husband like Alfonso at my side;
  But now I 'll bear no more, nor here remain,
  If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.

  'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,
    If ever you indeed deserved the name,
  Is 't worthy of your years?- you have threescore-
    Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same-
  Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore
    For facts against a virtuous woman's fame?
  Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso,
  How dare you think your lady would go on so?

  'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold
    The common privileges of my sex?
  That I have chosen a confessor so old
    And deaf, that any other it would vex,
  And never once he has had cause to scold,
    But found my very innocence perplex
  So much, he always doubted I was married-
  How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried!

  'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er
    I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?
  Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,
    Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?
  Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,
    I favor'd none- nay, was almost uncivil?
  Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,
  Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?

  'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani
    Sing at my heart six months at least in vain?
  Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,
    Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain?
  Were there not also Russians, English, many?
    The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,
  And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer,
  Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year.

  'Have I not had two bishops at my feet,
    The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez?
  And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?
    I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:
  I praise your vast forbearance not to beat
    Me also, since the time so opportune is-
  Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger,
  Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?

  'Was it for this you took your sudden journey.
    Under pretence of business indispensable
  With that sublime of rascals your attorney,
    Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible
  Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he
    Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible,
  Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee,
  And not from any love to you nor me.

  'If he comes here to take a deposition,
    By all means let the gentleman proceed;
  You 've made the apartment in a fit condition:
    There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need-
  Let every thing be noted with precision,
    I would not you for nothing should be fee'd-
  But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.'
  'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.'

  'There is the closet, there the toilet, there
    The antechamber- search them under, over;
  There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,
    The chimney- which would really hold a lover.
  I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care
    And make no further noise, till you discover
  The secret cavern of this lurking treasure-
  And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure.

  'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown
    Doubt upon me, confusion over all,
  Pray have the courtesy to make it known
    Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal
  Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown-
    I hope he 's young and handsome- is he tall?
  Tell me- and be assured, that since you stain
  My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.

  'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,
    At that age he would be too old for slaughter,
  Or for so young a husband's jealous fears
    (Antonia! let me have a glass of water).
  I am ashamed of having shed these tears,
    They are unworthy of my father's daughter;
  My mother dream'd not in my natal hour
  That I should fall into a monster's power.

  'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous,
    You saw that she was sleeping by my side
  When you broke in upon us with your fellows:
    Look where you please- we 've nothing, sir, to hide;
  Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us,
    Or for the sake of decency abide
  A moment at the door, that we may be
  Drest to receive so much good company.

  'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
    The little I have said may serve to show
  The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er
    The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:
  I leave you to your conscience as before,
    'T will one day ask you why you used me so?
  God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!-
  Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?'

  She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
    She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
  Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
    Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
  Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,
    To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
  Its snow through all;- her soft lips lie apart,
  And louder than her breathing beats her heart.

  The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;
    Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room,
  And, turning up her nose, with looks abused
    Her master and his myrmidons, of whom
  Not one, except the attorney, was amused;
    He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,
  So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,
  Knowing they must be settled by the laws.

  With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood,
    Following Antonia's motions here and there,
  With much suspicion in his attitude;
    For reputations he had little care;
  So that a suit or action were made good,
    Small pity had he for the young and fair,
  And ne'er believed in negatives, till these
  Were proved by competent false witnesses.

  But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,
    And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;
  When, after searching in five hundred nooks,
    And treating a young wife with so much rigour,
  He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes,
    Added to those his lady with such vigour
  Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour,
  Quick, thick, and heavy- as a thunder-shower.

  At first he tried to hammer an excuse,
    To which the sole reply was tears and sobs,
  And indications of hysterics, whose
    Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs,
  Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:
    Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's;
  He saw too, in perspective, her relations,
  And then he tried to muster all his patience.

  He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,
    But sage Antonia cut him short before
  The anvil of his speech received the hammer,
    With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,
  Or madam dies.'- Alfonso mutter'd, 'D- n her,'
    But nothing else, the time of words was o'er;
  He cast a rueful look or two, and did,
  He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.

  With him retired his 'posse comitatus,'
    The attorney last, who linger'd near the door
  Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as
    Antonia let him- not a little sore
  At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus'
    In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore
  An awkward look; as he revolved the case,
  The door was fasten'd in his legal face.

  No sooner was it bolted, than- Oh shame!
    Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind!
  How can you do such things and keep your fame,
    Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind?
  Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name!
    But to proceed- for there is more behind:
  With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,
  Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed.

  He had been hid- I don't pretend to say
    How, nor can I indeed describe the where-
  Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay,
    No doubt, in little compass, round or square;
  But pity him I neither must nor may
    His suffocation by that pretty pair;
  'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut
  With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.

  And, secondly, I pity not, because
    He had no business to commit a sin,
  Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,
    At least 't was rather early to begin;
  But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
    So much as when we call our old debts in
  At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,
  And find a deuced balance with the devil.

  Of his position I can give no notion:
    'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
  How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
    Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,
  When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,
    And that the medicine answer'd very well;
  Perhaps 't was in a different way applied,
  For David lived, but Juan nearly died.

  What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back
    The moment he has sent his fools away.
  Antonia's skill was put upon the rack,
    But no device could be brought into play-
  And how to parry the renew'd attack?
    Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:
  Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,
  But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek.

  He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand
    Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair;
  Even then their love they could not all command,
    And half forgot their danger and despair:
  Antonia's patience now was at a stand-
    'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,'
  She whisper'd, in great wrath- 'I must deposit
  This pretty gentleman within the closet:

  'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night-
    Who can have put my master in this mood?
  What will become on 't- I 'm in such a fright,
    The devil 's in the urchin, and no good-
  Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?
    Why, don't you know that it may end in blood?
  You 'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,
  My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.

  'Had it but been for a stout cavalier
    Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)-
  But for a child, what piece of work is here!
    I really, madam, wonder at your taste
  (Come, sir, get in)- my master must be near:
    There, for the present, at the least, he's fast,
  And if we can but till the morning keep
  Our counsel- (Juan, mind, you must not sleep).'

  Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,
    Closed the oration of the trusty maid:
  She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone,
    An order somewhat sullenly obey'd;
  However, present remedy was none,
    And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd:
  Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,
  She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.

  Alfonso paused a minute- then begun
    Some strange excuses for his late proceeding;
  He would not justify what he had done,
    To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding;
  But there were ample reasons for it, none
    Of which he specified in this his pleading:
  His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,
  Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.'

  Julia said nought; though all the while there rose
    A ready answer, which at once enables
  A matron, who her husband's foible knows,
    By a few timely words to turn the tables,
  Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,-
    Even if it should comprise a pack of fables;
  'T is to retort with firmness, and when he
  Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.

  Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,-
    Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known,
  But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds-
    But that can't be, as has been often shown,
  A lady with apologies abounds;-
    It might be that her silence sprang alone
  From delicacy to Don Juan's ear,
  To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear.

  There might be one more motive, which makes two;
    Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,-
  Mention'd his jealousy but never who
    Had been the happy lover, he concluded,
  Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true,
    His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded;
  To speak of Inez now were, one may say,
  Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way.

  A hint, in tender cases, is enough;
    Silence is best, besides there is a tact
  (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,
    But it will serve to keep my verse compact)-
  Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough,
    A lady always distant from the fact:
  The charming creatures lie with such a grace,
  There 's nothing so becoming to the face.

  They blush, and we believe them; at least I
    Have always done so; 't is of no great use,
  In any case, attempting a reply,
    For then their eloquence grows quite profuse;
  And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh,
    And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose
  A tear or two, and then we make it up;
  And then- and then- and then- sit down and sup.

  Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon,
    Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,
  And laid conditions he thought very hard on,
    Denying several little things he wanted:
  He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,
    With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted,
  Beseeching she no further would refuse,
  When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes.

  A pair of shoes!- what then? not much, if they
    Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these
  (No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
    Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,
  Was but a moment's act.- Ah! well-a-day!
    My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze-
  Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
  And then flew out into another passion.

  He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
    And Julia instant to the closet flew.
  'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake- not a word-
    The door is open- you may yet slip through
  The passage you so often have explored-
    Here is the garden-key- Fly- fly- Adieu!
  Haste- haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet-
  Day has not broke- there 's no one in the street:

  None can say that this was not good advice,
    The only mischief was, it came too late;
  Of all experience 't is the usual price,
    A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:
  Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice,
    And might have done so by the garden-gate,
  But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown,
  Who threaten'd death- so Juan knock'd him down.

  Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light;
    Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!'
  But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight.
    Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire,
  Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night;
    And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher;
  His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar,
  And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.

  Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it,
    And they continued battling hand to hand,
  For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it;
    His temper not being under great command,
  If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,
    Alfonso's days had not been in the land
  Much longer.- Think of husbands', lovers' lives!
  And how ye may be doubly widows- wives!

  Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
    And Juan throttled him to get away,
  And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;
    At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,
  Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,
    And then his only garment quite gave way;
  He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,
  I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

  Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found
    An awkward spectacle their eyes before;
  Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd,
    Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door;
  Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground,
    Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more:
  Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about,
  And liking not the inside, lock'd the out.

  Here ends this canto.- Need I sing, or say,
    How Juan naked, favour'd by the night,
  Who favours what she should not, found his way,
    And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight?
  The pleasant scandal which arose next day,
    The nine days' wonder which was brought to light,
  And how Alfonso sued for a divorce,
  Were in the English newspapers, of course.

  If you would like to see the whole proceedings,
    The depositions, and the cause at full,
  The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings
    Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul,
  There 's more than one edition, and the readings
    Are various, but they none of them are dull;
  The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,
  Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.

  But Donna Inez, to divert the train
    Of one of the most circulating scandals
  That had for centuries been known in Spain,
    At least since the retirement of the Vandals,
  First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain)
    To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles;
  And then, by the advice of some old ladies,
  She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz.

  She had resolved that he should travel through
    All European climes, by land or sea,
  To mend his former morals, and get new,
    Especially in France and Italy
  (At least this is the thing most people do).
    Julia was sent into a convent: she
  Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better
  Shown in the following copy of her Letter:-

  'They tell me 't is decided; you depart:
    'T is wise- 't is well, but not the less a pain;
  I have no further claim on your young heart,
    Mine is the victim, and would be again;
  To love too much has been the only art
    I used;- I write in haste, and if a stain
  Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears;
  My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

  'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
    State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
  And yet can not regret what it hath cost,
    So dear is still the memory of that dream;
  Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast,
    None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
  I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-
  I 've nothing to reproach, or to request.

  'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
    'T is woman's whole existence; man may range
  The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;
    Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
  Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
    And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
  Men have all these resources, we but one,
  To love again, and be again undone.

  'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
    Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
  For me on earth, except some years to hide
    My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;
  These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
    The passion which still rages as before-
  And so farewell- forgive me, love me- No,
  That word is idle now- but let it go.

  'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
    But still I think I can collect my mind;
  My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set,
    As roll the waves before the settled wind;
  My heart is feminine, nor can forget-
    To all, except one image, madly blind;
  So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
  As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

  'I have no more to say, but linger still,
    And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
  And yet I may as well the task fulfil,
    My misery can scarce be more complete:
  I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
    Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,
  And I must even survive this last adieu,
  And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'

  This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
    With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new:
  Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,
    It trembled as magnetic needles do,
  And yet she did not let one tear escape her;
    The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,'
  The motto cut upon a white cornelian;
  The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

  This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether
    I shall proceed with his adventures is
  Dependent on the public altogether;
    We 'll see, however, what they say to this:
  Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather,
    And no great mischief 's done by their caprice;
  And if their approbation we experience,
  Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year hence.

  My poem 's epic, and is meant to be
    Divided in twelve books; each book containing,
  With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,
    A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
  New characters; the episodes are three:
    A panoramic view of hell 's in training,
  After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
  So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer.

  All these things will be specified in time,
    With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,
  The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,
    Which makes so many poets, and some fools:
  Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme,
    Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
  I 've got new mythological machinery,
  And very handsome supernatural scenery.

  There 's only one slight difference between
    Me and my epic brethren gone before,
  And here the advantage is my own, I ween
    (Not that I have not several merits more,
  But this will more peculiarly be seen);
    They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore
  Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
  Whereas this story 's actually true.

  If any person doubt it, I appeal
    To history, tradition, and to facts,
  To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,
    To plays in five, and operas in three acts;
  All these confirm my statement a good deal,
    But that which more completely faith exacts
  Is that myself, and several now in Seville,
  Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.

  If ever I should condescend to prose,
    I 'll write poetical commandments, which
  Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those
    That went before; in these I shall enrich
  My text with many things that no one knows,
    And carry precept to the highest pitch:
  I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle,
  Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'

  Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
    Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
  Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
    The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:
  With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,
    And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:
  Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor
  Commit- flirtation with the muse of Moore.

  Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,
    His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his;
  Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'
    (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this);
  Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:
    This is true criticism, and you may kiss-
  Exactly as you please, or not,- the rod;

  If any person should presume to assert
    This story is not moral, first, I pray,
  That they will not cry out before they 're hurt,
    Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say
  (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)
    That this is not a moral tale, though gay;
  Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show
  The very place where wicked people go.

  If, after all, there should be some so blind
    To their own good this warning to despise,
  Led by some tortuosity of mind,
    Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
  And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,'
    I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;
  Should captains the remark, or critics, make,
  They also lie too- under a mistake.

  The public approbation I expect,
    And beg they 'll take my word about the moral,
  Which I with their amusement will connect
    (So children cutting teeth receive a coral);
  Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect
    My epical pretensions to the laurel:
  For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
  I 've bribed my grandmother's review- the British.

  I sent it in a letter to the Editor,
    Who thank'd me duly by return of post-
  I 'm for a handsome article his creditor;
    Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,
  And break a promise after having made it her,
    Denying the receipt of what it cost,
  And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
  All I can say is- that he had the money.

  I think that with this holy new alliance
    I may ensure the public, and defy
  All other magazines of art or science,
    Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I
  Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,
    Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,
  And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
  Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

  'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa
    Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so
  Say I; by which quotation there is meant a
    Hint that some six or seven good years ago
  (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)
    I was most ready to return a blow,
  And would not brook at all this sort of thing
  In my hot youth- when George the Third was King.

  But now at thirty years my hair is grey
    (I wonder what it will be like at forty?
  I thought of a peruke the other day)-
    My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
  Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,
    And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
  Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
  And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

  No more- no more- Oh! never more on me
    The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
  Which out of all the lovely things we see
    Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
  Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:
    Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
  Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power
  To double even the sweetness of a flower.

  No more- no more- Oh! never more, my heart,
    Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
  Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
    Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:
  The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art
    Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
  And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment,
  Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

  My days of love are over; me no more
    The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
  Can make the fool of which they made before,-
    In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
  The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
    The copious use of claret is forbid too,
  So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
  I think I must take up with avarice.

  Ambition was my idol, which was broken
    Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;
  And the two last have left me many a token
    O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
  Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken,
    'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'- a chymic treasure
  Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes-
  My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

  What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill
    A certain portion of uncertain paper:
  Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
    Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
  For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
    And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'
  To have, when the original is dust,
  A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

  What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King
    Cheops erected the first pyramid
  And largest, thinking it was just the thing
    To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
  But somebody or other rummaging,
    Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
  Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
  Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

  But I being fond of true philosophy,
    Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
  All things that have been born were born to die,
    And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
  You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
    And if you had it o'er again- 't would pass-
  So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
  And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'

  But for the present, gentle reader! and
    Still gentler purchaser! the bard- that 's I-
  Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
    And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!'
  We meet again, if we should understand
    Each other; and if not, I shall not try
  Your patience further than by this short sample-
  'T were well if others follow'd my example.

  'Go, little book, from this my solitude!
    I cast thee on the waters- go thy ways!
  And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
    The world will find thee after many days.'
  When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood,
    I can't help putting in my claim to praise-
  The four first rhymes are Southey's every line:
  For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.
                CANTO THE SECOND.

  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 employ'd in vain,
  Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he
  Became divested of his native modesty.

  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.

  I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
    If all things be consider'd: 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.

  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.

  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 learn'd to rebel),
  And such sweet girls- 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:

  An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
    New broke, a cameleopard, 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-

  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 plann'd
  A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
  Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

  But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
    Her son to Cadiz only to embark;
  To stay there had not answer'd her intent,
    But why?- we leave the reader in the dark-
  'T was for a voyage that 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.

  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.

  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 whipt, or set upon a stool:
  The great success of Juan's education,
  Spurr'd her to teach another generation.

  Juan embark'd- 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 cross'd it oft, know well enough;
  And, standing upon 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.

  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,
    But almost every other country 's blue,
  When gazing on them, mystified by distance,
  We enter on our nautical existence.

  So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck:
    The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore,
  And the ship creak'd, 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.

  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 unexprest 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.

  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.

  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.

  And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought,
    While his salt tears dropp'd 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.

  '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.)

  '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 any thing excepting thee;
  A mind diseased no remedy can physic
  (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).

  'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker),
    Oh, Julia! what is every other wo?
  (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)-
  Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!'
  (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

  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. I

  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 quincy 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.

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

  The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,'
    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.

  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, long'd 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.

  '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 look'd a little pale,
  For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
    At sunset they began to take in sail,
  For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
  And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

  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 shatter'd 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.

  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 rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,
  While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

  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.

  As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,
    And then the leak they reckon'd 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.

  There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset;
    The water left the hold, and wash'd 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 talk'd of by the divers,
  And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

  Immediately the masts were cut away,
    Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,
  The main-mast follow'd: 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.

  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.

  There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
    As rum and true religion: thus it was,
  Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,
    The high wind made the treble, and as bas
  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,
  Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.

  Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for
    Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,
  Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
    It with a pair of pistols; 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.

  'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be
    All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, '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.

  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.

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

  Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
    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 wreck'd:
  And though 't is true that man can only die once,
  'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

  There winds and waves had hurl'd 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.

  The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
    But the ship labour'd 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 appear'd in sight,
  Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

  Again the weather threaten'd,- again blew
    A gale, and in the fore and after hold
  Water appear'd; 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 roll'd,
  At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
  Like human beings during civil war.

  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.

  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- but there were none
  To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow;
    Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one
  That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution,
  Who told him to be damn'd- in his confusion.

  Some lash'd 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 gnash'd 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.

  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;
    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.

  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,
    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.

  The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
    Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
  And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
    As there were but two blankets for a sail,
  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.

  '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
    Of one whose hate is mask'd 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
  Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

  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 laugh'd,
    If any laughter at such times could be,
  Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
    And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
  Half epileptical and half hysterical:-
  Their preservation would have been a miracle.

  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,
    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.

  Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell-
    Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,
  Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
    As eager to anticipate their grave;
  And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
    And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
  Like one who grapples with his enemy,
  And strives to strangle him before he die.

  And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
    Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
  Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
    Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
  Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
    Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
  A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
  Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

  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.

  All the rest perish'd; 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.

  Juan got into the long-boat, and there
    Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
  It seem'd 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 call'd shortly Tita),
  Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

  Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,
    But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
  Left him so drunk, he jump'd 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.

  A small old spaniel,- which had been Don Jose'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 stepp'd
  Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.

  He also stuff'd 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 renew'd;
    But Juan, trusting they might still get through,
  And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
  Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

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

  Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still
    Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
  Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill
    Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:
  Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
    And present peril all before surpass'd,
  They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter,
  And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

  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
  To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
  And most of them had little clothes but rags.

  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 numb'd 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 fill'd their boat,
  With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

  '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 miseries miseries of alarming brevity.

  '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.

  '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.

  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.

  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,
  Lull'd 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.

  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.

  The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
    And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd 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 kill'd and portion'd out for present eating.

  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,
  Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
  Devour'd it, longing for the other too.

  The seventh day, and no wind- the burning sun
    Blister'd and scorch'd, 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.

  At length one whisper'd his companion, who
    Whisper'd 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, suppress'd till now, he found:
  And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
  And who should die to be his fellow's food.

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

  The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed,
    In silent horror, and their distribution
  Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,
    Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;
  None in particular had sought or plann'd it,
    'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,
  By which none were permitted to be neuter-
  And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.

  He but requested to be bled to death:
    The surgeon had his instruments, and bled
  Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd 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 kiss'd,
  And then held out his jugular and wrist.

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

  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.

  '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- Lord! how they did blaspheme!
  And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd,
    Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream,
  Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,
  And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.

  Their numbers were much thinn'd 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 ponder'd on a new dissection,
    As if not warn'd sufficiently by those
  Who had already perish'd, suffering madly,
  For having used their appetites so sadly.

  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.

  Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd,
    But was used sparingly,- some were afraid,
  And others still their appetites constrain'd,
    Or but at times a little supper made;
  All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd,
    Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead:
  At length they caught two boobies and a noddy,
  And then they left off eating the dead body.

  And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be,
    Remember Ugolino 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.

  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 famish'd 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.

  It pour'd 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 deem'd its moisture was complete
  They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher
    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.

  And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,
    Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd;
  Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,
    As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd
  To beg the beggar, who could not rain back
    A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd
  To taste of heaven- If this be true, indeed
  Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

  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.

  The other father had a weaklier child,
    Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate;
  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.

  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 wish'd-for shower at length was come,
  And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,
    Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
  He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
  Into his dying child's mouth- but in vain.

  The boy expired- the father held the clay,
    And look'd 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 watch'd it wistfully, until away
    'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast;
  Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering,
  And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.

  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 appear'd to be
  Clearer than that without, and its wide hue
    Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free,
  Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then
  Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men.

  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).

  Our shipwreck'd 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 look'd like hope-
  Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.

  About this time a beautiful white bird,
    Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size
  And plumage (probably it might have err'd
    Upon its course), pass'd 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 flutter'd round them till
  Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still.

  But in this case I also must remark,
    'T was well this bird of promise did not perch,
  Because the tackle of our shatter'd 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.

  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,
  And all mistook about the latter once.

  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 wish'd that land he never might see more;
  And the rest rubb'd 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.

  And then of these some part burst into tears,
    And others, looking with a stupid stare,
  Could not yet separate their hopes from fears,
    And seem'd as if they had no further care;
  While a few pray'd (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.

  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,
    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.

  The land appear'd 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 AEtna, some the highlands,
  Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.

  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 follow'd them, and dash'd
  The spray into their faces as they splash'd.

  Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done
    Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to
  Such things a mother had not known her son
    Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;
  By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
    They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
  But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
  In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

  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 smooth'd the air,
  And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen
    From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare-
  Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep
  Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.

  The shore look'd 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.

  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 turn'd the art to some account:
  A better swimmer you could scarce see ever,
    He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont,
  As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided)
  Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.

  So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark,
    He buoy'd 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.

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

  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.

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

  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 pass'd:
    He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand
  Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast),
    And, like a wither'd lily, on the land
  His slender frame and pallid aspect lay,
  As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.

  How long in his damp trance young Juan lay
    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 pass'd away
    He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb,
  And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life,
  For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.

  His eyes he open'd, 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 wish'd 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.

  'T was bending dose o'er his, and the small mouth
    Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
  And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth
    Recall'd 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.

  Then was the cordial pour'd, 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,
  Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung
    His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
  And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew
  A sigh from his heaved bosom- and hers, too.

  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 roof'd them, which the sun
  Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er
  She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.

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

  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 coil'd, who pours his length,
  And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

  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
  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).

  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, 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 compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought.

  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 basquina and the mantilla, they
  Seem at the same time mystical and gay.

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

  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.

  And these two tended him, and cheer'd 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 cook'd since Homer's
  Achilles ordered dinner for new comers.

  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.

  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.

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

  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.

  He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee,
    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.

  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 famish'd, and half drown'd;
  But being naked, she was shock'd, you know,
    Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,
  As far as in her lay, 'to take him in,
  A stranger' dying, with so white a skin.

  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 'nous,'
    Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
  He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
  And sold him instantly when out of danger.

  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 open'd his black eyes,
  Their charity increased about their guest;
    And their compassion grew to such a size,
  It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven
  (St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given).

  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 furnish'd twenty.

  He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,
    For Haidee 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.

  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 lull'd head
  Not even a vision of his former woes
    Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread
  Unwelcome visions of our former years,
  Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.

  Young Juan slept all dreamless:- but the maid,
    Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den
  Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd,
    And turn'd, believing that he call'd again.
  He slumber'd; 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.

  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.

  The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still
    Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd 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 suffer'd more- his hardships were comparative
  To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narrative.'

  Not so Haidee: she sadly toss'd and tumbled,
    And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er
  Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled,
    And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;
  And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,
    And call'd 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.

  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.

  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,
    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 coffin'd at fourscore,
  Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.

  And Haidee 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 curb'd 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.

  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 kiss'd 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.

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

  And thus like to an angel o'er the dying
    Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there
  All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying,
    As o'er him 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.

  She knew that the best feelings must have victual,
    And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be;
  Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little,
    And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea;
  And so, she cook'd 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.

  And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and
    The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan;
  But Haidee stopp'd 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 seem'd as it would ne'er awake.

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

  And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath,
    Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast,
  Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe,
    Lull'd 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;
  In short, he was a very pretty fellow,
  Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow.

  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 form'd in vain
    For Juan, so that even when he pray'd
  He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy,
  To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.

  And thus upon his elbow he arose,
    And look'd 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.

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

  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 cursed 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.

  And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream,
    Or sleep, or whatso'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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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 famish'd vulture gnaw,
  He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like
  A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.

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

  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 wish'd to die upon the place-
  She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel,
  Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill.

  Next they- he being naked, save a tatter'd
    Pair of scarce decent trowsers- went to work,
  And in the fire his recent rags they scatterd,
    And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk,
  Or Greek- that is, although it not much matter'd,
    Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,-
  They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches,
  With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches.

  And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking,
    But not a word could Juan comprehend,
  Although he listen'd 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 protege and friend,
  Till pausing at the last her breath to take,
  She saw he did not understand Romaic.

  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 soul shines
    And darts in one quick glance a long reply;
  And thus in every look she saw exprest
  A world of words, and things at which she guess'd.

  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 learn'd his alpha beta better
  From Haidee's glance than any graven letter.

  'T is pleasing to be school'd 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;
  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;-
  I learn'd the little that I know by this:

  That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek,
    Italian not at all, having no teachers;
  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.

  As for the ladies, I have nought to say,
    A wanderer from the British world of fashion,
  Where I, like other 'dogs, have had my day,'
    Like other men, too, may have had my passion-
  But that, like other things, has pass'd 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.

  Return we to Don Juan. He begun
    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.

  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;
  And she would softly stir his locks so curly,
    Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest,
  Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth,
  As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south.

  And every morn his colour freshlier came,
    And every day help'd 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.

  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 sustain'd like flesh and blood,-
  While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly:
    Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food;
  But who is their purveyor from above
  Heaven knows,- it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.

  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-
    And repetition 's tiresome and unwise,-
  Well- Juan, after bathing in the sea,
  Came always back to coffee and Haidee.

  Both were so young, and one so innocent,
    That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd
  To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent,
    Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd,
  A something to be loved, a creature meant
    To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd
  To render happy; all who joy would win
  Must share it,- Happiness was born a twin.

  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 forever 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.

  And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee
    Paid daily visits to her boy, and took
  Such plentiful precautions, that still he
    Remain'd 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.

  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 incumbrance 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.

  Now she prolong'd 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 wander'd since the day
  On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk,
    Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,-
  And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon,
  And saw the sun set opposite the moon.

  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 outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake.

  And the small ripple spilt upon the beach
    Scarcely o'erpass'd 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 women, mirth and laughter,
  Sermons and soda-water the day after.

  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.

  Ring for your valet- bid him quickly bring
    Some hock and soda-water, then you 'll know
  A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king;
    For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow,
  Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring,
    Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow,
  After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter,
  Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water.

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

  And forth they wander'd, 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.

  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, hush'd, 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.

  And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand,
    Over the shining pebbles and the shells,
  Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand,
    And in the worn and wild receptacles
  Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd,
    In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells,
  They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm,
  Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.

  They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow
    Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
  They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
    Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
  They heard the wave's 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;

  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 reckon'd by its length.

  By length I mean duration; theirs endured
    Heaven knows how long- no doubt they never reckon'd;
  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 beckon'd,
  Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung-
  Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

  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.

  They fear'd 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
    Found in one sigh the best interpreter
  Of nature's oracle- first love,- that all
  Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.

  Haidde spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows,
    Nor offer'd any; she had never heard
  Of plight and promises to be a spouse,
    Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd;
  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.

  She loved, and was beloved- she adored,
    And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion,
  Their intense souls, into each other pour'd,
    If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,-
  But by degrees their senses were restored,
    Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on;
  And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart
  Felt as if never more to beat apart.

  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.

  Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were
    So loving and so lovely- till then never,
  Excepting our first parents, such a pair
    Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever;
  And Haidee, 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.

  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.

  And when those deep and burning moments pass'd,
    And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms,
  She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast,
    Sustain'd 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,
  Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants
  With all it granted, and with all it grants.

  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.

  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, pass'd, and proved,
    Hush'd 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.

  The lady watch'd her lover- and that hour
    Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude,
  O'erflow'd 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.

  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.

  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.

  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:
  Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

  Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this;
    Haidee 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 naught to fear,
  Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.

  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 alchymy, 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.

  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 hallow'd and united,
    Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:
  And they were happy, for to their young eyes
  Each was an angel, and earth paradise.

  Oh, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor,
    Titus the master, 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.

  Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,
    And jestest with the brows of mightiest men:
  Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,
    Have much employ'd 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.

  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.

  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
    Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon
  Does these things for us, and whenever newly
    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?

  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.

  But soon Philosophy came to my aid,
    And whisper'd, '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);

  'Stop!' so I stopp'd.- 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 favour'd 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.'

  'T is the perception of the beautiful,
    A fine extension of the faculties,
  Platonic, universal, wonderful,
    Drawn from the stars, and filter'd 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 form'd of fiery dust.

  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 any how or grieve),
  Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever,
  How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!

  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 scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,
    Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye
  Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears,
  Which make the English climate of our years.

  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,
  Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,-
    Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,-
  So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,
  Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central,'

  In the mean time, without proceeding more
    In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now
  Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,
    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 Haidee to plead
  For them and theirs with all who deign to read.
                 CANTO THE THIRD.

  HAIL, Muse! et cetera.- We left Juan sleeping,
    Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,
  And watch'd 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 soil'd the current of her sinless years,
  And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

  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.

  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,
  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.

  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.

  '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 sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour
  Down to a very homely household savour.

  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.

  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,'
    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.

  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?

  All tragedies are finish'd 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.

  The only two that in my recollection
    Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are
  Dante and Milton, and of both the affection
    Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar
  Of fault or temper ruin'd 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.

  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 fantasy,
  Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he
    Decided thus, and show'd good reason why;
  I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics
  Meant to personify the mathematics.

  Haidee 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.

  Yet they were happy,- happy in the illicit
    Indulgence of their innocent desires;
  But more imprudent grown with every visit,
    Haidee 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.

  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,
  And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

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

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

  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,
    Guitars and castanets from Alicant,
  All which selected from the spoil he gathers,
  Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers.

  A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,
    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.

  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.

  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.

  Arriving at the summit of a hill
    Which overlook'd the white walls of his home,
  He stopp'd.- 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.

  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.

  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- bites him by the breeches.

  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,
  Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

  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 wrong'd four times a day.

  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.

  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 colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies.

  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 unhallow'd, 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.

  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 so martial,
  To which the Levantines are very partial.

  And further on a group of Grecian girls,
    The first and tallest her white kerchief waving,
  Were strung together like a row of pearls,
    Link'd 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);
  Their leader sang- and bounded to her song,
  With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.

  And here, assembled cross-legg'd 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
  Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store.

  A band of children, round a snow-white ram,
    There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
  While peaceful as if still an unwean'd 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.

  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
  Sigh'd for their sakes- that they should e'er grow older.

  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 bewitch'd that open to the knockers,
  Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,
  Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact).

  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.

  Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
    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.

  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 stirr'd;
    And long he paused to re-assure his eyes
  In fact much more astonish'd than delighted,
  To find so much good company invited.

  He did not know (alas! how men will lie)
    That a report (especially the Greeks)
  Avouch'd 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 return'd to Haidee's cheeks,
  Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount,
  She now kept house upon her own account.

  Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,
    Which turn'd 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 seem'd middling,
    Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure;
  'T was wonderful how things went on improving,
  While she had not one hour to spare from loving.

  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 show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.

  You 're wrong.- He was the mildest manner'd 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.

  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 express'd,
  He ask'd the meaning of this holiday;
    The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd
  His question, much too merry to divine
  The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine,

  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 hiccup'd, '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.'

  These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom
    They thus address'd- and Lambro's visage fell-
  And o'er his eye a momentary gloom
    Pass'd, 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 seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron.

  '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 wash'd 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.'

  I said that Lambro was a man of patience,
    And certainly he show'd 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.

  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 can not explain,
  Though doubtless he who can command himself
  Is good to govern- almost as a Guelf.

  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 coil'd 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.

  He ask'd 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 Haidee's sake, is more than I can say,
  But certainly to one deem'd dead, returning,
  This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning.

  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
    (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.

  He enter'd 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 turn'd 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.

  He enter'd 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.

  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.

  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 accustom'd 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.

  But something of the spirit of old Greece
    Flash'd 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 show'd no path to praise:
  Hate to the world and war with every nation
  He waged, in vengeance of her degradation.

  Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime
    Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd
  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 flow'd
  Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers,
  Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours.

  But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed
    On that beloved 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.

  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
  Of a strong human heart, and in a sire.

  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-form'd 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.

  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
  Shines like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.

  Old Lambro pass'd 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;
  Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly,
  Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.

  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,
  Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes;
    The beverage was various sherbets
  Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice,
  Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.

  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 boil'd
  Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd.

  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, display'd,
    Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue,
  Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters,
  From poets, or the moralists their betters.

  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.

  A beauty at the season's close grown hectic,
    A genius who has drunk himself to death,
  A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic
    (For that 's the name they like to pray beneath)-
  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.

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

  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.

  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.

  Of all the dresses I select Haidee'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 form'd 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, flow'd round her.

  One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
    Lockless- so pliable from the pure gold
  That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,
    The limb which it adorn'd 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.

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

  Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
    Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun
  Dyes with his morning light,- and would conceal
    Her person if allow'd at large to run,
  And still they seem 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.

  Round her she made an atmosphere of life,
    The very air seem'd 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.

  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 mock'd the jetty stain,
  And in their native beauty stood avenged:
    Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
  The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
  They could not look more rosy than before.

  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 Shakspeare also says, 't is very silly
  'To gild refined gold, or paint the lily'

  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, furl'd in many a graceful fold,
    An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't
  Surmounted as its clasp- a glowing crescent,
  Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

  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 satirize or flatter,
  As the psalm says, 'inditing a good matter.'

  He praised the present, and abused the past,
    Reversing the good custom of old days,
  An Eastern anti-jacobin at last
    He turn'd, 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 like Crashaw.

  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 fix'd- 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 earn'd his laureate pension.

  But he had genius,- when a turncoat has it,
    The 'Vates irritabilis' 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.

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

  But now being lifted into high society,
    And having pick'd up several odds and ends
  Of free thoughts in his travels for variety,
    He deem'd, 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.

  He had travell'd '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,' a piece
  Of conduct was which he observed in Greece.

  Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing,
    He gave the different nations something national;
  'T was all the same to him- 'God save the king,'
    Or 'Ca ira,' according to the fashion all:
  His muse made increment of any thing,
    From the high lyric down to the low rational:
  If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder
  Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

  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 Stael);
  In Italy he 'd ape the 'Trecentisti;'
  In Greece, he sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye:

                  THE ISLES OF GREECE.

        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.

        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.'

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

        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?

        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!
        And must thy lyre, so long divine,
        Degenerate into hands like mine?

        'T is something, in the dearth of fame,
          Though link'd among a fetter'd 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.

        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 Thermopylae!

        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.

        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!

        You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
          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?

        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-
        A tyrant; but our masters then
        Were still, at least, our countrymen.

        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.

        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.

        Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
          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.

        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

        Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
          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!

  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 display'd some feeling- right or wrong;
    And feeling, in a poet, is the source
  Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,
  And take all colours- like the hands of dyers.

  But words are things, 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.

  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,
  May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.

  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:
    The present century was growing blind
  To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,
  Until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe.

  Milton 's the prince of poets- so we say;
    A little heavy, but no less divine:
  An independent being in his day-
    Learn'd, 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 whipt at college- a harsh sire- odd spouse,
  For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.

  All these are, certes, entertaining facts,
    Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes;
  Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts;
    Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes);
  Like Cromwell's pranks;- 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.

  All are not moralists, like Southey, when
    He prated to the world of 'Pantisocracy;'
  Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then
    Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy;
  Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen
    Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
  When he and Southey, following the same path,
  Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).

  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, call'd the 'Excursion.'
  Writ in a manner which is my aversion.

  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, 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.

  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.

  I know that what our neighbours call 'longueurs'
    (We 've not so good a word, but have the thing
  In that complete perfection which ensures
    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 epopee,
  To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.

  We learn from Horace, 'Homer sometimes sleeps;'
    We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes,-
  To show with what complacency he creeps,
    With his dear 'Waggoners,' around his lakes.
  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.

  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?
  Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain,
    He fear'd 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?

  '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'!

  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!

  Ave Maria! blessed 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,
    Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
  And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
  And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.

  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.

  Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,
    In nameless print- 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,- all that springs from the great Whole,
  Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.

  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 flow'd o'er,
  To where the last Caesarean fortress stood,
    Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
  And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
  How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

  The shrill cicadas, 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 learn'd from this example not to fly
  From a true lover,- shadow'd my mind's eye.

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

  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;
  Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
  Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!

  When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
    Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
  Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,
    Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
  Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb:
    Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
  Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
  Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

  But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero,
    Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
  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).

  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 poietikes.
             CANTO THE FOURTH.

  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 hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
    Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
  Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
  Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

  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.

  As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,
    And wish'd 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,' and Imagination droops her pinion,
  And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
  Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

  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
  Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,
    Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep:
  Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;
  A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

  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 plann'd,
  Unless it were to be a moment merry,
  A novel word in my vocabulary.

  To the kind reader of our sober clime
    This way of writing will appear exotic;
  Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,
    Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic,
  And revell'd 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.

  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 wish'd 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.

  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
  Sigh'd 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.

  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 day.

  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
  Damm'd from its fountain- the child from the knee
    And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,-
  Would wither less than these two torn apart;
  Alas! there is no instinct like the heart-

  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 link'd 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.

  'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore,
    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
  Which men weep over may be meant to save.

  Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead-
    The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd 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.

  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, 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,-

  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 beloved, all unseen
  To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers,
  And never know the weight of human hours.

  Moons changing had roll'd 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
  Most love, possession, unto them appear'd
  A thing which each endearment more endear'd.

  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 wh- re.

  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.

  This is in others a factitious state,
    An opium dream 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,
  For Haidee'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.

  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'erwhelm'd them from such skies,
  When happiness had been their only dower,
    And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties;
  Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought
  The past still welcome as the present thought.

  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 flash'd through either frame,
  And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh,
  While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye.

  That large black prophet eye seem'd 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.

  She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort
    Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:
  Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short,
    And master'd 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.'

  Juan would question further, but she press'd
    His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,
  And then dismiss'd 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.

  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.

  Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other
    With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,
  Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother,
    All that the best can mingle and express
  When two pure hearts are pour'd 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.

  Mix'd 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.

  They should have lived together deep in woods,
    Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were
  Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes
    Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:
  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.

  Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
    Haidee 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 Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook
  A wordless music, and her face so fair
  Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

  Or as the stirring of a deep dear 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 seal'd eyes to see.

  She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,
    Chain'd 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 seem'd to pour,
    Until she sobb'd 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.

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

  The dream changed:- in a cave 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 seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk
  The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught,
  Which froze to marble as it fell,- she thought.

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

  And gazing on the dead, she thought his face
    Faded, or alter'd 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- fix'd upon the pair!

  Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,
    With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see
  Him whom she deem'd 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 Haidee,
  It was a moment of that awful kind-
  I have seen such- but must not call to mind.

  Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek,
    And caught her falling, and from off the wall
  Snatch'd 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.'

  And Haidee 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.'

  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 look'd upon her, but gave no reply;
  Then turn'd 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.

  '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 look'd dose at the flint, as if to see
  'T was fresh- for he had lately used the lock-
  And next proceeded quietly to cock.

  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.

  Lambro presented, and one instant more
    Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath,
  When Haidee 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.'

  A minute past, and she had been all tears,
    And tenderness, and infancy; but now
  She stood as one who champion'd human fears-
    Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd 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 fix'd eye scann'd
  Her father's face- but never stopp'd his hand.

  He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange
    How like they look'd! 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
  Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race.

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

  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.

  '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 answer'd to the call,
  And rushing in disorderly, though led,
    And arm'd 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.'

  Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew
    His daughter; while compress'd 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.

  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 floor'd, 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.

  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.
  They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar
    Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line;
  On board of one of these, and under hatches,
  They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches.

  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,
  Just at the very time when he least broods
    On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent,
  Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move,
  And all because a lady fell in love.

  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,

  Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!
    Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill!
  Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,
    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.

  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 Haidee'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.

  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;
    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.

  Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth
    Her human day 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 Haidee's mother's dower;
  But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force,
  Though sleeping like a lion near a source.

  Her daughter, temper'd 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 sweeps the blasted plains.

  The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
    And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down;
  His blood was running on the very floor
    Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;
  Thus much she view'd 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 fell'd.

  A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes
    Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;
  And her head droop'd as when the lily lies
    O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd 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.

  Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill-
    With nothing livid, still her lips were red;
  She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
    No hideous sign proclaim'd 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 seem'd full of soul-
  She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.

  The ruling passion, such as marble shows
    When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there,
  But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws
    O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;
  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.

  She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
    Rather the dead, for life seem'd 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.

  She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
    On many a token without knowing what;
  She saw them watch her without asking why,
    And reck'd 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.

  Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
    Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away;
  She recognized no being, and no spot,
    However dear or cherish'd 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, wax'd full of fearful meaning.

  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 turn'd as if to warp
    Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent;
  And he begun a long low island song
  Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.

  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 flash'd the dream
  Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
    To be so being; in a gushing stream
  The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
  Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

  Short solace, vain relief!- thought came too quick,
    And whirl'd 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 dose;-
  Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave,
  Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.

  Yet she betray'd 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
    Avail'd for either; neither change of place,
  Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
  Senses to sleep- the power seem'd gone for ever.

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

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

  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
  By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.

  That isle is now all desolate and bare,
    Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd 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,
  Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.

  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.

  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 touch'd 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-kill'd some stanzas back.

  Wounded and fetter'd, 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,'
    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 Sigaeum.

  There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is
    (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea)
  Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles;
    They say so (Bryant 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.

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

  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;
    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.

  Don Juan, here permitted to emerge
    From his dull cabin, found himself a slave;
  Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge,
    O'ershadow'd 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.

  He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd
    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 rear'd
    In their vocation) had not been attack'd
  In sailing from Livorno by the pirate,
  But sold by the impresario at no high rate.

  By one of these, the buffo 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 look'd quite hearty,
    And bore him with some gaiety and grace,
  Showing a much more reconciled demeanour,
  Than did the prima donna and the tenor.

  In a few words he told their hapless story,
    Saying, 'Our Machiavellian impresario,
  Making a signal off some promontory,
    Hail'd a strange brig- Corpo di Caio Mario!
  We were transferr'd 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.

  '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.

  '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.

  'As for the figuranti, 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.

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

  '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.

  ''T would not become myself to dwell upon
    My own merits, and though young- I see, Sir- you
  Have got a travell'd 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 not last year at the fair of Lugo,
  But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there- do go.

  '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.'

  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.

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

  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 deem'd to be male,
  They placed him o'er the women as a scout)
    Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male
  Was Juan,- who, an awkward thing at his age,
  Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage.

  With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd
    The tenor; these two hated with a hate
  Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd
    With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate;
  Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd,
    Instead of bearing up without debate,
  That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
  'Arcades ambo,' id est- blackguards both.

  Juan's companion was a Romagnole,
    But bred within the March of old Ancona,
  With eyes that look'd into the very soul
    (And other chief points of a 'bella donna'),
  Bright- and as black and burning as a coal;
    And through her dear brunette complexion shone
  Great wish to please- a most attractive dower,
  Especially when added to the power.

  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 chain'd, as natural her hand
  Touch'd 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.

  No matter; we should ne'er too much enquire,
    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;' but few,
  I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal
  Was more triumphant, and not much less real.

  Here I might enter on a chaste description,
    Having withstood temptation in my youth,
  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.

  '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;
  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.

  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 doom'd 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.

  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.

  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; time will doubt of Rome.

  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 glean'd from the sepulchral gloom
  Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath,
  And lose their own in universal death.

  I canter by the spot each afternoon
    Where perish'd 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.

  I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid:
    A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
  Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid
    To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column.
  The time must come, when both alike decay'd,
    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.

  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 soil'd:
  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.

  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;
  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.

  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
  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.

  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,
    Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks?
  Ah! must I then the only minstrel be,
  Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea!

  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;
  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.

  Oh! 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,'
    As some one somewhere sings about the sky,
  And I, ye learned 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.

  Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures-
    But times are alter'd 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 learned 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.

  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:'
  Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!

  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, one and all,
  And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians,
  Bought up for different purposes and passions.

  Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars
    For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given,
  Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours
    Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven:
  Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,
    Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven;
  But when the offer went beyond, they knew
  'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.

  Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price
    Which the West Indian market scarce would 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.

  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 pick'd 'em,
  To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim:

  All this must be reserved for further song;
    Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant
  (Because this Canto has become too long),
    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 call'd in Ossian the fifth Juan.
                 CANTO THE FIFTH.

  WHEN amatory poets sing their loves
    In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
  And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
    They little think what mischief is in hand;
  The greater their success the worse it proves,
    As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
  Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
  Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.

  I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
    Except in such a way as not to attract;
  Plain- simple- short, and by no means inviting,
    But with a moral to each error tack'd,
  Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
    And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
  Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
  This poem will become a moral model.

  The European with the Asian shore
    Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
  Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
    Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
  The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
    The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
  Far less describe, present the very view
  Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.

  I have a passion for the name of 'Mary,'
    For once it was a magic sound to me;
  And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
    Where I beheld what never was to be;
  All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
    A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
  But I grow sad- and let a tale grow cold,
  Which must not be pathetically told.

  The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
    Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
  'T is a grand sight from off 'the Giant's Grave
    To watch the progress of those rolling seas
  Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
    Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
  There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
  Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

  'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
    When nights are equal, but not so the days;
  The Parcae then cut short the further spinning
    Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
  The waters, and repentance for past sinning
    In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways:
  They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't;
  Because if drown'd, they can't- if spared, they won't.

  A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,
    And age, and sex, were in the market ranged;
  Each bevy with the merchant in his station:
    Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed.
  All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation,
    From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged;
  The negroes more philosophy display'd,-
  Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd.

  Juan was juvenile, and thus was full,
    As most at his age are, of hope and health;
  Yet I must own he looked a little dull,
    And now and then a tear stole down by stealth;
  Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull
    His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth,
  A mistress, and such comfortable quarters,
  To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,

  Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless,
    Upon the whole his carriage was serene:
  His figure, and the splendour of his dress,
    Of which some gilded remnants still were seen,
  Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess
    He was above the vulgar by his mien;
  And then, though pale, he was so very handsome;
  And then- they calculated on his ransom.

  Like a backgammon board the place was dotted
    With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale,
  Though rather more irregularly spotted:
    Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.
  It chanced amongst the other people lotted,
    A man of thirty rather stout and hale,
  With resolution in his dark grey eye,
  Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.

  He had an English look; that is, was square
    In make, of a complexion white and ruddy,
  Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,
    And, it might be from thought or toil or study,
  An open brow a little mark'd with care:
    One arm had on a bandage rather bloody;
  And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater
  Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator.

  But seeing at his elbow a mere lad,
    Of a high spirit evidently, though
  At present weigh'd down by a doom which had
    O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show
  A kind of blunt compassion for the sad
    Lot of so young a partner in the woe,
  Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse
  Than any other scrape, a thing of course.

  'My boy!' said he, 'amidst this motley crew
    Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not,
  All ragamuffins differing but in hue,
    With whom it is our luck to cast our lot,
  The only gentlemen seem I and you;
    So let us be acquainted, as we ought:
  If I could yield you any consolation,
  'T would give me pleasure.- Pray, what is your nation?'

  When Juan answer'd- 'Spanish!' he replied,
    'I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek;
  Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed:
    Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak,
  But that 's her way with all men, till they 're tried;
    But never mind,- she 'll turn, perhaps, next week;
  She has served me also much the same as you,
  Except that I have found it nothing new.'

  'Pray, sir,' said Juan, 'if I may presume,
    What brought you here?'- 'Oh! nothing very rare-
  Six Tartars and a drag-chain.'- 'To this doom
    But what conducted, if the question's fair,
  Is that which I would learn.'- 'I served for some
    Months with the Russian army here and there,
  And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding,
  A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin.'

  'Have you no friends?'- 'I had- but, by God's blessing,
    Have not been troubled with them lately. Now
  I have answer'd all your questions without pressing,
    And you an equal courtesy should show.'
  'Alas!' said Juan, ''t were a tale distressing,
    And long besides.'- 'Oh! if 't is really so,
  You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue;
  A sad tale saddens doubly, when 't is long.

  'But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,
    Although a female moderately fickle,
  Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife)
    For any length of days in such a pickle.
  To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife
    As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:
  Men are the sport of circumstances, when
  The circumstances seem the sport of men.'

  ''T is not,' said Juan, 'for my present doom
    I mourn, but for the past;- I loved a maid:'-
  He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;
    A single tear upon his eyelash staid
  A moment, and then dropp'd; 'but to resume,
    'T is not my present lot, as I have said,
  Which I deplore so much; for I have borne
  Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,

  'On the rough deep. But this last blow-' and here
    He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face.
  'Ay,' quoth his friend, 'I thought it would appear
    That there had been a lady in the case;
  And these are things which ask a tender tear,
    Such as I, too, would shed if in your place:
  I cried upon my first wife's dying day,
  And also when my second ran away:

  'My third-'- 'Your third!' quoth Juan, turning round;
    'You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?'
  'No- only two at present above ground:
    Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see
  One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!'
    'Well, then, your third,' said Juan; 'what did she?
  She did not run away, too,- did she, sir?'
  'No, faith.'- 'What then?'- 'I ran away from her.'

  'You take things coolly, sir,' said Juan. 'Why,'
    Replied the other, 'what can a man do?
  There still are many rainbows in your sky,
    But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new,
  Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high;
    But time strips our illusions of their hue,
  And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
  Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

  ''T is true, it gets another bright and fresh,
    Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through,
  This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh,
    Or sometimes only wear a week or two;-
  Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;
    Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue
  The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days,
  Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.'

  'All this is very fine, and may be true,'
    Said Juan; 'but I really don't see how
  It betters present times with me or you.'
    'No?' quoth the other; 'yet you will allow
  By setting things in their right point of view,
    Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now,
  We know what slavery is, and our disasters
  May teach us better to behave when masters.'

  'Would we were masters now, if but to try
    Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,'
  Said Juan,- swallowing a heart-burning sigh:
    'Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!'
  'Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,'
    Rejoin'd the other, when our bad luck mends here;
  Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us)

  'But after all, what is our present state?
    'T is bad, and may be better- all men's lot:
  Most men are slaves, none more so than the great,
    To their own whims and passions, and what not;
  Society itself, which should create
    Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
  To feel for none is the true social art
  Of the world's stoics- men without a heart.'

  Just now a black old neutral personage
    Of the third sex stept up, and peering over
  The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age,
    And capabilities, as to discover
  If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
    No lady e'er is ogled by a lover,
  Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,
  Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

  As is a slave by his intended bidder.
    'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures;
  And all are to be sold, if you consider
    Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features
  Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,
    Some by a place- as tend their years or natures;
  The most by ready cash- but all have prices,
  From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

  The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care,
    Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid
  First but for one, and after for the pair;
    They haggled, wrangled, swore, too- so they did!
  As though they were in a mere Christian fair
    Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
  So that their bargain sounded like a battle
  For this superior yoke of human cattle.

  At last they settled into simple grumbling,
    And pulling out reluctant purses, and
  Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling
    Some down, and weighing others in their hand,
  And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,
    Until the sum was accurately scann'd,
  And then the merchant giving change, and signing
  Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

  I wonder if his appetite was good?
    Or, if it were, if also his digestion?
  Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude,
    And conscience ask a curious sort of question,
  About the right divine how far we should
    Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one,
  I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour
  Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

  Voltaire says 'No:' he tells you that Candide
    Found life most tolerable after meals;
  He 's wrong- unless man were a pig, indeed,
    Repletion rather adds to what he feels,
  Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed
    From his own brain's oppression while it reels.
  Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather
  Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father);

  I think with Alexander, that the act
    Of eating, with another act or two,
  Makes us feel our mortality in fact
    Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout,
  And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd,
    Can give us either pain or pleasure, who
  Would pique himself on intellects, whose use
  Depends so much upon the gastric juice?

  The other evening ('t was on Friday last)-
    This is a fact and no poetic fable-
  Just as my great coat was about me cast,
    My hat and gloves still lying on the table,
  I heard a shot- 't was eight o'clock scarce past-
    And, running out as fast as I was able,
  I found the military commandant
  Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant.

  Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad,
    They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there
  To perish on the pavement: so I had
    Him borne into the house and up the stair,
  And stripp'd and look'd to- But why should I ad
    More circumstances? vain was every care;
  The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel
  Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.

  I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;
    And though I have seen many corpses, never
  Saw one, whom such an accident befell,
    So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver,
  He seem'd to sleep,- for you could scarcely tell
    (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river
  Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead:
  So as I gazed on him, I thought or said-

  'Can this be death? then what is life or death?
    Speak!' but he spoke not: 'Wake!' but still he slept:-
  'But yesterday and who had mightier breath?
    A thousand warriors by his word were kept
  In awe: he said, as the centurion saith,
    "Go," and he goeth; "come," and forth he stepp'd.
  The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb-
  And now nought left him but the muffled drum.'

  And they who waited once and worshipp'd- they
    With their rough faces throng'd about the bed
  To gaze once more on the commanding clay
    Which for the last, though not the first, time bled:
  And such an end! that he who many a day
    Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,-
  The foremost in the charge or in the sally,
  Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley.

  The scars of his old wounds were near his new,
    Those honourable scars which brought him fame;
  And horrid was the contrast to the view-
    But let me quit the theme; as such things claim
  Perhaps even more attention than is due
    From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)
  To try if I could wrench aught out of death
  Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;

  But it was all a mystery. Here we are,
    And there we go:- but where? five bits of lead,
  Or three, or two, or one, send very far!
    And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed?
  Can every element our elements mar?
    And air- earth- water- fire live- and we dead?
  We whose minds comprehend all things? No more;
  But let us to the story as before.

  The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance
    Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat,
  Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence
    As fast as oars could pull and water float;
  They look'd like persons being led to sentence,
    Wondering what next, till the caique was brought
  Up in a little creek below a wall
  O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall.

  Here their conductor tapping at the wicket
    Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and
  He led them onward, first through a low thicket
    Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on either hand:
  They almost lost their way, and had to pick it-
    For night was dosing ere they came to land.
  The eunuch made a sign to those on board,
  Who row'd off, leaving them without a word.

  As they were plodding on their winding way
    Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth
  (Of which I might have a good deal to say,
    There being no such profusion in the North
  Of oriental plants, 'et cetera,'
    But that of late your scribblers think it worth
  Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works
  Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks)-

  As they were threading on their way, there came
    Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he
  Whisper'd to his companion:- 't was the same
    Which might have then occurr'd to you or me.
  'Methinks,' said he, 'it would be no great shame
    If we should strike a stroke to set us free;
  Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head,
  And march away- 't were easier done than said.'

  'Yes,' said the other, 'and when done, what then?
    How get out? how the devil got we in?
  And when we once were fairly out, and when
    From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin,
  To-morrow 'd see us in some other den,
    And worse off than we hitherto have been;
  Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take,
  Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.

  'We must be near some place of man's abode;-
    For the old negro's confidence in creeping,
  With his two captives, by so queer a road,
    Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping;
  A single cry would bring them all abroad:
    'T is therefore better looking before leaping-
  And there, you see, this turn has brought us through,
  By Jove, a noble palace!- lighted too.'

  It was indeed a wide extensive building
    Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front
  There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding
    And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,-
  A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in
    The arts of which these lands were once the font:
  Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen
  New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.

  And nearer as they came, a genial savour
    Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus,
  Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour,
    Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause,
  And put himself upon his good behaviour:
    His friend, too, adding a new saving clause,
  Said, 'In Heaven's name let's get some supper now,
  And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row.'

  Some talk of an appeal unto some passion,
    Some to men's feelings, others to their reason;
  The last of these was never much the fashion,
    For reason thinks all reasoning out of season.
  Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on,
    But more or less continue still to tease on,
  With arguments according to their 'forte;'
  But no one dreams of ever being short.-

  But I digress: of all appeals,- although
    I grant the power of pathos, and of gold,
  Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,- no
    Method 's more sure at moments to take hold
  Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow
    More tender, as we every day behold,
  Than that all-softening, overpowering knell,
  The tocsin of the soul- the dinner-bell.

  Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine;
    And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard
  No Christian knoll to table, saw no line
    Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared,
  Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine,
    And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared,
  And gazed around them to the left and right
  With the prophetic eye of appetite.

  And giving up all notions of resistance,
    They follow'd close behind their sable guide,
  Who little thought that his own crack'd existence
    Was on the point of being set aside:
  He motion'd them to stop at some small distance,
    And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide,
  And a magnificent large hall display'd
  The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.

  I won't describe; description is my forte,
    But every fool describes in these bright days
  His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
    And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise-
  Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport;
    While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways,
  Resigns herself with exemplary patience
  To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.

  Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted
    Upon their hams, were occupied at chess;
  Others in monosyllable talk chatted,
    And some seem'd much in love with their own dress.
  And divers smoked superb pipes decorated
    With amber mouths of greater price or less;
  And several strutted, others slept, and some
  Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.

  As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace
    Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes
  A moment without slackening from their pace;
    But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in anywise:
  One or two stared the captives in the face,
    Just as one views a horse to guess his price;
  Some nodded to the negro from their station,
  But no one troubled him with conversation.

  He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping,
    On through a farther range of goodly rooms,
  Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping,
    A marble fountain echoes through the glooms
  Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping
    Some female head most curiously presumes
  To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice,
  As wondering what the devil a noise that is.

  Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls
    Gave light enough to hint their farther way,
  But not enough to show the imperial halls,
    In all the flashing of their full array;
  Perhaps there 's nothing- I 'll not say appals,
    But saddens more by night as well as day,
  Than an enormous room without a soul
  To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.

  Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing:
    In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore,
  There solitude, we know, has her full growth in
    The spots which were her realms for evermore;
  But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in
    More modern buildings and those built of yore,
  A kind of death comes o'er us all alone,
  Seeing what 's meant for many with but one.

  A neat, snug study on a winter's night,
    A book, friend, single lady, or a glass
  Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite,
    Are things which make an English evening pass;
  Though certes by no means so grand a sight
    As is a theatre lit up by gas.
  I pass my evenings in long galleries solely,
  And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy.

  Alas! man makes that great which makes him little:
    I grant you in a church 't is very well:
  What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle,
    But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell
  Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill-
    And huge tombs worse- mankind, since Adam fell:
  Methinks the story of the tower of Babel
  Might teach them this much better than I 'm able.

  Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then
    A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing,
  Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men,
    Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing,
  And Daniel tamed the lions in their den,
    The people's awe and admiration raising;
  'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus,
  And the calumniated queen Semiramis.

  That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse
    Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy)
  Of an improper friendship for her horse
    (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy):
  This monstrous tale had probably its source
    (For such exaggerations here and there I see)
  In writing 'Courser' by mistake for 'Courier:'
  I wish the case could come before a jury here.

  But to resume,- should there be (what may not
    Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't,
  Because they can't find out the very spot
    Of that same Babel, or because they won't
  (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got,
    And written lately two memoirs upon't),
  Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who
  Must be believed, though they believe not you,

  Yet let them think that Horace has exprest
    Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly
  Of those, forgetting the great place of rest,
    Who give themselves to architecture wholly;
  We know where things and men must end at best:
    A moral (like all morals) melancholy,
  And 'Et sepulchri immemor struis domos'
  Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.

  At last they reach'd a quarter most retired,
    Where echo woke as if from a long slumber;
  Though full of all things which could be desired,
    One wonder'd what to do with such a number
  Of articles which nobody required;
    Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber
  With furniture an exquisite apartment,
  Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.

  It seem'd, however, but to open on
    A range or suite of further chambers, which
  Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one
    The movables were prodigally rich:
  Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon,
    So costly were they; carpets every stitch
  Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish
  You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.

  The black, however, without hardly deigning
    A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder,
  Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining,
    As if the milky way their feet was under
  With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining
    A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder-
  In that remote recess which you may see-
  Or if you don't the fault is not in me,-

  I wish to be perspicuous; and the black,
    I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth
  A quantity of clothes fit for the back
    Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth;
  And of variety there was no lack-
    And yet, though I have said there was no dearth,
  He chose himself to point out what he thought
  Most proper for the Christians he had bought.

  The suit he thought most suitable to each
    Was, for the elder and the stouter, first
  A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach,
    And trousers not so tight that they would burst,
  But such as fit an Asiatic breech;
    A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst,
  Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy;
  In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.

  While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend,
    Hinted the vast advantages which they
  Might probably attain both in the end,
    If they would but pursue the proper way
  Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend;
    And then he added, that he needs must say,
  ''T would greatly tend to better their condition,
  If they would condescend to circumcision.

  'For his own part, he really should rejoice
    To see them true believers, but no less
  Would leave his proposition to their choice.'
    The other, thanking him for this excess
  Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice
    In such a trifle, scarcely could express
  'Sufficiently' (he said) 'his approbation
  Of all the customs of this polish'd nation.

  'For his own share- he saw but small objection
    To so respectable an ancient rite;
  And, after swallowing down a slight refection,
    For which he own'd a present appetite,
  He doubted not a few hours of reflection
    Would reconcile him to the business quite.'
  'Will it?' said Juan, sharply: 'Strike me dead,
  But they as soon shall circumcise my head!

  'Cut off a thousand heads, before-'- 'Now, pray,'
    Replied the other, 'do not interrupt:
  You put me out in what I had to say.
    Sir!- as I said, as soon as I have supt,
  I shall perpend if your proposal may
    Be such as I can properly accept;
  Provided always your great goodness still
  Remits the matter to our own free-will.'

  Baba eyed Juan, and said, 'Be so good
    As dress yourself-' and pointed out a suit
  In which a Princess with great pleasure would
    Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute,
  As not being in a masquerading mood,
    Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot;
  And when the old negro told him to 'Get ready,'
  Replied, 'Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady.'

  'What you may be, I neither know nor care,'
    Said Baba; 'but pray do as I desire:
  I have no more time nor many words to spare.'
    'At least,' said Juan, 'sure I may enquire
  The cause of this odd travesty?'- 'Forbear,'
    Said Baba, 'to be curious; 't will transpire,
  No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season:
  I have no authority to tell the reason.'

  'Then if I do,' said Juan, 'I 'll be-'- 'Hold!'
    Rejoin'd the negro, 'pray be not provoking;
  This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold,
    And you will find us not top fond of joking.'
  'What, sir!' said Juan, 'shall it e'er be told
    That I unsex'd my dress?' But Baba, stroking
  The things down, said, 'Incense me, and I call
  Those who will leave you of no sex at all.

  'I offer you a handsome suit of clothes:
    A woman's, true; but then there is a cause
  Why you should wear them.'- 'What, though my soul loathes
    The effeminate garb?'- thus, after a short pause,
  Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths,
    'What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?'
  Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace
  Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face.

  And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd
    A pair of trousers of flesh-colour'd silk;
  Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd,
    Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk;
  But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd,
    Which- as we say- or, as the Scotch say, whilk
  (The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes
  Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)-

  Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to
    His garment's novelty, and his being awkward:
  And yet at last he managed to get through
    His toilet, though no doubt a little backward:
  The negro Baba help'd a little too,
    When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard;
  And, wrestling both his arms into a gown,
  He paused, and took a survey up and down.

  One difficulty still remain'd- his hair
    Was hardly long enough; but Baba found
  So many false long tresses all to spare,
    That soon his head was most completely crown'd,
  After the manner then in fashion there;
    And this addition with such gems was bound
  As suited the ensemble of his toilet,
  While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.

  And now being femininely all array'd,
    With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers,
  He look'd in almost all respects a maid,
    And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, 'You see, sirs,
  A perfect transformation here display'd;
    And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs,
  That is- the Lady:' clapping his hands twice,
  Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice.

  'You, sir,' said Baba, nodding to the one,
    'Will please to accompany those gentlemen
  To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun,
    Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when
  I say a thing, it must at once be done.
    What fear you? think you this a lion's den?
  Why, 't is a palace; where the truly wise
  Anticipate the Prophet's paradise.

  'You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.'
    'So much the better,' Juan said, 'for them;
  Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm,
    Which is not quite so light as you may deem.
  I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm
    If any take me for that which I seem:
  So that I trust for everybody's sake,
  That this disguise may lead to no mistake.'

  'Blockhead! come on, and see,' quoth Baba; while
    Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who
  Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile
    Upon the metamorphosis in view,-
  'Farewell!' they mutually exclaim'd: 'this soil
    Seems fertile in adventures strange and new;
  One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid,
  By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.'

  'Farewell!' said Juan: 'should we meet no more,
    I wish you a good appetite.'- 'Farewell!'
  Replied the other; 'though it grieves me sore;
    When we next meet we 'll have a tale to tell:
  We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore.
    Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.'
  'Nay,' quoth the maid, 'the Sultan's self shan't carry me,
  Unless his highness promises to marry me.

  And thus they parted, each by separate doors;
    Baba led Juan onward room by room
  Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors,
    Till a gigantic portal through the gloom,
  Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers;
    And wafted far arose a rich perfume:
  It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine,
  For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine.

  The giant door was broad, and bright, and high,
    Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise;
  Warriors thereon were battling furiously;
    Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies;
  There captives led in triumph droop the eye,
    And in perspective many a squadron flies:
  It seems the work of times before the line
  Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.

  This massy portal stood at the wide close
    Of a huge hall, and on its either side
  Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,
    Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied
  In mockery to the enormous gate which rose
    O'er them in almost pyramidic pride:
  The gate so splendid was in all its features,
  You never thought about those little creatures,

  Until you nearly trod on them, and then
    You started back in horror to survey
  The wondrous hideousness of those small men,
    Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey,
  But an extraneous mixture, which no pen
    Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may;
  They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb-
  Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum.

  Their duty was- for they were strong, and though
    They look'd so little, did strong things at times-
  To ope this door, which they could really do,
    The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes;
  And now and then, with tough strings of the bow,
    As is the custom of those Eastern climes,
  To give some rebel Pacha a cravat;
  For mutes are generally used for that.

  They spoke by signs- that is, not spoke at all;
    And looking like two incubi, they glared
  As Baba with his fingers made them fall
    To heaving back the portal folds: it scared
  Juan a moment, as this pair so small
    With shrinking serpent optics on him stared;
  It was as if their little looks could poison
  Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on.

  Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint
    To Juan some slight lessons as his guide:
  'If you could just contrive,' he said, 'to stint
    That somewhat manly majesty of stride,
  'T would be as well, and (though there 's not much in 't)
    To swing a little less from side to side,
  Which has at times an aspect of the oddest;-
  And also could you look a little modest,

  ''T would be convenient; for these mutes have eyes
    Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats;
  And if they should discover your disguise,
    You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats;
  And you and I may chance, ere morning rise,
    To find our way to Marmora without boats,
  Stitch'd up in sacks- a mode of navigation
  A good deal practised here upon occasion.'

  With this encouragement, he led the way
    Into a room still nobler than the last;
  A rich confusion form'd a disarray
    In such sort, that the eye along it cast
  Could hardly carry anything away,
    Object on object flash'd so bright and fast;
  A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter,
  Magnificently mingled in a litter.

  Wealth had done wonders- taste not much; such things
    Occur in Orient palaces, and even
  In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings
    (Of which I have also seen some six or seven),
  Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings
    Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven;
  Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures,
  On which I cannot pause to make my strictures.

  In this imperial hall, at distance lay
    Under a canopy, and there reclined
  Quite in a confidential queenly way,
    A lady; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd
  To Juan, who though not much used to pray,
    Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind,
  What all this meant: while Baba bow'd and bended
  His head, until the ceremony ended.

  The lady rising up with such an air
    As Venus rose with from the wave, on them
  Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair
    Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem;
  And raising up an arm as moonlight fair,
    She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem
  Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low,
  Pointed to Juan who remain'd below.

  Her presence was as lofty as her state;
    Her beauty of that overpowering kind,
  Whose force description only would abate:
    I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind,
  Than lessen it by what I could relate
    Of forms and features; it would strike you blind
  Could I do justice to the full detail;
  So, luckily for both, my phrases fail.

  Thus much however I may add,- her years
    Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
  But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,
    And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things,
  Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots; true- tears
    And love destroy; and sapping sorrow wrings
  Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow
  Ugly; for instance- Ninon de l'Enclos.

  She spake some words to her attendants, who
    Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen,
  And were all clad alike; like Juan, too,
    Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen;
  They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew,
    Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 'cousin,'
  As far as outward show may correspond;
  I won't be bail for anything beyond.

  They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring,
    But not by the same door through which came in
  Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring,
    At some small distance, all he saw within
  This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring
    Marvel and praise; for both or none things win;
  And I must say, I ne'er could see the very
  Great happiness of the 'Nil Admirari.'

  'Not to admire is all the art I know
    (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech)
  To make men happy, or to keep them so'
    (So take it in the very words of Creech)-
  Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago;
    And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach
  From his translation; but had none admired,
  Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?

  Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn,
    Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then
  A second time desired him to kneel down,
    And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim when
  He heard repeated, Juan with a frown
    Drew himself up to his full height again,
  And said, 'It grieved him, but he could not stoop
  To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.'

  Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride,
    Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat
  He mutter'd (but the last was given aside)
    About a bow-string- quite in vain; not yet
  Would Juan bend, though 't were to Mahomet's bride:
    There 's nothing in the world like etiquette
  In kingly chambers or imperial halls,
  As also at the race and county balls.

  He stood like Atlas, with a world of words
    About his ears, and nathless would not bend:
  The blood of all his line 's Castilian lords
    Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend
  To stain his pedigree a thousand swords
    A thousand times of him had made an end;
  At length perceiving the 'foot' could not stand,
  Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand.

  Here was an honourable compromise,
    A half-way house of diplomatic rest,
  Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise;
    And Juan now his willingness exprest
  To use all fit and proper courtesies,
    Adding, that this was commonest and best,
  For through the South the custom still commands
  The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.

  And he advanced, though with but a bad grace,
    Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers
  No lips e'er left their transitory trace;
    On such as these the lip too fondly lingers,
  And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace,
    As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers
  In contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger's
  An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers.

  The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade
    Baba retire, which he obey'd in style,
  As if well used to the retreating trade;
    And taking hints in good part all the while,
  He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid,
    And looking on him with a sort of smile,
  Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction
  As good men wear who have done a virtuous action.

  When he was gone, there was a sudden change:
    I know not what might be the lady's thought,
  But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange,
    And into her dear cheek the blood was brought,
  Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range
    The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought,
  A mixture of sensations might be scann'd,
  Of half voluptuousness and half command.

  Her form had all the softness of her sex,
    Her features all the sweetness of the devil,
  When he put on the cherub to perplex
    Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil;
  The sun himself was scarce more free from specks
    Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil;
  Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting,
  As if she rather order'd than was granting.

  Something imperial, or imperious, threw
    A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain
  Was thrown as 't were about the neck of you,-
    And rapture's self will seem almost a pain
  With aught which looks like despotism in view:
    Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain
  We would against them make the flesh obey-
  The spirit in the end will have its way.

  Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;
    Her very nod was not an inclination;
  There was a self-will even in her small feet,
    As though they were quite conscious of her station-
  They trod as upon necks; and to complete
    Her state (it is the custom of her nation),
  A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign
  She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine!).

  'To hear and to obey' had been from birth
    The law of all around her; to fulfill
  All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth,
    Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will;
  Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth:
    Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still;
  Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion
  We should have found out the 'perpetual motion.'

  Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought;
    Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed
  It might be seen, with diligence was sought,
    And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed;
  There was no end unto the things she bought,
    Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused;
  Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,
  The women pardon'd all except her face.

  Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught
    Her eye in passing on his way to sale;
  She order'd him directly to be bought,
    And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail
  In any kind of mischief to be wrought,
    At all such auctions knew how to prevail:
  She had no prudence, but he had; and this
  Explains the garb which Juan took amiss.

  His youth and features favour'd the disguise,
    And, should you ask how she, a sultan's bride,
  Could risk or compass such strange phantasies,
    This I must leave sultanas to decide:
  Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes,
    And kings and consorts oft are mystified,
  As we may ascertain with due precision,
  Some by experience, others by tradition.

  But to the main point, where we have been tending:-
    She now conceived all difficulties past,
  And deem'd herself extremely condescending
    When, being made her property at last,
  Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending
    Passion and power, a glance on him she cast,
  And merely saying, 'Christian, canst thou love?'
  Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move

  And so it was, in proper time and place;
    But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing
  With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face,
    Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing,
  Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace,
    And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing;
  These words went through his soul like Arab-spears,
  So that he spoke not, but burst into tears.

  She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears,
    For women shed and use them at their liking;
  But there is something when man's eye appears
    Wet, still more disagreeable and striking;
  A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears,
    Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in
  His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter)
  To them 't is a relief, to us a torture.

  And she would have consoled, but knew not how:
    Having no equals, nothing which had e'er
  Infected her with sympathy till now,
    And never having dreamt what 't was to bear
  Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although
    There might arise some pouting petty care
  To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near
  Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear.

  But nature teaches more than power can spoil,
    And, when a strong although a strange sensation
  Moves- female hearts are such a genial soil
    For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation,
  They naturally pour the 'wine and oil,'
    Samaritans in every situation;
  And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why,
  Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye.

  But tears must stop like all things else; and soon
    Juan, who for an instant had been moved
  To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone
    Of one who dared to ask if 'he had loved,'
  Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone
    Bright with the very weakness he reproved;
  And although sensitive to beauty, he
  Felt most indignant still at not being free.

  Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days,
    Was much embarrass'd, never having met
  In all her life with aught save prayers and praise;
    And as she also risk'd her life to get
  Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways
    Into a comfortable tete-a-tete,
  To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr,
  And they had wasted now almost a quarter.

  I also would suggest the fitting time
    To gentlemen in any such like case,
  That is to say in a meridian clime-
    With us there is more law given to the chase,
  But here a small delay forms a great crime:
    So recollect that the extremest grace
  Is just two minutes for your declaration-
  A moment more would hurt your reputation.

  Juan's was good; and might have been still better,
    But he had got Haidee into his head:
  However strange, he could not yet forget her,
    Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred.
  Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor
    For having had him to her palace led,
  Began to blush up to the eyes, and then
  Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again.

  At length, in an imperial way, she laid
    Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes
  Which needed not an empire to persuade,
    Look'd into his for love, where none replies:
  Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid,
    That being the last thing a proud woman tries;
  She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw
  Herself upon his breast, and there she grew.

  This was an awkward test, as Juan found,
    But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride:
  With gentle force her white arms he unwound,
    And seated her all drooping by his side,
  Then rising haughtily he glanced around,
    And looking coldly in her face, he cried,
  'The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor
  Serve a Sultana's sensual phantasy.

  'Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof
    How much I have loved- that I love not thee!
  In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof,
    Were fitter for me: Love is for the free!
  I am not dazzled by this splendid roof,
    Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be;
  Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne,
  And hands obey- our hearts are still our own.'

  This was a truth to us extremely trite;
    Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things:
  She deem'd her least command must yield delight,
    Earth being only made for queens and kings.
  If hearts lay on the left side or the right
    She hardly knew, to such perfection brings
  Legitimacy its born votaries, when
  Aware of their due royal rights o'er men.

  Besides, as has been said, she was so fair
    As even in a much humbler lot had made
  A kingdom or confusion anywhere,
    And also, as may be presumed, she laid
  Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er,
    By their possessors thrown into the shade:
  She thought hers gave a double 'right divine;'
  And half of that opinion 's also mine.

  Remember, or (if you can not) imagine,
    Ye, who have kept your chastity when young,
  While some more desperate dowager has been waging
    Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung
  By your refusal, recollect her raging!
    Or recollect all that was said or sung
  On such a subject; then suppose the face
  Of a young downright beauty in this case.

  Suppose,- but you already have supposed,
    The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby,
  Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed
    Of good examples; pity that so few by
  Poets and private tutors are exposed,
    To educate- ye youth of Europe- you by!
  But when you have supposed the few we know,
  You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow.

  A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness,
    Or any interesting beast of prey,
  Are similes at hand for the distress
    Of ladies who can not have their own way;
  But though my turn will not be served with less,
    These don't express one half what I should say:
  For what is stealing young ones, few or many,
  To cutting short their hopes of having any?

  The love of offspring 's nature's general law,
    From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings;
  There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw
    Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings;
  And all who have seen a human nursery, saw
    How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings;
  This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer
  Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger.

  If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes,
    'T were nothing- for her eyes flash'd always fire;
  Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes,
    I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer,
  So supernatural was her passion's rise;
    For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire:
  Even ye who know what a check'd woman is
  (Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.

  Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well-
    A moment's more had slain her; but the while
  It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell:
    Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile,
  Though horrible to see yet grand to tell,
    Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle;
  And the deep passions flashing through her form
  Made her a beautiful embodied storm.

  A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon
    To match a common fury with her rage,
  And yet she did not want to reach the moon,
    Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page;
  Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune,
    Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age-
  Her wish was but to 'kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's,
  And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears.

  A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd,
    Pass'd without words- in fact she could not speak;
  And then her sex's shame broke in at last,
    A sentiment till then in her but weak,
  But now it flow'd in natural and fast,
    As water through an unexpected leak;
  For she felt humbled- and humiliation
  Is sometimes good for people in her station

  It teaches them that they are flesh and blood,
    It also gently hints to them that others,
  Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud;
    That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers,
  And works of the same pottery, bad or good,
    Though not all born of the same sires and mothers:
  It teaches- Heaven knows only what it teaches,
  But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.

  Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head;
    Her second, to cut only his- acquaintance;
  Her third, to ask him where he had been bred;
    Her fourth, to rally him into repentance;
  Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed;
    Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence
  The lash to Baba:- but her grand resource
  Was to sit down again, and cry of course.

  She thought to stab herself, but then she had
    The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward;
  For Eastern stays are little made to pad,
    So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard:
  She thought of killing Juan- but, poor lad!
    Though he deserved it well for being so backward,
  The cutting off his head was not the art
  Most likely to attain her aim- his heart.

  Juan was moved; he had made up his mind
    To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish
  For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined,
    Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish,
  And thus heroically stood resign'd,
    Rather than sin- except to his own wish:
  But all his great preparatives for dying
  Dissolved like snow before a woman crying.

  As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed,
    So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how;
  And first he wonder'd why he had refused;
    And then, if matters could be made up now;
  And next his savage virtue he accused,
    Just as a friar may accuse his vow,
  Or as a dame repents her of her oath,
  Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.

  So he began to stammer some excuses;
    But words are not enough in such a matter,
  Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses
    Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter,
  Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses;
    Just as a languid smile began to flatter
  His peace was making, but before he ventured
  Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd.

  'Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!'
    ('T was thus he spake) 'and Empress of the Earth!
  Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune,
    Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth,
  Your slave brings tidings- he hopes not too soon-
    Which your sublime attention may be worth:
  The Sun himself has sent me like a ray,
  To hint that he is coming up this way.'

  'Is it,' exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, 'as you say?
    I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning!
  But bid my women form the milky way.
    Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning-
  And, Christian! mingle with them as you may,
    And as you 'd have me pardon your past scorning-'
  Here they were interrupted by a humming
  Sound, and then by a cry, 'The Sultan 's coming!'

  First came her damsels, a decorous file,
    And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white;
  The train might reach a quarter of a mile:
    His majesty was always so polite
  As to announce his visits a long while
    Before he came, especially at night;
  For being the last wife of the Emperour,
  She was of course the favorite of the four.

  His Highness was a man of solemn port,
    Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes,
  Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court,
    His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise;
  He was as good a sovereign of the sort
    As any mention'd in the histories
  Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine
  Save Solyman, the glory of their line.

  He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers
    With more than 'Oriental scrupulosity;'
  He left to his vizier all state affairs,
    And show'd but little royal curiosity:
  I know not if he had domestic cares-
    No process proved connubial animosity;
  Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen,
  Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen.

  If now and then there happen'd a slight slip,
    Little was heard of criminal or crime;
  The story scarcely pass'd a single lip-
    The sack and sea had settled all in time,
  From which the secret nobody could rip:
    The Public knew no more than does this rhyme;
  No scandals made the daily press a curse-
  Morals were better, and the fish no worse.

  He saw with his own eyes the moon was round,
    Was also certain that the earth was square,
  Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found
    No sign that it was circular anywhere;
  His empire also was without a bound:
    'T is true, a little troubled here and there,
  By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours,
  But then they never came to 'the Seven Towers;'

  Except in shape of envoys, who were sent
    To lodge there when a war broke out, according
  To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant
    Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in
  Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent
    Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording
  Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or
  The singeing of a single inky whisker.

  He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons,
    Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd,
  The former in a palace, where like nuns
    They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad,
  When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once,
    Sometimes at six years old- though it seems odd,
  'T is true; the reason is, that the Bashaw
  Must make a present to his sire in law.

  His sons were kept in prison, till they grew
    Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne,
  One or the other, but which of the two
    Could yet be known unto the fates alone;
  Meantime the education they went through
    Was princely, as the proofs have always shown:
  So that the heir apparent still was found
  No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd.

  His majesty saluted his fourth spouse
    With all the ceremonies of his rank,
  Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows,
    As suits a matron who has play'd a prank;
  These must seem doubly mindful of their vows,
    To save the credit of their breaking bank:
  To no men are such cordial greetings given
  As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.

  His Highness cast around his great black eyes,
    And looking, as he always look'd, perceived
  Juan amongst the damsels in disguise,
    At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved,
  But just remark'd with air sedate and wise,
    While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved,
  'I see you 've bought another girl; 't is pity
  That a mere Christian should be half so pretty.'

  This compliment, which drew all eyes upon
    The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake.
  Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone:
    Oh! Mahomet! that his majesty should take
  Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one
    Of them his lips imperial ever spake!
  There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle,
  But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.

  The Turks do well to shut- at least, sometimes-
    The women up, because, in sad reality,
  Their chastity in these unhappy climes
    Is not a thing of that astringent quality
  Which in the North prevents precocious crimes,
    And makes our snow less pure than our morality;
  The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice,
  Has quite the contrary effect on vice.

  Thus in the East they are extremely strict,
    And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same;
  Excepting only when the former 's pick'd
    It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame;
  Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd:
    But then their own Polygamy 's to blame;
  Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life
  Into that moral centaur, man and wife?

  Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause,
    Though not for want of matter; but 't is time
  According to the ancient epic laws,
    To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme.
  Let this fifth canto meet with due applause,
    The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime;
  Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps
  You 'll pardon to my muse a few short naps.
                CANTO THE SIXTH.

  'THERE is a tide in the affairs of men
    Which,- taken at the flood,'- you know the rest,
  And most of us have found it now and then;
    At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
  The moment, till too late to come again.
    But no doubt every thing is for the best-
  Of which the surest sign is in the end:
  When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.

  There is a tide in the affairs of women
    Which, taken at the flood, leads- God knows where:
  Those navigators must be able seamen
    Whose charts lay down its current to a hair;
  Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen
    With its strange whirls and eddies can compare:
  Men with their heads reflect on this and that-
  But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!

  And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,
    Young, beautiful, and daring- who would risk
  A throne, the world, the universe, to be
    Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk
  The stars from out the sky, than not be free
    As are the billows when the breeze is brisk-
  Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one),
  Yet she would make full many a Manichean.

  Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset
    By commonest ambition, that when passion
  O'erthrows the same, we readily forget,
    Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one.
  If Antony be well remember'd yet,
    'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion,
  But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes,
  Outbalances all Caesar's victories.

  He died at fifty for a queen of forty;
    I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty,
  For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport- I
    Remember when, though I had no great plenty
  Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I
    Gave what I had- a heart: as the world went, I
  Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
  Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.

  'T was the boy's 'mite,' and, like the 'widow's,' may
    Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now;
  But whether such things do or do not weigh,
    All who have loved, or love, will still allow
  Life has nought like it. God is love, they say,
    And Love 's a god, or was before the brow
  Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears
  Of- but Chronology best knows the years.

  We left our hero and third heroine in
    A kind of state more awkward than uncommon,
  For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin
    For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman:
  Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin,
    And don't agree at all with the wise Roman,
  Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
  Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.

  I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong;
    I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it;
  But I detest all fiction even in song,
    And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it.
  Her reason being weak, her passions strong,
    She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it)
  Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine
  Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine.

  I am not, like Cassio, 'an arithmetician,'
    But by 'the bookish theoric' it appears,
  If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision,
    That, adding to the account his Highness' years,
  The fair Sultana err'd from inanition;
    For, were the Sultan just to all his dears,
  She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part
  Of what should be monopoly- the heart.

  It is observed that ladies are litigious
    Upon all legal objects of possession,
  And not the least so when they are religious,
    Which doubles what they think of the transgression:
  With suits and prosecutions they besiege us,
    As the tribunals show through many a session,
  When they suspect that any one goes shares
  In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.

  Now, if this holds good in a Christian land,
    The heathen also, though with lesser latitude,
  Are apt to carry things with a high hand,
    And take what kings call 'an imposing attitude,'
  And for their rights connubial make a stand,
    When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude:
  And as four wives must have quadruple claims,
  The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames.

  Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said)
    The favourite; but what 's favour amongst four?
  Polygamy may well be held in dread,
    Not only as a sin, but as a bore:
  Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed,
    Will scarcely find philosophy for more;
  And all (except Mahometans) forbear
  To make the nuptial couch a 'Bed of Ware.'

  His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,-
    So styled according to the usual forms
  Of every monarch, till they are consign'd
    To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,
  Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,-
    His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms,
  Expecting all the welcome of a lover
  (A 'Highland welcome' all the wide world over).

  Now here we should distinguish; for howe'er
    Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that,
  May look like what is- neither here nor there,
    They are put on as easily as a hat,
  Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear,
    Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate,
  Which form an ornament, but no more part
  Of heads, than their caresses of the heart.

  A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind
    Of gentle feminine delight, and shown
  More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd
    Rather to hide what pleases most unknown,
  Are the best tokens (to a modest mind)
    Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne,
  A sincere woman's breast,- for over-warm
  Or over-cold annihilates the charm.

  For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth;
    If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire;
  For no one, save in very early youth,
    Would like (I think) to trust all to desire,
  Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth,
    And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer
  At a sad discount: while your over chilly
  Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly.

  That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste,
    For so it seems to lovers swift or slow,
  Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd,
    And see a sentimental passion glow,
  Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest,
    In his monastic concubine of snow;-
  In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is
  Horatian, 'Medio tu tutissimus ibis.'

  The 'tu' 's too much,- but let it stand,- the verse
    Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme,
  And not the pink of old hexameters;
    But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time
  In the last line, which cannot well be worse,
    And was thrust in to close the octave's chime:
  I own no prosody can ever rate it
  As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it.

  If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part,
    I know not- it succeeded, and success
  Is much in most things, not less in the heart
    Than other articles of female dress.
  Self-love in man, too, beats all female art;
    They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less;
  And no one virtue yet, except starvation,
  Could stop that worst of vices- propagation.

  We leave this royal couple to repose:
    A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep,
  Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes:
    Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep
  As any man's day mixture undergoes.
    Our least of sorrows are such as we weep;
  'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears
  The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.

  A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill
    To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted
  At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill,
    A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted,
  A bad old woman making a worse will,
    Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted
  As certain;- these are paltry things, and yet
  I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret.

  I 'm a philosopher; confound them all!
    Bills, beasts, and men, and- no! not womankind!
  With one good hearty curse I vent my gall,
    And then my stoicism leaves nought behind
  Which it can either pain or evil call,
    And I can give my whole soul up to mind;
  Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth,
  Is more than I know- the deuce take them both!

    As after reading Athanasius' curse,
  Which doth your true believer so much please:
    I doubt if any now could make it worse
  O'er his worst enemy when at his knees,
    'T is so sententious, positive, and terse,
  And decorates the book of Common Prayer,
  As doth a rainbow the just clearing air.

  Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or
    At least one of them!- Oh, the heavy night,
  When wicked wives, who love some bachelor,
    Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light
  Of the gray morning, and look vainly for
    Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite-
  To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake
  Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake!

  These are beneath the canopy of heaven,
    Also beneath the canopy of beds
  Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given
    For rich men and their brides to lay their heads
  Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 'driven
    Snow.' Well! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds.
  Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been
  Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean.

  Don Juan in his feminine disguise,
    With all the damsels in their long array,
  Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes,
    And at the usual signal ta'en their way
  Back to their chambers, those long galleries
    In the seraglio, where the ladies lay
  Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there
  Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air.

  I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse
    The tyrant's wish, 'that mankind only had
  One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:'
    My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad,
  And much more tender on the whole than fierce;
    It being (not now, but only while a lad)
  That womankind had but one rosy mouth,
  To kiss them all at once from North to South.

  Oh, enviable Briareus! with thy hands
    And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied
  In such proportion!- But my Muse withstands
    The giant thought of being a Titan's bride,
  Or travelling in Patagonian lands;
    So let us back to Lilliput, and guide
  Our hero through the labyrinth of love
  In which we left him several lines above.

  He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,
    At the given signal join'd to their array;
  And though he certainly ran many risks,
    Yet he could not at times keep, by the way
  (Although the consequences of such frisks
    Are worse than the worst damages men pay
  In moral England, where the thing 's a tax),
  From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.

  Still he forgot not his disguise:- along
    The galleries from room to room they walk'd,
  A virgin-like and edifying throng,
    By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd
  A dame who kept up discipline among
    The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd
  Without her sanction on their she-parades:
  Her title was 'the Mother of the Maids.'

  Whether she was a 'mother,' I know not,
    Or whether they were 'maids' who call'd her mother;
  But this is her seraglio title, got
    I know not how, but good as any other;
  So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott:
    Her office was to keep aloof or smother
  All bad propensities in fifteen hundred
  Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd.

  A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made
    More easy by the absence of all men-
  Except his majesty, who, with her aid,
    And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then
  A slight example, just to cast a shade
    Along the rest, contrived to keep this den
  Of beauties cool as an Italian convent,
  Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.

  And what is that? Devotion, doubtless- how
    Could you ask such a question?- but we will
  Continue. As I said, this goodly row
    Of ladies of all countries at the will
  Of one good man, with stately march and slow,
    Like water-lilies floating down a rill-
  Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly-
  Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy.

  But when they reach'd their own apartments, there,
    Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose,
  Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere
    When freed from bonds (which are of no great use
  After all), or like Irish at a fair,
    Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce
  Establish'd between them and bondage, they
  Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play.

  Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer;
    Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything:
  Some thought her dress did not so much become her,
    Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring;
  Some said her years were getting nigh their summer,
    Others contended they were but in spring;
  Some thought her rather masculine in height,
  While others wish'd that she had been so quite.

  But no one doubted on the whole, that she
    Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair,
  And fresh, and 'beautiful exceedingly,'
    Who with the brightest Georgians might compare:
  They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be
    So silly as to buy slaves who might share
  (If that his Highness wearied of his bride)
  Her throne and power, and every thing beside.

  But what was strangest in this virgin crew,
    Although her beauty was enough to vex,
  After the first investigating view,
    They all found out as few, or fewer, specks
  In the fair form of their companion new,
    Than is the custom of the gentle sex,
  When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen,
  In a new face 'the ugliest creature breathing.'

  And yet they had their little jealousies,
    Like all the rest; but upon this occasion,
  Whether there are such things as sympathies
    Without our knowledge or our approbation,
  Although they could not see through his disguise,
    All felt a soft kind of concatenation,
  Like magnetism, or devilism, or what
  You please- we will not quarrel about that:

  But certain 't is they all felt for their new
    Companion something newer still, as 't were
  A sentimental friendship through and through,
    Extremely pure, which made them all concur
  In wishing her their sister, save a few
    Who wish'd they had a brother just like her,
  Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia,
  They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha.

  Of those who had most genius for this sort
    Of sentimental friendship, there were three,
  Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short
    (To save description), fair as fair can be
  Were they, according to the best report,
    Though differing in stature and degree,
  And clime and time, and country and complexion;
  They all alike admired their new connection.

  Lolah was dusk as India and as warm;
    Katinka was a Georgian, white and red,
  With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm,
    And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread,
  But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form
    Look'd more adapted to be put to bed,
  Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy,
  Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy.

  A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu,
    Yet very fit to 'murder sleep' in those
  Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue,
    Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose:
  Few angles were there in her form, 't is true,
    Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose;
  Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where
  It would not spoil some separate charm to pare.

  She was not violently lively, but
    Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking;
  Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut,
    They put beholders in a tender taking;
  She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut
    From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking,
  The mortal and the marble still at strife,
  And timidly expanding into life.

  Lolah demanded the new damsel's name-
    'Juanna.'- Well, a pretty name enough.
  Katinka ask'd her also whence she came-
    'From Spain.'- 'But where is Spain?'- 'Don't ask such stuff,
  Nor show your Georgian ignorance- for shame!'
    Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough,
  To poor Katinka: 'Spain 's an island near
  Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.'

  Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside
    Juanna, playing with her veil or hair;
  And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd,
    As if she pitied her for being there,
  A pretty stranger without friend or guide,
    And all abash'd, too, at the general stare
  Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places,
  With kind remarks upon their mien and faces.

  But here the Mother of the Maids drew near,
    With, 'Ladies, it is time to go to rest.
  I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear,'
    She added to Juanna, their new guest:
  'Your coming has been unexpected here,
    And every couch is occupied; you had best
  Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early
  We will have all things settled for you fairly.'

  Here Lolah interposed- 'Mamma, you know
    You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear
  That anybody should disturb you so;
    I 'll take Juanna; we 're a slenderer pair
  Than you would make the half of;- don't say no;
    And I of your young charge will take due care.'
  But here Katinka interfered, and said,
  'She also had compassion and a bed.

  'Besides, I hate to sleep alone,' quoth she.
    The matron frown'd: 'Why so?'- 'For fear of ghosts,'
  Replied Katinka; 'I am sure I see
    A phantom upon each of the four posts;
  And then I have the worst dreams that can be,
    Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.'
  The dame replied, 'Between your dreams and you,
  I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few.

  'You, Lolah, must continue still to lie
    Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you
  The same, Katinka, until by and by;
    And I shall place Juanna with Dudu,
  Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy,
    And will not toss and chatter the night through.
  What say you, child?'- Dudu said nothing, as
  Her talents were of the more silent class;

  But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow
    Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks,
  Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow
    (Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks)
  She took Juanna by the hand to show
    Their place of rest, and left to both their piques,
  The others pouting at the matron's preference
  Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference.

  It was a spacious chamber (Oda is
    The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall
  Were couches, toilets- and much more than this
    I might describe, as I have seen it all,
  But it suffices- little was amiss;
    'T was on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall,
  With all things ladies want, save one or two,
  And even those were nearer than they knew.

  Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature,
    Not very dashing, but extremely winning,
  With the most regulated charms of feature,
    Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning
  Against proportion- the wild strokes of nature
    Which they hit off at once in the beginning,
  Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike,
  And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.

  But she was a soft landscape of mild earth,
    Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet,
  Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth,
    Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it
  Than are your mighty passions and so forth,
    Which some call 'the sublime:' I wish they 'd try it:
  I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women,
  And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

  But she was pensive more than melancholy,
    And serious more than pensive, and serene,
  It may be, more than either- not unholy
    Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been.
  The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly
    Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen,
  That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall;
  She never thought about herself at all.

  And therefore was she kind and gentle as
    The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown,
  By which its nomenclature came to pass;
    Thus most appropriately has been shown
  'Lucus a non lucendo,' not what was,
    But what was not; a sort of style that 's grown
  Extremely common in this age, whose metal
  The devil may decompose, but never settle:

  I think it may be of 'Corinthian Brass,'
    Which was a mixture of all metals, but
  The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass
    This long parenthesis: I could not shut
  It sooner for the soul of me, and class
    My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put
  A kind construction upon them and me:
  But that you won't- then don't- I am not less free.

  'T is time we should return to plain narration,
    And thus my narrative proceeds:- Dudu,
  With every kindness short of ostentation,
    Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through
  This labyrinth of females, and each station
    Described- what 's strange- in words extremely few:
  I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder,
  For wordless woman, which is silent thunder.

  And next she gave her (I say her, because
    The gender still was epicene, at least
  In outward show, which is a saving clause)
    An outline of the customs of the East,
  With all their chaste integrity of laws,
    By which the more a haram is increased,
  The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties
  Of any supernumerary beauties.

  And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss:
    Dudu was fond of kissing- which I 'm sure
  That nobody can ever take amiss,
    Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure,
  And between females means no more than this-
    That they have nothing better near, or newer.
  'Kiss' rhymes to 'bliss' in fact as well as verse-
  I wish it never led to something worse.

  In perfect innocence she then unmade
    Her toilet, which cost little, for she was
  A child of Nature, carelessly array'd:
    If fond of a chance ogle at her glass,
  'T was like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd,
    Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass,
  When first she starts, and then returns to peep,
  Admiring this new native of the deep.

  And one by one her articles of dress
    Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd
  Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess
    Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd:
  Which pass'd well off- as she could do no less;
    Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd,
  Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins,
  Which surely were invented for our sins,-

  Making a woman like a porcupine,
    Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread,
  Oh ye! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine,
    In early youth, to turn a lady's maid;-
  I did my very boyish best to shine
    In tricking her out for a masquerade;
  The pins were placed sufficiently, but not
  Stuck all exactly in the proper spot.

  But these are foolish things to all the wise,
    And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
  My tendency is to philosophise
    On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;
  But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies.
    What are we? and whence came we? what shall be
  Our ultimate existence? what 's our present?
  Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.

  There was deep silence in the chamber: dim
    And distant from each other burn'd the lights,
  And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb
    Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites,
  They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest trim,
    By way of change from their sepulchral sites,
  And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste
  Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.

  Many and beautiful lay those around,
    Like flowers of different hue, and dime, and root,
  In some exotic garden sometimes found,
    With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot.
  One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,
    And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit
  Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath,
  And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.

  One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,
    And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd
  Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm;
    And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud
  The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm,
    As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud,
  Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night
  All bashfully to struggle into light.

  This is no bull, although it sounds so; for
    'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said.
  A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more
    The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd
  Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore
    Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd
  (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges
  The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes.

  A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,
    Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
  White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill,
    Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep,
  Or Lot's wife done in salt,- or what you will;-
    My similes are gather'd in a heap,
  So pick and choose- perhaps you 'll be content
  With a carved lady on a monument.

  And lo! a fifth appears;- and what is she?
    A lady of a 'certain age,' which means
  Certainly aged- what her years might be
    I know not, never counting past their teens;
  But there she slept, not quite so fair to see,
    As ere that awful period intervenes
  Which lays both men and women on the shelf,
  To meditate upon their sins and self.

  But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu?
    With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover,
  And scorn to add a syllable untrue;
    But ere the middle watch was hardly over,
  Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue,
    And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover,
  To those who like their company, about
  The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out:

  And that so loudly, that upstarted all
    The Oda, in a general commotion:
  Matron and maids, and those whom you may call
    Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean,
  One on the other, throughout the whole hall,
    All trembling, wondering, without the least notion
  More than I have myself of what could make
  The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.

  But wide awake she was, and round her bed,
    With floating draperies and with flying hair,
  With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread,
    And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare,
  And bright as any meteor ever bred
    By the North Pole,- they sought her cause of care,
  For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd,
  Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd.

  But what was strange- and a strong proof how great
    A blessing is sound sleep- Juanna lay
  As fast as ever husband by his mate
    In holy matrimony snores away.
  Not all the clamour broke her happy state
    Of slumber, ere they shook her,- so they say
  At least,- and then she, too, unclosed her eyes,
  And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise.

  And now commenced a strict investigation,
    Which, as all spoke at once and more than once,
  Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration,
    Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce
  To answer in a very clear oration.
    Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense,
  But, being 'no orator as Brutus is,'
  Could not at first expound what was amiss.

  At length she said, that in a slumber sound
    She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood-
  A 'wood obscure,' like that where Dante found
    Himself in at the age when all grow good;
  Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd
    Run much less risk of lovers turning rude;
  And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits,
  And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;

  And in the midst a golden apple grew,-
    A most prodigious pippin,- but it hung
  Rather too high and distant; that she threw
    Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung
  Stones and whatever she could pick up, to
    Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung
  To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight,
  But always at a most provoking height;-

  That on a sudden, when she least had hope,
    It fell down of its own accord before
  Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop
    And pick it up, and bite it to the core;
  That just as her young lip began to ope
    Upon the golden fruit the vision bore,
  A bee flew out and stung her to the heart,
  And so- she awoke with a great scream and start.

  All this she told with some confusion and
    Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams
  Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand
    To expound their vain and visionary gleams.
  I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd
    Prophetically, or that which one deems
  A 'strange coincidence,' to use a phrase
  By which such things are settled now-a-days.

  The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm,
    Began, as is the consequence of fear,
  To scold a little at the false alarm
    That broke for nothing on their sleeping car.
  The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm
    Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear,
  And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd,
  And said that she was sorry she had cried.

  'I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull;
    But visions of an apple and a bee,
  To take us from our natural rest, and pull
    The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three,
  Would make us think the moon is at its full.
    You surely are unwell, child! we must see,
  To-morrow, what his Highness's physician
  Will say to this hysteric of a vision.

  'And poor Juanna, too- the child's first night
    Within these walls to be broke in upon
  With such a clamour! I had thought it right
    That the young stranger should not lie alone,
  And, as the quietest of all, she might
    With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known;
  But now I must transfer her to the charge
  Of Lolah- though her couch is not so large.'

  Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition;
    But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own,
  Resulting from the scolding or the vision,
    Implored that present pardon might be shown
  For this first fault, and that on no condition
    (She added in a soft and piteous tone)
  Juanna should be taken from her, and
  Her future dreams should all be kept in hand.

  She promised never more to have a dream,
    At least to dream so loudly as just now;
  She wonder'd at herself how she could scream-
    'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow,
  A fond hallucination, and a theme
    For laughter- but she felt her spirits low,
  And begg'd they would excuse her; she 'd get over
  This weakness in a few hours, and recover.

  And here Juanna kindly interposed,
    And said she felt herself extremely well
  Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed
    When all around rang like a tocsin bell:
  She did not find herself the least disposed
    To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell
  Apart from one who had no sin to show,
  Save that of dreaming once 'mal-a-propos.'

  As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round
    And hid her face within Juanna's breast:
  Her neck alone was seen, but that was found
    The colour of a budding rose's crest.
  I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound
    The mystery of this rupture of their rest;
  All that I know is, that the facts I state
  Are true as truth has ever been of late.

  And so good night to them,- or, if you will,
    Good morrow- for the cock had crown, and light
  Began to clothe each Asiatic hill,
    And the mosque crescent struggled into sight
  Of the long caravan, which in the chill
    Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height
  That stretches to the stony belt, which girds
  Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.

  With the first ray, or rather grey of morn,
    Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale
  As passion rises, with its bosom worn,
    Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil.
  The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,
    Which fable places in her breast of wail,
  Is lighter far of heart and voice than those
  Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.

  And that 's the moral of this composition,
    If people would but see its real drift;-
  But that they will not do without suspicion,
    Because all gentle readers have the gift
  Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision;
    While gentle writers also love to lift
  Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural,
  The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.

  Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour,
    Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried
  Aloud because his feelings were too tender
    To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,-
  So beautiful that art could little mend her,
    Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;-
  So agitated was she with her error,
  She did not even look into the mirror.

  Also arose about the self-same time,
    Perhaps a little later, her great lord,
  Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime,
    And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd;
  A thing of much less import in that clime-
    At least to those of incomes which afford
  The filling up their whole connubial cargo-
  Than where two wives are under an embargo.

  He did not think much on the matter, nor
    Indeed on any other: as a man
  He liked to have a handsome paramour
    At hand, as one may like to have a fan,
  And therefore of Circassians had good store,
    As an amusement after the Divan;
  Though an unusual fit of love, or duty,
  Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty.

  And now he rose; and after due ablutions
    Exacted by the customs of the East,
  And prayers and other pious evolutions,
    He drank six cups of coffee at the least,
  And then withdrew to hear about the Russians,
    Whose victories had recently increased
  In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores,

  But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander!
    Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend
  Thine ear, if it should reach- and now rhymes wander
    Almost as far as Petersburgh and lend
  A dreadful impulse to each loud meander
    Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend
  Their roar even with the Baltic's- so you be
  Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me.

  To call men love-begotten or proclaim
    Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon,
  That hater of mankind, would be a shame,
    A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on:
  But people's ancestors are history's game;
    And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on
  All generations, I should like to know
  What pedigree the best would have to show?

  Had Catherine and the sultan understood
    Their own true interests, which kings rarely know
  Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude,
    There was a way to end their strife, although
  Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good,
    Without the aid of prince or plenipo:
  She to dismiss her guards and he his haram,
  And for their other matters, meet and share 'em.

  But as it was, his Highness had to hold
    His daily council upon ways and means
  How to encounter with this martial scold,
    This modern Amazon and queen of queans;
  And the perplexity could not be told
    Of all the pillars of the state, which leans
  Sometimes a little heavy on the backs
  Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.

  Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone,
    Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place
  For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone,
    And rich with all contrivances which grace
  Those gay recesses:- many a precious stone
    Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase
  Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers,
  Those captive soothers of a captive's hours.

  Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble,
    Vied with each other on this costly spot;
  And singing birds without were heard to warble;
    And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot
  Varied each ray;- but all descriptions garble
    The true effect, and so we had better not
  Be too minute; an outline is the best,-
  A lively reader's fancy does the rest.

  And here she summon'd Baba, and required
    Don Juan at his hands, and information
  Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired,
    And whether he had occupied their station;
  If matters had been managed as desired,
    And his disguise with due consideration
  Kept up; and above all, the where and how
  He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know.

  Baba, with some embarrassment, replied
    To this long catechism of questions, ask'd
  More easily than answer'd,- that he had tried
    His best to obey in what he had been task'd;
  But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide,
    Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd;
  He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource
  To which embarrass'd people have recourse.

  Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience,
    Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed;
  She liked quick answers in all conversations;
    And when she saw him stumbling like a steed
  In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones;
    And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed,
  Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle,
  And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle.

  When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew
    To bode him no great good, he deprecated
  Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through-
    He could not help the thing which he related:
  Then out it came at length, that to Dudu
    Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated;
  But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on
  The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran.

  The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom
    The discipline of the whole haram bore,
  As soon as they re-enter'd their own room,
    For Baba's function stopt short at the door,
  Had settled all; nor could he then presume
    (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more,
  Without exciting such suspicion as
  Might make the matter still worse than it was.

  He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure
    Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact
  'T was certain that his conduct had been pure,
    Because a foolish or imprudent act
  Would not alone have made him insecure,
    But ended in his being found out and sack'd,
  And thrown into the sea.- Thus Baba spoke
  Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke.

  This he discreetly kept in the background,
    And talk'd away- and might have talk'd till now,
  For any further answer that he found,
    So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow:
  Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round,
    As if she had received a sudden blow,
  And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly
  O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily.

  Although she was not of the fainting sort,
    Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd-
  It was but a convulsion, which though short
    Can never be described; we all have heard,
  And some of us have felt thus 'all amort,'
    When things beyond the common have occurr'd;-
  Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony
  What she could ne'er express- then how should I?

  She stood a moment as a Pythones
    Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full
  Of inspiration gather'd from distress,
    When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull
  The heart asunder;- then, as more or lees
    Their speed abated or their strength grew dull,
  She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,
  And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees.

  Her face declined and was unseen; her hair
    Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,
  Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,
    Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,
  A low soft ottoman), and black despair
    Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow,
  Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check
  Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.

  Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping
    Conceal'd her features better than a veil;
  And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,
    White, waxen, and as alabaster pale:
  Would that I were a painter! to be grouping
    All that a poet drags into detail
  Oh that my words were colours! but their tints
  May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.

  Baba, who knew by experience when to talk
    And when to hold his tongue, now held it till
  This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk
    Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will.
  At length she rose up, and began to walk
    Slowly along the room, but silent still,
  And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye;
  The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

  She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak- but paused,
    And then moved on again with rapid pace;
  Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused
    By deep emotion:- you may sometimes trace
  A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed
    By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased
  By all the demons of all passions, show'd
  Their work even by the way in which he trode.

  Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba:- 'Slave!
    Bring the two slaves!' she said in a low tone,
  But one which Baba did not like to brave,
    And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone
  To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave
    (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown
  What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate,
  For fear of any error, like the late.

  'The Georgian and her paramour,' replied
    The imperial bride- and added, 'Let the boat
  Be ready by the secret portal's side:
    You know the rest.' The words stuck in her throat,
  Despite her injured love and fiery pride;
    And of this Baba willingly took note,
  And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard,
  She would revoke the order he had heard.

  'To hear is to obey,' he said; 'but still,
    Sultana, think upon the consequence:
  It is not that I shall not all fulfil
    Your orders, even in their severest sense;
  But such precipitation may end ill,
    Even at your own imperative expense:
  I do not mean destruction and exposure,
  In case of any premature disclosure;

  'But your own feelings. Even should all the rest
    Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide
  Already many a once love-beaten breast
    Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide-
  You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest,
    And if this violent remedy be tried-
  Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you,
  That killing him is not the way to cure you.'

  'What dost thou know of love or feeling?- Wretch!
    Begone!' she cried, with kindling eyes- 'and do
  My bidding!' Baba vanish'd, for to stretch
    His own remonstrance further he well knew
  Might end in acting as his own 'Jack Ketch;'
    And though he wish'd extremely to get through
  This awkward business without harm to others,
  He still preferr'd his own neck to another's.

  Away he went then upon his commission,
    Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase
  Against all women of whate'er condition,
    Especially sultanas and their ways;
  Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision,
    Their never knowing their own mind two days,
  The trouble that they gave, their immorality,
  Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.

  And then he call'd his brethren to his aid,
    And sent one on a summons to the pair,
  That they must instantly be well array'd,
    And above all be comb'd even to a hair,
  And brought before the empress, who had made
    Inquiries after them with kindest care:
  At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly;
  But go they must at once, and will I- nill I.

  And here I leave them at their preparation
    For the imperial presence, wherein whether
  Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration,
    Or got rid of the parties altogether,
  Like other angry ladies of her nation,-
    Are things the turning of a hair or feather
  May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate
  In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.

  I leave them for the present with good wishes,
    Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange
  Another part of history; for the dishes
    Of this our banquet we must sometimes change;
  And trusting Juan may escape the fishes,
    Although his situation now seems strange
  And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair,
  The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.
               CANTO THE SEVENTH.

  O LOVE! O Glory! what are ye who fly
    Around us ever, rarely to alight?
  There 's not a meteor in the polar sky
    Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
  Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
    Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
  A thousand and a thousand colours they
  Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

  And such as they are, such my present tale is,
    A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
  A versified Aurora Borealis,
    Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
  When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
    But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
  To laugh at all things- for I wish to know
  What, after all, are all things- but a show?

  They accuse me- Me- the present writer of
    The present poem- of- I know not what-
  A tendency to under-rate and scoff
    At human power and virtue, and all that;
  And this they say in language rather rough.
    Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
  I say no more than hath been said in Dante's
  Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

  By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
    By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
  By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
    Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
  'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-
    For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
  Nor even Diogenes.- We live and die,
  But which is best, you know no more than I.

  Socrates said, our only knowledge was
    'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant
  Science enough, which levels to an ass
    Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
  Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
    Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
  That he himself felt only 'like a youth
  Picking up shells by the great ocean- Truth.'

  Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'-
    Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
  By their examples of true Christianity:
    In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
  And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,
    By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet,
  Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife,
  From holding up the nothingness of life?

  Dogs, or men!- for I flatter you in saying
    That ye are dogs- your betters far- ye may
  Read, or read not, what I am now essaying
    To show ye what ye are in every way.
  As little as the moon stops for the baying
    Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray
  From out her skies- then howl your idle wrath!
  While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path.

  'Fierce loves and faithless wars'- I am not sure
    If this be the right reading- 't is no matter;
  The fact 's about the same, I am secure;
    I sing them both, and am about to batter
  A town which did a famous siege endure,
    And was beleaguer'd both by land and water
  By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow,
  Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.

  The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed
    Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank,
  With buildings in the Oriental taste,
    But still a fortress of the foremost rank,
  Or was at least, unless 't is since defaced,
    Which with your conquerors is a common prank:
  It stands some eighty versts from the high sea,
  And measures round of toises thousands three.

  Within the extent of this fortification
    A borough is comprised along the height
  Upon the left, which from its loftier station
    Commands the city, and upon its site
  A Greek had raised around this elevation
    A quantity of palisades upright,
  So placed as to impede the fire of those
  Who held the place, and to assist the foe's.

  This circumstance may serve to give a notion
    Of the high talents of this new Vauban:
  But the town ditch below was deep as ocean,
    The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang:
  But then there was a great want of precaution
    (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang),
  Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there,
  To hint at least 'Here is no thoroughfare.'

  But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,
    And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet;
  Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George,
    Case-mated one, and t' other 'a barbette,'
  Of Danube's bank took formidable charge;
    While two and twenty cannon duly set
  Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier,
  Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

  But from the river the town 's open quite,
    Because the Turks could never be persuaded
  A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight;
    And such their creed was, till they were invaded,
  When it grew rather late to set things right.
    But as the Danube could not well be waded,
  They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla,
  And only shouted, 'Allah!' and 'Bis Millah!'

  The Russians now were ready to attack:
    But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!
  How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque
    Who were immortal, could one tell their story?
  Alas! what to their memory can lack?
    Achilles' self was not more grim and gory
  Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation,
  Whose names want nothing but- pronunciation.

  Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase
    Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff,
  Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece,
    And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff,
  And others of twelve consonants apiece;
    And more might be found out, if I could poke enough
  Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet),
  It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,

  And cannot tune those discords of narration,
    Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme;
  Yet there were several worth commemoration,
    As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime;
  Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration
    Of Londonderry drawling against time,
  Ending in 'ischskin,' 'ousckin,' 'iffskchy,' 'ouski:
  Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski,

  Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti,
    Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin,
  All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high
    Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin:
  Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti,
    Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin
  Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear,
  And no more handy substitute been near.

  Then there were foreigners of much renown,
    Of various nations, and all volunteers;
  Not fighting for their country or its crown,
    But wishing to be one day brigadiers;
  Also to have the sacking of a town,-
    A pleasant thing to young men at their years.
  'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith,
  Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.

  Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest
    Had been call'd 'Jemmy,' after the great bard;
  I don't know whether they had arms or crest,
    But such a godfather 's as good a card.
  Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best
    Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward,
  Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters
  At Halifax;' but now he served the Tartars.

  The rest were jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills;
    But when I 've added that the elder jack Smith
  Was born in Cumberland among the hills,
    And that his father was an honest blacksmith,
  I 've said all I know of a name that fills
    Three lines of the despatch in taking 'Schmacksmith,'
  A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein
  He fell, immortal in a bulletin.

  I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god
    Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin
  May make up for a bullet in his body?
    I hope this little question is no sin,
  Because, though I am but a simple noddy,
    I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in
  The mouth of some one in his plays so doting,
  Which many people pass for wits by quoting.

  Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay:
    But I 'm too great a patriot to record
  Their Gallic names upon a glorious day;
    I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word
  Of truth;- such truths are treason; they betray
    Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd
  Who name the French in English, save to show
  How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe.

  The Russians, having built two batteries on
    An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view;
  The first was to bombard it, and knock down
    The public buildings and the private too,
  No matter what poor souls might be undone.
    The city's shape suggested this, 't is true;
  Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling
  Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in.

  The second object was to profit by
    The moment of the general consternation,
  To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh
    Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station:
  But a third motive was as probably
    To frighten them into capitulation;
  A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors,
  Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers.

  A habit rather blamable, which is
    That of despising those we combat with,
  Common in many cases, was in this
    The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith;
  One of the valorous 'Smiths' whom we shall miss
    Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 'pith;'
  But 't is a name so spread o'er 'Sir' and 'Madam,'
  That one would think the first who bore it 'Adam.'

  The Russian batteries were incomplete,
    Because they were constructed in a hurry;
  Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet,
    And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray,
  When the sale of new books is not so fleet
    As they who print them think is necessary,
  May likewise put off for a time what story
  Sometimes calls 'murder,' and at others 'glory.'

  Whether it was their engineer's stupidity,
    Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care,
  Or some contractor's personal cupidity,
    Saving his soul by cheating in the ware
  Of homicide, but there was no solidity
    In the new batteries erected there;
  They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd,
  And added greatly to the missing list.

  A sad miscalculation about distance
    Made all their naval matters incorrect;
  Three fireships lost their amiable existence
    Before they reach'd a spot to take effect:
  The match was lit too soon, and no assistance
    Could remedy this lubberly defect;
  They blew up in the middle of the river,
  While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.

  At seven they rose, however, and survey'd
    The Russ flotilla getting under way;
  'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd,
    Within a cable's length their vessels lay
  Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade,
    Which was return'd with interest, I may say,
  And by a fire of musketry and grape,
  And shells and shot of every size and shape.

  For six hours bore they without intermission
    The Turkish fire, and aided by their own
  Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision:
    At length they found mere cannonade alone
  By no means would produce the town's submission,
    And made a signal to retreat at one.
  One bark blew up, a second near the works
  Running aground, was taken by the Turks.

  The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men;
    But when they saw the enemy retire,
  Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again,
    And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire,
  And tried to make a landing on the main;
    But here the effect fell short of their desire:
  Count Damas drove them back into the water
  Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.

  'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report
    All that the Russians did upon this day,
  I think that several volumes would fall short,
    And I should still have many things to say;'
  And so he says no more- but pays his court
    To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray;
  The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas,
  Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.

  This being the case, may show us what Fame is:
    For out of these three 'preux Chevaliers,' how
  Many of common readers give a guess
    That such existed? (and they may live now
  For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss;
    There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow.
  'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne
  Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen.

  But here are men who fought in gallant actions
    As gallantly as ever heroes fought,
  But buried in the heap of such transactions
    Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.
  Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions,
    And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought:
  Of all our modern battles, I will bet
  You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette.

  In short, this last attack, though rich in glory,
    Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault,
  And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)
    Most strongly recommended an assault;
  In which he was opposed by young and hoary,
    Which made a long debate; but I must halt,
  For if I wrote down every warrior's speech,
  I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach.

  There was a man, if that he was a man,
    Not that his manhood could be call'd in question,
  For had he not been Hercules, his span
    Had been as short in youth as indigestion
  Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan,
    He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on
  The soil of the green province he had wasted,
  As e'er was locust on the land it blasted.

  This was Potemkin- a great thing in days
    When homicide and harlotry made great;
  If stars and titles could entail long praise,
    His glory might half equal his estate.
  This fellow, being six foot high, could raise
    A kind of phantasy proportionate
  In the then sovereign of the Russian people,
  Who measured men as you would do a steeple.

  While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent
    A courier to the prince, and he succeeded
  In ordering matters after his own bent;
    I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded,
  But shortly he had cause to be content.
    In the mean time, the batteries proceeded,
  And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border
  Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order.

  But on the thirteenth, when already part
    Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise,
  A courier on the spur inspired new heart
    Into all panters for newspaper praise,
  As well as dilettanti in war's art,
    By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase;
  Announcing the appointment of that lover of
  Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.

  The letter of the prince to the same marshal
    Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause
  Been one to which a good heart could be partial-
    Defence of freedom, country, or of laws;
  But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all
    With its proud brow, it merits slight applause,
  Save for its style, which said, all in a trice,
  'You will take Ismail at whatever price.'

  'Let there be light! said God, and there was light!'
    'Let there be blood!' says man, and there 's a seal
  The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night
    (For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree
  More evil in an hour, than thirty bright
    Summers could renovate, though they should be
  Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit;
  For war cuts up not only branch, but root.

  Our friends the Turks, who with loud 'Allahs' now
    Began to signalise the Russ retreat,
  Were damnably mistaken; few are slow
    In thinking that their enemy is beat
  (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though
    I never think about it in a heat),
  But here I say the Turks were much mistaken,
  Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon.

  For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew
    In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques
  For some time, till they came in nearer view.
    They had but little baggage at their backs,
  For there were but three shirts between the two;
    But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks,
  Till, in approaching, were at length descried
  In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide.

  'Great joy to London now!' says some great fool,
    When London had a grand illumination,
  Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull,
    Is of all dreams the first hallucination;
  So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full,
    That Sage (said john) surrenders at discretion
  His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense,
  To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.

  'T is strange that he should farther 'damn his eyes,'
    For they are damn'd; that once all-famous oath
  Is to the devil now no farther prize,
    Since John has lately lost the use of both.
  Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise;
    And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth,
  Which stare him in the face, he won't examine,
  Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine.

  But to the tale:- great joy unto the camp!
    To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque,
  O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp,
    Presaging a most luminous attack;
  Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp,
    Which leads beholders on a boggy walk,
  He flitted to and fro a dancing light,
  Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right.

  But certes matters took a different face;
    There was enthusiasm and much applause,
  The fleet and camp saluted with great grace,
    And all presaged good fortune to their cause.
  Within a cannon-shot length of the place
    They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws
  In former works, made new, prepared fascines,
  And all kinds of benevolent machines.

  'T is thus the spirit of a single mind
    Makes that of multitudes take one direction,
  As roll the waters to the breathing wind,
    Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection;
  Or as a little dog will lead the blind,
    Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection
  By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual;
  Such is the sway of your great men o'er little.

  The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought
    That they were going to a marriage feast
  (This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught,
    Since there is discord after both at least):
  There was not now a luggage boy but sought
    Danger and spoil with ardour much increased;
  And why? because a little- odd- old man,
  Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van.

  But so it was; and every preparation
    Was made with all alacrity: the first
  Detachment of three columns took its station,
    And waited but the signal's voice to burst
  Upon the foe: the second's ordination
    Was also in three columns, with a thirst
  For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter:
  The third, in columns two, attack'd by water.

  New batteries were erected, and was held
    A general council, in which unanimity,
  That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd,
    As sometimes happens in a great extremity;
  And every difficulty being dispell'd,
    Glory began to dawn with due sublimity,
  While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it,
  Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet

  It is an actual fact, that he, commander
    In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill
  The awkward squad, and could afford to squander
    His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil:
  Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander
    To swallow flame, and never take it ill:
  He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which
  Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch.

  Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines
    Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks,
  And made them charge with bayonet these machines,
    By way of lesson against actual Turks:
  And when well practised in these mimic scenes,
    He judged them proper to assail the works;
  At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases witty:
  He made no answer; but he took the city.

  Most things were in this posture on the eve
    Of the assault, and all the camp was in
  A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive;
    Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin
  Are very silent when they once believe
    That all is settled:- there was little din,
  For some were thinking of their home and friends,
  And others of themselves and latter ends.

  Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert,
    Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering;
  For the man was, we safely may assert,
    A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering;
  Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt,
    Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering;
  Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm
  A fortress, Harlequin in uniform.

  The day before the assault, while upon drill-
    For this great conqueror play'd the corporal-
  Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill,
    Had met a party towards the twilight's fall,
  One of whom spoke their tongue- or well or ill,
    'T was much that he was understood at all;
  But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner,
  They found that he had fought beneath their banner.

  Whereon immediately at his request
    They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters;
  Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd
    That these were merely masquerading Tartars,
  And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest
    Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes barters
  Her inward grace for outward show, and makes
  It difficult to shun some strange mistakes.

  Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt
    Before a company of Calmucks, drilling,
  Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert,
    And lecturing on the noble art of killing,-
  For deeming human clay but common dirt,
    This great philosopher was thus instilling
  His maxims, which to martial comprehension
  Proved death in battle equal to a pension;-

  Suwarrow, when he saw this company
    Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and cast
  Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye:-
    'Whence come ye?'- 'From Constantinople last,
  Captives just now escaped,' was the reply.
    'What are ye?'- 'What you see us.' Briefly pass'd
  This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew
  To whom he spoke, and made his words but few.

  'Your names?'- 'Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade 's Juan;
    The other two are women, and the third
  Is neither man nor woman.' The chief threw on
    The party a slight glance, then said, 'I have heard
  Your name before, the second is a new one:
    To bring the other three here was absurd:
  But let that pass:- I think I have heard your name
  In the Nikolaiew regiment?'- 'The same.'

  'You served at Widdin?'- 'Yes.'- 'You led the attack?'
    'I did.'- 'What next?'- 'I really hardly know.'
  'You were the first i' the breach?'- 'I was not slack
    At least to follow those who might be so.'
  'What follow'd?'- 'A shot laid me on my back,
    And I became a prisoner to the foe.'
  'You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded
  Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded.

  'Where will you serve?'- 'Where'er you please.'- 'I know
    You like to be the hope of the forlorn,
  And doubtless would be foremost on the foe
    After the hardships you 've already borne.
  And this young fellow- say what can he do?
    He with the beardless chin and garments torn?'
  'Why, general, if he hath no greater fault
  In war than love, he had better lead the assault.'

  'He shall if that he dare.' Here Juan bow'd
    Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow
  Continued: 'Your old regiment's allow'd,
    By special providence, to lead to-morrow,
  Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vow'd
    To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow
  Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk
  Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque.

  'So now, my lads, for glory!'- Here he turn'd
    And drill'd away in the most classic Russian,
  Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd
    For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion
  A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd
    All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on
  To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering
  The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.

  Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy
    Himself a favourite, ventured to address
  Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high
    In his resumed amusement. 'I confess
  My debt in being thus allow'd to die
    Among the foremost; but if you 'd express
  Explicitly our several posts, my friend
  And self would know what duty to attend.'

  'Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you
    Will join your former regiment, which should be
  Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to
    (Here he call'd up a Polish orderly)
  His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew:
    The stranger stripling may remain with me;
  He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent
  To the other baggage, or to the sick tent.'

  But here a sort of scene began to ensue:
    The ladies,- who by no means had been bred
  To be disposed of in a way so new,
    Although their haram education led
  Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true,
    Passive obedience,- now raised up the head,
  With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung
  Their arms, as hens their wings about their young,

  O'er the promoted couple of brave men
    Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief
  That ever peopled hell with heroes slain,
    Or plunged a province or a realm in grief.
  Oh, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain!
    Oh, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf
  Of thine imaginary deathless tree,
  Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.

  Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears,
    And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd
  The women with their hair about their ears
    And natural agonies, with a slight shade
  Of feeling: for however habit sears
    Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade
  Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow
  Will touch even heroes- and such was Suwarrow.

  He said,- and in the kindest Calmuck tone,-
    'Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean
  By bringing women here? They shall be shown
    All the attention possible, and seen
  In safety to the waggons, where alone
    In fact they can be safe. You should have been
  Aware this kind of baggage never thrives:
  Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.'

  'May it please your excellency,' thus replied
    Our British friend, 'these are the wives of others,
  And not our own. I am too qualified
    By service with my military brothers
  To break the rules by bringing one's own bride
    Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers
  The hearts of the heroic on a charge,
  As leaving a small family at large.

  'But these are but two Turkish ladies, who
    With their attendant aided our escape,
  And afterwards accompanied us through
    A thousand perils in this dubious shape.
  To me this kind of life is not so new;
    To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape.
  I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely,
  Request that they may both be used genteelly.'

  Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes,
    Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust
  Their own protectors; nor was their surprise
    Less than their grief (and truly not less just)
  To see an old man, rather wild than wise
    In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust,
  Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean,
  More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen.

  For every thing seem'd resting on his nod,
    As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
  Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god,
    To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,
  Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad
    (That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem),
  With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt
  How power could condescend to do without.

  John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay,
    Though little versed in feelings oriental,
  Suggested some slight comfort in his way:
    Don Juan, who was much more sentimental,
  Swore they should see him by the dawn of day,
    Or that the Russian army should repent all:
  And, strange to say, they found some consolation
  In this- for females like exaggeration.

  And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses,
    They parted for the present- these to await,
  According to the artillery's hits or misses,
    What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate
  (Uncertainty is one of many blisses,
    A mortgage on Humanity's estate)-
  While their beloved friends began to arm,
  To burn a town which never did them harm.

  Suwarrow,- who but saw things in the gross,
    Being much too gross to see them in detail,
  Who calculated life as so much dross,
    And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail,
  And cared as little for his army's loss
    (So that their efforts should at length prevail)
  As wife and friends did for the boils of job,-
  What was 't to him to hear two women sob?

  Nothing.- The work of glory still went on
    In preparations for a cannonade
  As terrible as that of Ilion,
    If Homer had found mortars ready made;
  But now, instead of slaying Priam's son,
    We only can but talk of escalade,
  Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets,-
  Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets.

  Oh, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm
    All cars, though long; all ages, though so short,
  By merely wielding with poetic arm
    Arms to which men will never more resort,
  Unless gunpowder should be found to harm
    Much less than is the hope of every court,
  Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy;
  But they will not find Liberty a Troy:-

  Oh, thou eternal Homer! I have now
    To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain,
  With deadlier engines and a speedier blow,
    Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign;
  And yet, like all men else, I must allow,
    To vie with thee would be about as vain
  As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood;
  But still we moderns equal you in blood;

  If not in poetry, at least in fact;
    And fact is truth, the grand desideratum!
  Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act,
    There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum.
  But now the town is going to be attack'd;
    Great deeds are doing- how shall I relate 'em?
  Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches
  To colour up his rays from your despatches.

  Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte!
    Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded!
  Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty,
    When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded!
  Oh, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye
    Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded)
  A portion of your fading twilight hues,
  So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse.

  When I call 'fading' martial immortality,
    I mean, that every age and every year,
  And almost every day, in sad reality,
    Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear,
  Who, when we come to sum up the totality
    Of deeds to human happiness most dear,
  Turns out to be a butcher in great business,
  Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness.

  Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet,
    Are things immortal to immortal man,
  As purple to the Babylonian harlot:
    An uniform to boys is like a fan
  To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet
    But deems himself the first in Glory's van.
  But Glory's glory; and if you would find
  What that is- ask the pig who sees the wind!

  At least he feels it, and some say he sees,
    Because he runs before it like a pig;
  Or, if that simple sentence should displease,
    Say, that he scuds before it like a brig,
  A schooner, or- but it is time to ease
    This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue.
  The next shall ring a peal to shake all people,
  Like a bob-major from a village steeple.

  Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,
    The hum of armies gathering rank on rank!
  Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight
    Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank
  Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light
    The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,
  Which curl in curious wreaths:- how soon the smoke
  Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!

  Here pause we for the present- as even then
    That awful pause, dividing life from death,
  Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,
    Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!
  A moment- and all will be life again!
    The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith!
  Hurra! and Allah! and- one moment more,
  The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.
                 CANTO THE EIGHTH.

  OH blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
    These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
  Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
    And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
  Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
    At present such things, since they are her theme,
  So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
  Bellona, what you will- they mean but wars.

  All was prepared- the fire, the sword, the men
    To wield them in their terrible array.
  The army, like a lion from his den,
    March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,-
  A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
    To breathe destruction on its winding way,
  Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
  Immediately in others grew again.

  History can only take things in the gross;
    But could we know them in detail, perchance
  In balancing the profit and the loss,
    War's merit it by no means might enhance,
  To waste so much gold for a little dross,
    As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
  The drying up a single tear has more
  Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

  And why?- because it brings self-approbation;
    Whereas the other, after all its glare,
  Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
    Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
  A higher title, or a loftier station,
    Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
  Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
  Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.

  And such they are- and such they will be found:
    Not so Leonidas and Washington,
  Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
    Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
  How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
    While the mere victor's may appal or stun
  The servile and the vain, such names will be
  A watchword till the future shall be free.

  The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd
    Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
  Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud,
    And in the Danube's waters shone the same-
  A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud
    Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
  The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes
  Spare, or smite rarely- man's make millions ashes!

  The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd
    Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises,
  When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
    Answering the Christian thunders with like voices:
  Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
    Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises;
  While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when
  The restless Titan hiccups in his den.

  And one enormous shout of 'Allah!' rose
    In the same moment, loud as even the roar
  Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes
    Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore
  Resounded 'Allah!' and the clouds which close
    With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er,
  Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through
  All sounds it pierceth 'Allah! Allah! Hu!'

  The columns were in movement one and all,
    But of the portion which attack'd by water,
  Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,
    Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter,
  As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.
    'Carnage' (so Wordsworth tells you) 'is God's daughter:'
  If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and
  Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.

  The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee;
    Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between
  His cap and head, which proves the head to be
    Aristocratic as was ever seen,
  Because it then received no injury
    More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean
  No harm unto a right legitimate head:
  'Ashes to ashes'- why not lead to lead?

  Also the General Markow, Brigadier,
    Insisting on removal of the prince
  Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,-
    All common fellows, who might writhe and wince,
  And shriek for water into a deaf ear,-
    The General Markow, who could thus evince
  His sympathy for rank, by the same token,
  To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.

  Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
    And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
  Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.
    Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills;
  Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
    Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
  Past, present, and to come;- but all may yield
  To the true portrait of one battle-field.

  There the still varying pangs, which multiply
    Until their very number makes men hard
  By the infinities of agony,
    Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard-
  The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
    Turn'd back within its socket,- these reward
  Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
  May win perhaps a riband at the breast!

  Yet I love glory;- glory 's a great thing:-
    Think what it is to be in your old age
  Maintain'd at the expense of your good king:
    A moderate pension shakes full many a sage,
  And heroes are but made for bards to sing,
    Which is still better; thus in verse to wage
  Your wars eternally, besides enjoying
  Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.

  The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on
    To take a battery on the right; the others,
  Who landed lower down, their landing done,
    Had set to work as briskly as their brothers:
  Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one,
    Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,
  O'er the entrenchment and the palisade,
  Quite orderly, as if upon parade.

  And this was admirable; for so hot
    The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded,
  Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot
    And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.
  Of officers a third fell on the spot,
    A thing which victory by no means boded
  To gentlemen engaged in the assault:
  Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.

  But here I leave the general concern,
    To track our hero on his path of fame:
  He must his laurels separately earn;
    For fifty thousand heroes, name by name,
  Though all deserving equally to turn
    A couplet, or an elegy to claim,
  Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,
  And what is worse still, a much longer story:

  And therefore we must give the greater number
    To the Gazette- which doubtless fairly dealt
  By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber
    In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt
  Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;-
    Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
  In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
  Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.

  Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
    And fought away with might and main, not knowing
  The way which they had never trod before,
    And still less guessing where they might be going;
  But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er,
    Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,
  But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win,
  To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.

  Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire
    Of dead and dying thousands,- sometimes gaining
  A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher
    To some odd angle for which all were straining;
  At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
    Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining
  Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er
  A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.

  Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though
    The nightly muster and the silent march
  In the chill dark, when courage does not glow
    So much as under a triumphal arch,
  Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw
    A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch,
  Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;-
  Yet for all this he did not run away.

  Indeed he could not. But what if he had?
    There have been and are heroes who begun
  With something not much better, or as bad:
    Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run,
  For the first and last time; for, like a pad,
    Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
  Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
  And fight like fiends for pay or politics.

  He was what Erin calls, in her sublime
    Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
  (The antiquarians who can settle time,
    Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic,
  Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime
    With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic
  Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational
  As any other notion, and not national);-

  But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,'
    A thing of impulse and a child of song;
  Now swimming in the sentiment of joy,
    Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong),
  And afterward, if he must needs destroy,
    In such good company as always throng
  To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure,
  No less delighted to employ his leisure;

  But always without malice: if he warr'd
    Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best
  Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card,
    To be produced when brought up to the test.
  The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer- ward
    Off each attack, when people are in quest
  Of their designs, by saying they meant well;
  'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave hell.'

  I almost lately have begun to doubt
    Whether hell's pavement- if it be so paved-
  Must not have latterly been quite worn out,
    Not by the numbers good intent hath saved,
  But by the mass who go below without
    Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved
  And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell
  Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.

  Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides
    Warrior from warrior in their grim career,
  Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides
    Just at the close of the first bridal year,
  By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides,
    Was on a sudden rather puzzled here,
  When, after a good deal of heavy firing,
  He found himself alone, and friends retiring.

  I don't know how the thing occurr'd- it might
    Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded,
  And that the rest had faced unto the right
    About; a circumstance which has confounded
  Caesar himself, who, in the very sight
    Of his whole army, which so much abounded
  In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield,
  And rally back his Romans to the field.

  Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was
    No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought
  He knew not why, arriving at this pass,
    Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought
  For a much longer time; then, like an as
    (Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought
  This simile enough for Ajax, Juan
  Perhaps may find it better than a new one)-

  Then, like an ass, he went upon his way,
    And, what was stranger, never look'd behind;
  But seeing, flashing forward, like the day
    Over the hills, a fire enough to blind
  Those who dislike to look upon a fray,
    He stumbled on, to try if he could find
  A path, to add his own slight arm and forces
  To corps, the greater part of which were corses.

  Perceiving then no more the commandant
    Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had
  Quite disappear'd- the gods know howl (I can't
    Account for every thing which may look bad
  In history; but we at least may grant
    It was not marvellous that a mere lad,
  In search of glory, should look on before,
  Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):-

  Perceiving nor commander nor commanded,
    And left at large, like a young heir, to make
  His way to- where he knew not- single handed;
    As travellers follow over bog and brake
  An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded
    Unto the nearest hut themselves betake;
  So Juan, following honour and his nose,
  Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.

  He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared,
    For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins
  Fill'd as with lightning- for his spirit shared
    The hour, as is the case with lively brains;
  And where the hottest fire was seen and heard,
    And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains,
  He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken
  By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!

  And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he
    Fell in with what was late the second column,
  Under the orders of the General Lascy,
    But now reduced, as is a bulky volume
  Into an elegant extract (much less massy)
    Of heroism, and took his place with solemn
  Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces
  And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.

  Just at this crisis up came Johnson too,
    Who had 'retreated,' as the phrase is when
  Men run away much rather than go through
    Destruction's jaws into the devil's den;
  But Johnson was a clever fellow, who
    Knew when and how 'to cut and come again,'
  And never ran away, except when running
  Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.

  And so, when all his corps were dead or dying,
    Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose
  More virgin valour never dreamt of flying
    From ignorance of danger, which indues
  Its votaries, like innocence relying
    On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,-
  Johnson retired a little, just to rally
  Those who catch cold in 'shadows of Death's valley.'

  And there, a little shelter'd from the shot,
    Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet,
  Rampart, wall, casement, house,- for there was not
    In this extensive city, sore beset
  By Christian soldiery, a single spot
    Which did not combat like the devil, as yet,
  He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd
  By the resistance of the chase they batter'd.

  And these he call'd on; and, what 's strange, they came
    Unto his call, unlike 'the spirits from
  The vasty deep,' to whom you may exclaim,
    Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.
  Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame
    At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb,
  And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds
  Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.

  By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson,
    And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles,
  Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon
    We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his
  Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon
    Her steady breath (which some months the same still is):
  Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle,
  And could be very busy without bustle;

  And therefore, when he ran away, he did so
    Upon reflection, knowing that behind
  He would find others who would fain be rid so
    Of idle apprehensions, which like wind
  Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so
    Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind,
  But when they light upon immediate death,
  Retire a little, merely to take breath.

  But Johnson only ran off, to return
    With many other warriors, as we said,
  Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn,
    Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.
  To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern:
    His soul (like galvanism upon the dead)
  Acted upon the living as on wire,
  And led them back into the heaviest fire.

  Egad! they found the second time what they
    The first time thought quite terrible enough
  To fly from, malgre all which people say
    Of glory, and all that immortal stuff
  Which fills a regiment (besides their pay,
    That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)-
  They found on their return the self-same welcome,
  Which made some think, and others know, a hell come.

  They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail,
    Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle,
  Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail
    As any other boon for which men stickle.
  The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail,
    Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle
  Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd
  Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd.

  The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks
    Of the next bastion, fired away like devils,
  And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks:
    However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels
  Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks,
    So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels,
  That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd,
  Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart.

  First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen,
    Came mounting quickly up, for it was now
  All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,
    Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below,
  So that you scarce could say who best had chosen,
    The gentlemen that were the first to show
  Their martial faces on the parapet,
  Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.

  But those who scaled, found out that their advance
    Was favour'd by an accident or blunder:
  The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance
    Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder
  To see in forts of Netherlands or France
    (Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)-
  Right in the middle of the parapet
  Just named, these palisades were primly set:

  So that on either side some nine or ten
    Paces were left, whereon you could contrive
  To march; a great convenience to our men,
    At least to all those who were left alive,
  Who thus could form a line and fight again;
    And that which farther aided them to strive
  Was, that they could kick down the palisades,
  Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.

  Among the first,- I will not say the first,
    For such precedence upon such occasions
  Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst
    Out between friends as well as allied nations:
  The Briton must be bold who really durst
    Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience,
  As say that Wellington at Waterloo
  Was beaten- though the Prussians say so too;-

  And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau,
    And God knows who besides in 'au' and 'ow,'
  Had not come up in time to cast an awe
    Into the hearts of those who fought till now
  As tigers combat with an empty craw,
    The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show
  His orders, also to receive his pensions,
  Which are the heaviest that our history mentions.

  But never mind;- 'God save the king!' and kings!
    For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer-
  I think I hear a little bird, who sings
    The people by and by will be the stronger:
  The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings
    So much into the raw as quite to wrong her
  Beyond the rules of posting,- and the mob
  At last fall sick of imitating Job.

  At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then,
    Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant;
  At last it takes to weapons such as men
    Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant.
  Then comes 'the tug of war;'- 't will come again,
    I rather doubt; and I would fain say 'fie on 't,'
  If I had not perceived that revolution
  Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution.

  But to continue:- I say not the first,
    But of the first, our little friend Don Juan
  Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed
    Amidst such scenes- though this was quite a new one
  To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst
    Of glory, which so pierces through and through one,
  Pervaded him- although a generous creature,
  As warm in heart as feminine in feature.

  And here he was- who upon woman's breast,
    Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er
  The man in all the rest might be confest,
    To him it was Elysium to be there;
  And he could even withstand that awkward test
    Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair,
  'Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;'
  But Juan never left them, while they had charms,

  Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind,
    Or near relations, who are much the same.
  But here he was!- where each tie that can bind
    Humanity must yield to steel and flame:
  And he whose very body was all mind,
    Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame
  The loftiest, hurried by the time and place,
  Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race.

  So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance,
    As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate,
  Or double post and rail, where the existence
    Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight,
  The lightest being the safest: at a distance
    He hated cruelty, as all men hate
  Blood, until heated- and even then his own
  At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan.

  The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd,
    Seeing arrive an aid so opportune
  As were some hundred youngsters all abreast,
    Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon,
  To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd
    His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon,
  Not reckoning him to be a 'base Bezonian'
  (As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian.

  Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew
    As much of German as of Sanscrit, and
  In answer made an inclination to
    The general who held him in command;
  For seeing one with ribands, black and blue,
    Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand,
  Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank,
  He recognised an officer of rank.

  Short speeches pass between two men who speak
    No common language; and besides, in time
  Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek
    Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime
  Is perpetrated ere a word can break
    Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime
  In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer,
  There cannot be much conversation there.

  And therefore all we have related in
    Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute;
  But in the same small minute, every sin
    Contrived to get itself comprised within it.
  The very cannon, deafen'd by the din,
    Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet,
  As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise
  Of human nature's agonising voice!

  The town was enter'd. Oh eternity!-
    'God made the country and man made the town,'
  So Cowper says- and I begin to be
    Of his opinion, when I see cast down
  Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh,
    All walls men know, and many never known;
  And pondering on the present and the past,
  To deem the woods shall be our home at last

  Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
    Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
  Of the great names which in our faces stare,
    The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky,
  Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
    For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
  Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
  Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.

  Crime came not near him- she is not the child
    Of solitude; Health shrank not from him- for
  Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,
    Where if men seek her not, and death be more
  Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
    By habit to what their own hearts abhor-
  In cities caged. The present case in point I
  Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;

  And what 's still stranger, left behind a name
    For which men vainly decimate the throng,
  Not only famous, but of that good fame,
    Without which glory 's but a tavern song-
  Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
    Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong;
  An active hermit, even in age the child
  Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild.

  'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation,
    When they built up unto his darling trees,-
  He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
    Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
  The inconvenience of civilisation
    Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please;
  But where he met the individual man,
  He show'd himself as kind as mortal can.

  He was not all alone: around him grew
    A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
  Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new,
    Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace
  On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view
    A frown on Nature's or on human face;
  The free-born forest found and kept them free,
  And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.

  And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they,
    Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions,
  Because their thoughts had never been the prey
    Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions;
  No sinking spirits told them they grew grey,
    No fashion made them apes of her distortions;
  Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles,
  Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.

  Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,
    And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;
  Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;
    Corruption could not make their hearts her soil;
  The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,
    With the free foresters divide no spoil;
  Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
  Of this unsighing people of the woods.

  So much for Nature:- by way of variety,
    Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation!
  And the sweet consequence of large society,
    War, pestilence, the despot's desolation,
  The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety,
    The millions slain by soldiers for their ration,
  The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore,
  With Ismail's storm to soften it the more.

  The town was enter'd: first one column made
    Its sanguinary way good- then another;
  The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade
    Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother
  With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid:
    Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother
  The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot
  The madden'd Turks their city still dispute.

  Koutousow, he who afterward beat back
    (With some assistance from the frost and snow)
  Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,
    It happen'd was himself beat back just now;
  He was a jolly fellow, and could crack
    His jest alike in face of friend or foe,
  Though life, and death, and victory were at stake;
  But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take:

  For having thrown himself into a ditch,
    Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers,
  Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,
    He climb'd to where the parapet appears;
  But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch
    ('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
  Was much regretted), for the Moslem men
  Threw them all down into the ditch again.

  And had it not been for some stray troops landing
    They knew not where, being carried by the stream
  To some spot, where they lost their understanding,
    And wander'd up and down as in a dream,
  Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding,
    That which a portal to their eyes did seem,-
  The great and gay Koutousow might have lain
  Where three parts of his column yet remain.

  And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops,
    After the taking of the 'Cavalier,'
  Just as Koutousow's most 'forlorn' of 'hopes'
    Took like chameleons some slight tinge of fear,
  Open'd the gate call'd 'Kilia,' to the groups
    Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near,
  Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud,
  Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood.

  The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques
    (I don't much pique myself upon orthography,
  So that I do not grossly err in facts,
    Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)-
  Having been used to serve on horses' backs,
    And no great dilettanti in topography
  Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases
  Their chiefs to order,- were all cut to pieces.

  Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
    Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,
  And naturally thought they could have plunder'd
    The city, without being farther hamper'd;
  But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd-
    The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd,
  Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,
  From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners.

  Then being taken by the tail- a taking
    Fatal to bishops as to soldiers- these
  Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking,
    And found their lives were let at a short lease-
  But perish'd without shivering or shaking,
    Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses,
  O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi
  March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:-

  This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met,
    But could not eat them, being in his turn
  Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,
    Without resistance, see their city burn.
  The walls were won, but 't was an even bet
    Which of the armies would have cause to mourn:
  'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
  For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch.

  Another column also suffer'd much:-
    And here we may remark with the historian,
  You should but give few cartridges to such
    Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on:
  When matters must be carried by the touch
    Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on,
  They sometimes, with a hankering for existence,
  Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.

  A junction of the General Meknop's men
    (Without the General, who had fallen some time
  Before, being badly seconded just then)
    Was made at length with those who dared to climb
  The death-disgorging rampart once again;
    And though the Turk's resistance was sublime,
  They took the bastion, which the Seraskier
  Defended at a price extremely dear.

  Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers,
    Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter,
  A word which little suits with Seraskiers,
    Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar.
  He died, deserving well his country's tears,
    A savage sort of military martyr.
  An English naval officer, who wish'd
  To make him prisoner, was also dish'd:

  For all the answer to his proposition
    Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead;
  On which the rest, without more intermission,
    Began to lay about with steel and lead-
  The pious metals most in requisition
    On such occasions: not a single head
  Was spared;- three thousand Moslems perish'd here,
  And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.

  The city 's taken- only part by part-
    And death is drunk with gore: there 's not a street
  Where fights not to the last some desperate heart
    For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.
  Here War forgot his own destructive art
    In more destroying Nature; and the heat
  Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime,
  Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime.

  A Russian officer, in martial tread
    Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel
  Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head
    Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel:
  In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled,
    And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal-
  The teeth still kept their gratifying hold,
  As do the subtle snakes described of old.

  A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot
    Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit
  The very tendon which is most acute
    (That which some ancient Muse or modern wit
  Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't
    He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it
  Even with his life- for (but they lie) 't is said
  To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.

  However this may be, 't is pretty sure
    The Russian officer for life was lamed,
  For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer,
    And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd:
  The regimental surgeon could not cure
    His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed
  More than the head of the inveterate foe,
  Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.

  But then the fact 's a fact- and 't is the part
    Of a true poet to escape from fiction
  Whene'er he can; for there is little art
    In leaving verse more free from the restriction
  Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart
    For what is sometimes called poetic diction,
  And that outrageous appetite for lies
  Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.

  The city 's taken, but not render'd!- No!
    There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
  The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow
    Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word
  Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
    In vain the yell of victory is roar'd
  By the advancing Muscovite- the groan
  Of the last foe is echoed by his own.

  The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
    And human lives are lavish'd everywhere,
  As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves
    When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air,
  And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves,
    Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
  But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,
  As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.

  It is an awful topic- but 't is not
    My cue for any time to be terrific:
  For checker'd as is seen our human lot
    With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific
  Of melancholy merriment, to quote
    Too much of one sort would be soporific;-
  Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
  I sketch your world exactly as it goes.

  And one good action in the midst of crimes
    Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase
  Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,
    With all their pretty milk-and-water ways,
  And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,
    A little scorch'd at present with the blaze
  Of conquest and its consequences, which
  Make epic poesy so rare and rich.

  Upon a taken bastion, where there lay
    Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group
  Of murder'd women, who had found their way
    To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
  And shudder;- while, as beautiful as May,
    A female child of ten years tried to stoop
  And hide her little palpitating breast
  Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.

  Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child
    With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them,
  The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild
    Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,-
  The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
    And whom for this at last must we condemn?
  Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ
  All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?

  Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head,
    Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright,
  Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
    When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,
  I shall not say exactly what he said,
    Because it might not solace 'ears polite;'
  But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
  The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

  One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
    And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
  If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
    The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
  Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
    As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
  Don Juan raised his little captive from
  The heap a moment more had made her tomb.

  And she was chill as they, and on her face
    A slender streak of blood announced how near
  Her fate had been to that of all her race;
    For the same blow which laid her mother here
  Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace,
    As the last link with all she had held dear;
  But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes,
  And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.

  Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd
    Upon each other, with dilated glance,
  In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd
    With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
  Unto his protege; while hers, transfix'd
    With infant terrors, glared as from a trance,
  A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face,
  Like to a lighted alabaster vase;-

  Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Jack,'
    For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace
  On great occasions, such as an attack
    On cities, as hath been the present case):
  Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back,
    Exclaiming;- 'Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace
  Your arm, and I 'll bet Moscow to a dollar
  That you and I will win St. George's collar.

  'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head,
    But the stone bastion still remains, wherein
  The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead,
    Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din
  Of our artillery and his own: 't is said
    Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin,
  Lie round the battery; but still it batters,
  And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.

  'Then up with me!'- But Juan answer'd, 'Look
    Upon this child- I saved her- must not leave
  Her life to chance; but point me out some nook
    Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve,
  And I am with you.'- Whereon Johnson took
    A glance around- and shrugg'd- and twitch'd his sleeve
  And black silk neckcloth- and replied, 'You 're right;
  Poor thing! what 's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite.'

  Said Juan: 'Whatsoever is to be
    Done, I 'll not quit her till she seems secure
  Of present life a good deal more than we.'
    Quoth Johnson: 'Neither will I quite ensure;
  But at the least you may die gloriously.'
    Juan replied: 'At least I will endure
  Whate'er is to be borne- but not resign
  This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.'

  Johnson said: 'Juan, we 've no time to lose;
    The child 's a pretty child- a very pretty-
  I never saw such eyes- but hark! now choose
    Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;-
  Hark! how the roar increases!- no excuse
    Will serve when there is plunder in a city;-
  I should be loth to march without you, but,
  By God! we 'll be too late for the first cut.'

  But Juan was immovable; until
    Johnson, who really loved him in his way,
  Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill
    Such as he thought the least given up to prey;
  And swearing if the infant came to ill
    That they should all be shot on the next day;
  But if she were deliver'd safe and sound,
  They should at least have fifty rubles round,

  And all allowances besides of plunder
    In fair proportion with their comrades;- then
  Juan consented to march on through thunder,
    Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men:
  And yet the rest rush'd eagerly- no wonder,
    For they were heated by the hope of gain,
  A thing which happens everywhere each day-
  No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.

  And such is victory, and such is man!
    At least nine tenths of what we call so;- God
  May have another name for half we scan
    As human beings, or his ways are odd.
  But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan-
    Or 'sultan,' as the author (to whose nod
  In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call
  This chieftain- somehow would not yield at all:

  But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy,
    That she spawns warriors by the score, where none
  Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy),
    He never would believe the city won
  While courage clung but to a single twig.- Am I
    Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son?
  Neither- but a good, plain, old, temperate man,
  Who fought with his five children in the van.

  To take him was the point. The truly brave,
    When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds,
  Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save;-
    A mixture of wild beasts and demigods
  Are they- now furious as the sweeping wave,
    Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods
  The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
  Compassion breathes along the savage mind.

  But he would not be taken, and replied
    To all the propositions of surrender
  By mowing Christians down on every side,
    As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.
  His five brave boys no less the foe defied;
    Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender,
  As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,
  Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.

  And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who
    Expended all their Eastern phraseology
  In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
    So much less fight as might form an apology
  For them in saving such a desperate foe-
    He hew'd away, like doctors of theology
  When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
  Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.

  Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
    Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
  The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
    Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell,
  And all around were grown exceeding wroth
    At such a pertinacious infidel,
  And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain,
  Which they resisted like a sandy plain

  That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd-
    His second son was levell'd by a shot;
  His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd
    Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot;
  The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd,
    Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
  Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom,
  To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.

  The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,
    As great a scorner of the Nazarene
  As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,
    Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
  Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter
    On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen,
  Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
  Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.

  And what they pleased to do with the young khan
    In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess;
  But doubtless they prefer a fine young man
    To tough old heroes, and can do no less;
  And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we scan
    A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
  For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body,
  You 'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.

  Your houris also have a natural pleasure
    In lopping off your lately married men,
  Before the bridal hours have danced their measure
    And the sad, second moon grows dim again,
  Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure
    To wish him back a bachelor now and then.
  And thus your houri (it may be) disputes
  Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.

  Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,
    Thought not upon the charms of four young brides,
  But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.
    In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
  These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,
    As though there were one heaven and none besides,-
  Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
  And hell, there must at least be six or seven.

  So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,
    That when the very lance was in his heart,
  He shouted 'Allah!' and saw Paradise
    With all its veil of mystery drawn apart,
  And bright eternity without disguise
    On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart:-
  With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried
  In one voluptuous blaze,- and then he died,

  But with a heavenly rapture on his face.
    The good old khan, who long had ceased to see
  Houris, or aught except his florid race
    Who grew like cedars round him gloriously-
  When he beheld his latest hero grace
    The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
  Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast
  A glance on that slain son, his first and last.

  The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
    Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
  Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt!'
    As he before had done. He did not heed
  Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,
    And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed,
  As he look'd down upon his children gone,
  And felt- though done with life- he was alone

  But 't was a transient tremor;- with a spring
    Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,
  As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing
    Against the light wherein she dies: he clung
  Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,
    Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young;
  And throwing back a dim look on his sons,
  In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once.

  'T is strange enough- the rough, tough soldiers, who
    Spared neither sex nor age in their career
  Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,
    And lay before them with his children near,
  Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew,
    Were melted for a moment: though no tear
  Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife,
  They honour'd such determined scorn of life.

  But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,
    Where the chief pacha calmly held his post:
  Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,
    And baffled the assaults of all their host;
  At length he condescended to inquire
    If yet the city's rest were won or lost;
  And being told the latter, sent a bey
  To answer Ribas' summons to give way.

  In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid,
    Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking
  Tobacco on a little carpet;- Troy
    Saw nothing like the scene around:- yet looking
  With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy
    His stern philosophy; but gently stroking
  His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales,
  As if he had three lives, as well as tails.

  The town was taken- whether he might yield
    Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
  His stubborn valour was no future shield.
    Ismail 's no more! The crescent's silver bow
  Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field,
    But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
  Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
  Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.

  All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
    All that the body perpetrates of bad;
  All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
    All that the devil would do if run stark mad;
  All that defies the worst which pen expresses;
    All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
  As hell- mere mortals who their power abuse-
  Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.

  If here and there some transient trait of pity
    Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through
  Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty
    Child, or an aged, helpless man or two-
  What 's this in one annihilated city,
    Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew?
  Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!
  Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.

  Think how the joys of reading a Gazette
    Are purchased by all agonies and crimes:
  Or if these do not move you, don't forget
    Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.
  Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt,
    Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.
  Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story,
  Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.

  But still there is unto a patriot nation,
    Which loves so well its country and its king,
  A subject of sublimest exultation-
    Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing!
  Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation,
    Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling,
  Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne-
  Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.

  But let me put an end unto my theme:
    There was an end of Ismail- hapless town!
  Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
    And redly ran his blushing waters down.
  The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream
    Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
  Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
  Some hundreds breathed- the rest were silent all!

  In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise
    The Russian army upon this occasion,
  A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,
    And therefore worthy of commemoration:
  The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase-
    Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station
  In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual,
  Had made them chaste;- they ravish'd very little.

  Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
    Might here and there occur some violation
  In the other line;- but not to such excess
    As when the French, that dissipated nation,
  Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,
    Except cold weather and commiseration;
  But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
  Were almost as much virgins as before.

  Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark,
    Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste-
  Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark
    Their friends from foes,- besides such things from haste
  Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark
    Of light to save the venerably chaste:
  But six old damsels, each of seventy years,
  Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.

  But on the whole their continence was great;
    So that some disappointment there ensued
  To those who had felt the inconvenient state
    Of 'single blessedness,' and thought it good
  (Since it was not their fault, but only fate,
    To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
  To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
  Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.

  Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
    Were also heard to wonder in the din
  (Widows of forty were these birds long caged)
    'Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!'
  But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
    There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
  But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
  In darkness- I can only hope they did.

  Suwarrow now was conqueror- a match
    For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.
  While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch
    Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd,
  With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch;
    And here exactly follows what he said:-
  'Glory to God and to the Empress!' (Powers
  Eternal! such names mingled!) 'Ismail 's ours.'

  Methinks these are the most tremendous words,
    Since 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,' and 'Upharsin,'
  Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.
    Heaven help me! I 'm but little of a parson:
  What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's,
    Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on
  The fate of nations;- but this Russ so witty
  Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.

  He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,
    Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,
  Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it-
    For I will teach, if possible, the stones
  To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it
    Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;-
  But ye- our children's children! think how we
  Show'd what things were before the world was free!

  That hour is not for us, but 't is for you:
    And as, in the great joy of your millennium,
  You hardly will believe such things were true
    As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em;
  But may their very memory perish too!-
    Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em
  More than you scorn the savages of yore,
  Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

  And when you hear historians talk of thrones,
    And those that sate upon them, let it be
  As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones,
    'And wonder what old world such things could see,
  Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,
    The pleasant riddles of futurity-
  Guessing at what shall happily be hid,
  As the real purpose of a pyramid.

  Reader! I have kept my word,- at least so far
    As the first Canto promised. You have now
  Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war-
    All very accurate, you must allow,
  And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar;
    For I have drawn much less with a long bow
  Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,
  But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,

  With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
    What farther hath befallen or may befall
  The hero of this grand poetic riddle,
    I by and by may tell you, if at all:
  But now I choose to break off in the middle,
    Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall,
  While Juan is sent off with the despatch,
  For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.

  This special honour was conferr'd, because
    He had behaved with courage and humanity-
  Which last men like, when they have time to pause
    From their ferocities produced by vanity.
  His little captive gain'd him some applause
    For saving her amidst the wild insanity
  Of carnage,- and I think he was more glad in her
  Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.

  The Moslem orphan went with her protector,
    For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all
  Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,
    Had perish'd in the field or by the wall:
  Her very place of birth was but a spectre
    Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal
  To prayer was heard no more!- and Juan wept,
  And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.
                CANTO THE NINTH.

  OH, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'- for Fame
    Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
  France could not even conquer your great name,
    But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-
  Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),
    You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
  Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
  Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'

  I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
    In Marinet's affair- in fact, 't was shabby,
  And like some other things won't do to tell
    Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
  Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,
    Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
  But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
  In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

  Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
    Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
  You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,
    A prop not quite so certain as before:
  The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,
    Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
  And Waterloo has made the world your debtor
  (I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

  You are 'the best of cut-throats:'- do not start;
    The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:
  War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
    Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
  If you have acted once a generous part,
    The world, not the world's masters, will decide,
  And I shall be delighted to learn who,
  Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?

  I am no flatterer- you 've supp'd full of flattery:
    They say you like it too- 't is no great wonder.
  He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
    At last may get a little tired of thunder;
  And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
    May like being praised for every lucky blunder,
  Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'- not yet saved,
  And 'Europe's Liberator'- still enslaved.

  I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate
    Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,
  And send the sentinel before your gate
    A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
  He fought, but has not fed so well of late.
    Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:-
  There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,
  But pray give back a little to the nation.

  I don't mean to reflect- a man so great as
    You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:
  The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,
    With modern history has but small connection:
  Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,
    You need not take them under your direction;
  And half a million for your Sabine farm
  Is rather dear!- I 'm sure I mean no harm.

  Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses:
    Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,
  Not leaving even his funeral expenses:
    George Washington had thanks and nought beside,
  Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is
    To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,
  And as a high-soul'd minister of state is
  Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.

  Never had mortal man such opportunity,
    Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
  You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity
    Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:
  And now- what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?
    Now- that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?
  Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
  Behold the world! and curse your victories!

  As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,
    To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe
  Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,
    But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe
  Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts,
    Must be recited, and- without a bribe.
  You did great things; but not being great in mind,
  Have left undone the greatest- and mankind.

  Death laughs- Go ponder o'er the skeleton
    With which men image out the unknown thing
  That hides the past world, like to a set sun
    Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring-
  Death laughs at all you weep for:- look upon
    This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting
  Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath:
  Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!

  Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
    And yet was what you are: from ear to ear
  It laughs not- there is now no fleshy bar
    So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,
  But still he smiles; and whether near or far,
    He strips from man that mantle (far more dear
  Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin,
  White, black, or copper- the dead bones will grin.

  And thus Death laughs,- it is sad merriment,
    But still it is so; and with such example
  Why should not Life be equally content
    With his superior, in a smile to trample
  Upon the nothings which are daily spent
    Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample
  Than the eternal deluge, which devours
  Suns as rays- worlds like atoms- years like hours?

  'To be, or not to be? that is the question,'
    Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion.
  I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion,
    Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;
  But would much rather have a sound digestion
    Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on
  Through fifty victories to shame or fame-
  Without a stomach what were a good name?

  'O dura ilia messorum!'- 'Oh
    Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate
  For the great benefit of those who know
    What indigestion is- that inward fate
  Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.
    A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:
  Let this one toil for bread- that rack for rent,
  He who sleeps best may be the most content.

  'To be, or not to be?'- Ere I decide,
    I should be glad to know that which is being?
  'T is true we speculate both far and wide,
    And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:
  For my part, I 'll enlist on neither side,
    Until I see both sides for once agreeing.
  For me, I sometimes think that life is death,
  Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

  'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne,
    As also of the first academicians:
  That all is dubious which man may attain,
    Was one of their most favourite positions.
  There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain
    As any of Mortality's conditions;
  So little do we know what we 're about in
  This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.

  It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,
    Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;
  But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
    Your wise men don't know much of navigation;
  And swimming long in the abyss of thought
    Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station
  Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers
  Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

  'But heaven,' as Cassio says, 'is above all-
    No more of this, then,- let us pray!' We have
  Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall,
    Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,
  Besides fish, beasts, and birds. 'The sparrow's fall
    Is special providence,' though how it gave
  Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd
  Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.

  Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?
    Oh, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy?
  Oh, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony?
    Some people have accused me of misanthropy;
  And yet I know no more than the mahogany
    That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy
  I comprehend, for without transformation
  Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

  But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
    Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er
  Done anything exceedingly unkind,-
    And (though I could not now and then forbear
  Following the bent of body or of mind)
    Have always had a tendency to spare,-
  Why do they call me misanthrope? Because
  They hate me, not I them.- and here we 'll pause.

  'T is time we should proceed with our good poem,-
    For I maintain that it is really good,
  Not only in the body but the proem,
    However little both are understood
  Just now,- but by and by the Truth will show 'em
    Herself in her sublimest attitude:
  And till she doth, I fain must be content
  To share her beauty and her banishment.

  Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours)
    Was left upon his way to the chief city
  Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors
    Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
  I know its mighty empire now allures
    Much flattery- even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity.
  For me, I deem an absolute autocrat
  Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

  And I will war, at least in words (and- should
    My chance so happen- deeds), with all who war
  With Thought;- and of Thought's foes by far most rude,
    Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.
  I know not who may conquer: if I could
    Have such a prescience, it should be no bar
  To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation
  Of every depotism in every nation.

  It is not that I adulate the people:
    Without me, there are demagogues enough,
  And infidels, to pull down every steeple,
    And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
  Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,
    As is the Christian dogma rather rough,
  I do not know;- I wish men to be free
  As much from mobs as kings- from you as me.

  The consequence is, being of no party,
    I shall offend all parties: never mind!
  My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
    Than if I sought to sail before the wind.
  He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
    Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,
  May still expatiate freely, as will I,
  Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.

  That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal;-
    I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
  By night, as do that mercenary pack all,
    Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
  And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
    However, the poor jackals are less foul
  (As being the brave lions' keen providers)
  Than human insects, catering for spiders.

  Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away,
    And without that, their poison and their claws
  Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say
    (Or rather peoples)- go on without pause!
  The web of these tarantulas each day
    Increases, till you shall make common cause:
  None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
  As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

  Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
    Was left upon his way with the despatch,
  Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;
    And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch
  O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter
    Fair Catherine's pastime- who look'd on the match
  Between these nations as a main of cocks,
  Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

  And there in a kibitka he roll'd on
    (A cursed sort of carriage without springs,
  Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone),
    Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,
  And orders, and on all that he had done-
    And wishing that post-horses had the wings
  Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises
  Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

  At every jolt- and they were many- still
    He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge,
  As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill
    Than he, in these sad highways left at large
  To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill,
    Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
  On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
  Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

  At least he pays no rent, and has best right
    To be the first of what we used to call
  'Gentlemen farmer'- a race worn out quite,
    Since lately there have been no rents at all,
  And 'gentlemen' are in a piteous plight,
    And 'farmers' can't raise Ceres from her fall:
  She fell with Buonaparte- What strange thoughts
  Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

  But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child
    Whom he had saved from slaughter- what a trophy
  Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled
    With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy,
  Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,
    And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
  To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!
  Because he could no more digest his dinner;-

  Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,
    That one life saved, especially if young
  Or pretty, is a thing to recollect
    Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
  From the manure of human clay, though deck'd
    With all the praises ever said or sung:
  Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within
  Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.

  Oh! ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
    Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
  Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us!
    Whether you 're paid by government in bribes,
  To prove the public debt is not consuming us-
    Or, roughly treading on the 'courtier's kibes'
  With clownish heel, your popular circulation
  Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;-

  Oh, ye great authors!- 'Apropos des bottes,'-
    I have forgotten what I meant to say,
  As sometimes have been greater sages' lots;
    'T was something calculated to allay
  All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
    Certes it would have been but thrown away,
  And that 's one comfort for my lost advice,
  Although no doubt it was beyond all price.

  But let it go:- it will one day be found
    With other relics of 'a former world,'
  When this world shall be former, underground,
    Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd,
  Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd,
    Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd
  First out of, and then back again to chaos,
  The superstratum which will overlay us.

  So Cuvier says;- and then shall come again
    Unto the new creation, rising out
  From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
    Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt:
  Like to the notions we now entertain
    Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
  Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
  And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.

  Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!
    How the new worldlings of the then new East
  Will wonder where such animals could sup!
    (For they themselves will be but of the least:
  Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
    And every new creation hath decreased
  In size, from overworking the material-
  Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.)

  How will- to these young people, just thrust out
    From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough,
  And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,
    And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,
  Till all the arts at length are brought about,
    Especially of war and taxing,- how,
  I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,
  Look like the monsters of a new museum?

  But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:
    'The time is out of joint,'- and so am I;
  I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical,
    And deviate into matters rather dry.
  I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I cal
    Much too poetical: men should know why
  They write, and for what end; but, note or text,
  I never know the word which will come next.

  So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
    Now pondering:- it is time we should narrate.
  I left Don Juan with his horses baiting-
    Now we 'll get o'er the ground at a great rate.
  I shall not be particular in stating
    His journey, we 've so many tours of late:
  Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose
  That pleasant capital of painted snows;

  Suppose him in a handsome uniform,-
    A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,
  Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm,
    Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room,
  And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,
    Of yellow casimere we may presume,
  White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk
  O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

  Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand,
    Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor-
  That great enchanter, at whose rod's command
    Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler,
  Seeing how Art can make her work more grand
    (When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler),-
  Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He
  Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:-

  His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat;
    His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver
  Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at
    His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever;
  His bow converted into a cock'd hat;
    But still so like, that Psyche were more clever
  Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid),
  If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.

  The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and
    The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd-
  I quite forget which of them was in hand
    Just then; as they are rather numerous found,
  Who took by turns that difficult command
    Since first her majesty was singly crown'd:
  But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
  All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

  Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
    Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless
  There was a something in his turn of limb,
    And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express,
  That though he look'd one of the seraphim,
    There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.
  Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,
  And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.

  No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,
    Or Scherbatoff, or any other off
  Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough
    Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
  For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough
    Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough,
  Of him who, in the language of his station,
  Then held that 'high official situation.'

  O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know
    The import of this diplomatic phrase,
  Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show
    His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
  Of that odd string of words, all in a row,
    Which none divine, and every one obeys,
  Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning,
  Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.

  I think I can explain myself without
    That sad inexplicable beast of prey-
  That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt,
    Did not his deeds unriddle them each day-
  That monstrous hieroglyphic- that long spout
    Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!
  And here I must an anecdote relate,
  But luckily of no great length or weight.

  An English lady ask'd of an Italian,
    What were the actual and official duties
  Of the strange thing some women set a value on,
    Which hovers oft about some married beauties,
  Called 'Cavalier servente?'- a Pygmalion
    Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is)
  Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them,
  Said- 'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.'

  And thus I supplicate your supposition,
    And mildest, matron-like interpretation,
  Of the imperial favourite's condition.
    'T was a high place, the highest in the nation
  In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion
    Of any one's attaining to his station,
  No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders,
  If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.

  Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy,
    And had retain'd his boyish look beyond
  The usual hirsute seasons which destroy,
    With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond
  Parisian aspect which upset old Troy
    And founded Doctors' Commons:- I have conn'd
  The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd,
  Calls Ilion's the first damages on record.

  And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord,
    Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much
  Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd)
    Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch
  Of sentiment; and he she most adored
    Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such
  A lover as had cost her many a tear,
  And yet but made a middling grenadier.

  Oh thou 'teterrima causa' of all 'belli'-
    Thou gate of life and death- thou nondescript!
  Whence is our exit and our entrance,- well I
    May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt
  In thy perennial fountain:- how man fell I
    Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript
  Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises
  Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.

  Some call thee 'the worst cause of war,' but I
    Maintain thou art the best: for after all
  From thee we come, to thee we go, and why
    To get at thee not batter down a wall,
  Or waste a world? since no one can deny
    Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small:
  With, or without thee, all things at a stand
  Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land!

  Catherine, who was the grand epitome
    Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what
  You please (it causes all the things which be,
    So you may take your choice of this or that)-
  Catherine, I say. was very glad to see
    The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat
  Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel
  With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

  Then recollecting the whole empress, nor
    forgetting quite the woman (which composed
  At least three parts of this great whole), she tore
    The letter open with an air which posed
  The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore,
    Until a royal smile at length disclosed
  Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious,
  Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.

  Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first
    Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain.
  Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst,
    As an East Indian sunrise on the main.
  These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst-
    So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain:
  In vain!- As fall the dews on quenchless sands,
  Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!

  Her next amusement was more fanciful;
    She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw
  Into a Russian couplet rather dull
    The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.
  Her third was feminine enough to annul
    The shudder which runs naturally through
  Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best
  To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

  The two first feelings ran their course complete,
    And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth:
  The whole court look'd immediately most sweet,
    Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth.
  But when on the lieutenant at her feet
    Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth
  Almost as much as on a new despatch,
  Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.

  Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,
    When wroth- while pleased, she was as fine a figure
  As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,
    Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.
  She could repay each amatory look you lent
    With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour
  To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount
  At sight, nor would permit you to discount.

  With her the latter, though at times convenient,
    Was not so necessary; for they tell
  That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient,
    And always used her favourites too well.
  If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went,
    Your 'fortune' was in a fair way 'to swell
  A man' (as Giles says); for though she would widow all
  Nations, she liked man as an individual.

  What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger
    Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
  And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger
    Is all the rest about her! Whether wed
  Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her
    Mind like the wind: whatever she has said
  Or done, is light to what she 'll say or do;-
  The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

  Oh Catherine! (for of all interjections,
    To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right
  In love and war) how odd are the connections
    Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight!
  Just now yours were cut out in different sections:
    First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite;
  Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch;
  And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!

  Shakspeare talks of 'the herald Mercury
    New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;'
  And some such visions cross'd her majesty,
    While her young herald knelt before her still.
  'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high,
    For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill
  Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing
  With youth and health all kisses are 'heaven-kissing.'

  Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up-
    And so they fell in love;- she with his face,
  His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup
    With the first draught intoxicates apace,
  A quintessential laudanum or 'black drop,'
    Which makes one drunk at once, without the base
  Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye
  In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry.

  He, on the other hand, if not in love,
    Fell into that no less imperious passion,
  Self-love- which, when some sort of thing above
    Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion,
  Or duchess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove'
    ('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one,
  For one especial person out of many,
  Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.

  Besides, he was of that delighted age
    Which makes all female ages equal- when
  We don't much care with whom we may engage,
    As bold as Daniel in the lion's den,
  So that we can our native sun assuage
    In the next ocean, which may flow just then,
  To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is
  Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.

  And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine),
    Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing
  Whose temporary passion was quite flattering,
    Because each lover look'd a sort of king,
  Made up upon an amatory pattern,
    A royal husband in all save the ring-
  Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony,
  Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey.

  And when you add to this, her womanhood
    In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray
  (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,
    Or better, as the best examples say:
  Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should
    Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;
  And Pallas also sanctions the same hue,
  Too wise to look through optics black or blue)-

  Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,
    Her plumpness, her imperial condescension,
  Her preference of a boy to men much bigger
    (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension),
  Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,
    With other extras, which we need not mention,-
  All these, or any one of these, explain
  Enough to make a stripling very vain.

  And that 's enough, for love is vanity,
    Selfish in its beginning as its end,
  Except where 't is a mere insanity,
    A maddening spirit which would strive to blend
  Itself with beauty's frail inanity,
    On which the passion's self seems to depend:
  And hence some heathenish philosophers
  Make love the main spring of the universe.

  Besides Platonic love, besides the love
    Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving
  Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove,
    That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving
  'Gainst reason- Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove
    With rhyme, but always leant less to improving
  The sound than sense)- beside all these pretences
  To love, there are those things which words name senses;

  Those movements, those improvements in our bodies
    Which make all bodies anxious to get out
  Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,
    For such all women are at first no doubt.
  How beautiful that moment! and how odd is
    That fever which precedes the languid rout
  Of our sensations! What a curious way
  The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!

  The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,
    To end or to begin with; the next grand
  Is that which may be christen'd love canonical,
    Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
  The third sort to be noted in our chronicle
    As flourishing in every Christian land,
  Is when chaste matrons to their other ties
  Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.

  Well, we won't analyse- our story must
    Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,
  Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust;-
    I cannot stop to alter words once written,
  And the two are so mix'd with human dust,
    That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
  But in such matters Russia's mighty empress
  Behaved no better than a common sempstress.

  The whole court melted into one wide whisper,
    And all lips were applied unto all ears!
  The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper
    As they beheld; the younger cast some leers
  On one another, and each lovely lisper
    Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears
  Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye
  Of all the standing army who stood by.

  All the ambassadors of all the powers
    Enquired, Who was this very new young man,
  Who promised to be great in some few hours?
    Which is full soon- though life is but a span.
  Already they beheld the silver showers
    Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,
  Upon his cabinet, besides the presents
  Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.

  Catherine was generous,- all such ladies are:
    Love, that great opener of the heart and all
  The ways that lead there, be they near or far,
    Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,-
  Love (though she had a cursed taste for war,
    And was not the best wife, unless we call
  Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better
  That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)-

  Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune,
    Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,
  Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,
    If history, the grand liar, ever saith
  The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,
    Because she put a favourite to death,
  Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,
  And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.

  But when the levee rose, and all was bustle
    In the dissolving circle, all the nations'
  Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle
    Round the young man with their congratulations.
  Also the softer silks were heard to rustle
    Of gentle dames, among whose recreations
  It is to speculate on handsome faces,
  Especially when such lead to high places.

  Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,
    A general object of attention, made
  His answers with a very graceful bow,
    As if born for the ministerial trade.
  Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow
    Nature had written 'gentleman.' He said
  Little, but to the purpose; and his manner
  Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner.

  An order from her majesty consign'd
    Our young lieutenant to the genial care
  Of those in office: all the world look'd kind
    (As it will look sometimes with the first stare,
  Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind),
    As also did Miss Protasoff then there,
  Named from her mystic office 'l'Eprouveuse,'
  A term inexplicable to the Muse.

  With her then, as in humble duty bound,
    Juan retired,- and so will I, until
  My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.
    We have just lit on a 'heaven-kissing hill,'
  So lofty that I feel my brain turn round,
    And all my fancies whirling like a mill;
  Which is a signal to my nerves and brain,
  To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.
               CANTO THE TENTH.

  WHEN Newton saw an apple fall, he found
    In that slight startle from his contemplation-
  'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground
    For any sage's creed or calculation)-
  A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round
    In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation;'
  And this is the sole mortal who could grapple,
  Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.

  Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,
    If this be true; for we must deem the mode
  In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose
    Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road,
  A thing to counterbalance human woes:
    For ever since immortal man hath glow'd
  With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon
  Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.

  And wherefore this exordium?- Why, just now,
    In taking up this paltry sheet of paper,
  My bosom underwent a glorious glow,
    And my internal spirit cut a caper:
  And though so much inferior, as I know,
    To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour,
  Discover stars and sail in the wind's eye,
  I wish to do as much by poesy.

  In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for
    The stars, I own my telescope is dim:
  But at least I have shunn'd the common shore,
    And leaving land far out of sight, would skim
  The ocean of eternity: the roar
    Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim,
  But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float
  Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat.

  We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom
    Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush;
  And far be it from my Muses to presume
    (For I have more than one Muse at a push)
  To follow him beyond the drawing-room:
    It is enough that Fortune found him flush
  Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things
  Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings.

  But soon they grow again and leave their nest.
    'Oh!' saith the Psalmist, 'that I had a dove's
  Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!'
    And who that recollects young years and loves,-
  Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,
    And palsied fancy, which no longer roves
  Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,- but would much rather
  Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?

  But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
    Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow,
  So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
    Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
  Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think
    Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow;
  No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys,
  Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

  But coughs will come when sighs depart- and now
    And then before sighs cease; for oft the one
  Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow
    Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun
  Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow,
    Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done,
  O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay,
  Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,- how happy they!

  But Juan was not meant to die so soon.
    We left him in the focus of such glory
  As may be won by favour of the moon
    Or ladies' fancies- rather transitory
  Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June,
    Because December, with his breath so hoary,
  Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
  To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.

  Besides, he had some qualities which fix
    Middle-aged ladies even more than young:
  The former know what 's what; while new-fledged chicks
    Know little more of love than what is sung
  In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks)
    In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung.
  Some reckon women by their suns or years,
  I rather think the moon should date the dears.

  And why? because she 's changeable and chaste.
    I know no other reason, whatsoe'er
  Suspicious people, who find fault in haste,
    May choose to tax me with; which is not fair,
  Nor flattering to 'their temper or their taste,'
    As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air:
  However, I forgive him, and I trust
  He will forgive himself;- if not, I must.

  Old enemies who have become new friends
    Should so continue- 't is a point of honour;
  And I know nothing which could make amends
    For a return to hatred: I would shun her
  Like garlic, howsoever she extends
    Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her.
  Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes-
  Converted foes should scorn to join with those.

  This were the worst desertion:- renegadoes,
    Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie,
  Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,'
    Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty:
  And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes,
    Whether in Caledon or Italy,
  Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize
  To pain, the moment when you cease to please.

  The lawyer and the critic but behold
    The baser sides of literature and life,
  And nought remains unseen, but much untold,
    By those who scour those double vales of strife.
  While common men grow ignorantly old,
    The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife,
  Dissecting the whole inside of a question,
  And with it all the process of digestion.

  A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper,
    And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty;
  The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper
    Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he
  Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper,
    At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty,
  In all their habits;- not so you, I own;
  As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.

  And all our little feuds, at least all mine,
    Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe
  (As far as rhyme and criticism combine
    To make such puppets of us things below),
  Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!'
    I do not know you, and may never know
  Your face- but you have acted on the whole
  Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.

  And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!'
    'T is not address'd to you- the more 's the pity
  For me, for I would rather take my wine
    With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city.
  But somehow,- it may seem a schoolboy's whine,
    And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty,
  But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred
  A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,-

  As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all,
    Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams,
  The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,
    All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams
  Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,
    Like Banquo's offspring;- floating past me seems
  My childhood in this childishness of mine:
  I care not- 't is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'

  And though, as you remember, in a fit
    Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
  I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
    Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly,
  Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit,
    They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
  I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood,
  And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.'

  Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,-
    For both are much the same, since what men think
  Exists when the once thinkers are less real
    Than what they thought, for mind can never sink,
  And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal;
    And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink
  Of what is call'd eternity, to stare,
  And know no more of what is here, than there;-

  Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian-
    How we won't mention, why we need not say:
  Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion
    Of any slight temptation in their way;
  But his just now were spread as is a cushion
    Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay
  Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money,
  Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.

  The favour of the empress was agreeable;
    And though the duty wax'd a little hard,
  Young people at his time of life should be able
    To come off handsomely in that regard.
  He was now growing up like a green tree, able
    For love, war, or ambition, which reward
  Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium
  Make some prefer the circulating medium.

  About this time, as might have been anticipated,
    Seduced by youth and dangerous examples,
  Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated;
    Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples
  On our fresh feelings, but- as being participated
    With all kinds of incorrigible samples
  Of frail humanity- must make us selfish,
  And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.

  This we pass over. We will also pass
    The usual progress of intrigues between
  Unequal matches, such as are, alas!
    A young lieutenant's with a not old queen,
  But one who is not so youthful as she was
    In all the royalty of sweet seventeen.
  Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,

  And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great
    Gracchus of all mortality, who levels
  With his Agrarian laws the high estate
    Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels,
  To one small grass-grown patch (which must await
    Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils
  Who never had a foot of land till now,-
  Death 's a reformer, all men must allow.

  He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry
    Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter,
  In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry-
    Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter)
  Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry,
    Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter
  For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot-
  And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.

  And this same state we won't describe: we would
    Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection;
  But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,'
    That horrid equinox, that hateful section
  Of human years, that half-way house, that rude
    Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection
  Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier
  Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;-

  I won't describe,- that is, if I can help
    Description; and I won't reflect,- that is,
  If I can stave off thought, which- as a whelp
    Clings to its teat- sticks to me through the abyss
  Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp
    Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss
  Drains its first draught of lips:- but, as I said,
  I won't philosophise, and will be read.

  Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,-
    A thing which happens rarely: this he owed
  Much to his youth, and much to his reported
    Valour; much also to the blood he show'd,
  Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported,
    Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd,
  As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most
  He owed to an old woman and his post.

  He wrote to Spain:- and all his near relations,
    Perceiving fie was in a handsome way
  Of getting on himself, and finding stations
    For cousins also, answer'd the same day.
  Several prepared themselves for emigrations;
    And eating ices, were o'erheard to say,
  That with the addition of a slight pelisse,
  Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece.

  His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too,
    That in the lieu of drawing on his banker,
  Where his assets were waxing rather few,
    He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,-
  Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through
    Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker;
  As the sole sign of man's being in his senses
  Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.

  'She also recommended him to God,
    And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother,
  Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd
    In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother
  Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad;
    Inform'd him that he had a little brother
  Born in a second wedlock; and above
  All, praised the empress's maternal love.

  'She could not too much give her approbation
    Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men
  Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation
    And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):-
  At home it might have given her some vexation;
    But where thermometers sunk down to ten,
  Or five, or one, or zero, she could never
  Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.'

  Oh for a forty-parson power to chant
    Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn
  Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt,
    Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim!
  Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt,
    Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim,
  Drew quiet consolation through its hint,
  When she no more could read the pious print.

  She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul,
    But went to heaven in as sincere a way
  As any body on the elected roll,
    Which portions out upon the judgment day
  Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll,
    Such as the conqueror William did repay
  His knights with, lotting others' properties
  Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees.

  I can't complain, whose ancestors are there,
    Erneis, Radulphus- eight-and-forty manors
  (If that my memory doth not greatly err)
    Were their reward for following Billy's banners:
  And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair
    To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners;
  Yet as they founded churches with the produce,
  You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.

  The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times
    He felt like other plants called sensitive,
  Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes,
    Save such as Southey can afford to give.
  Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes
    In which the Neva's ice would cease to live
  Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty,
  In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty:

  Perhaps- but, sans perhaps, we need not seek
    For causes young or old: the canker-worm
  Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek,
    As well as further drain the wither'd form:
  Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week
    His bills in, and however we may storm,
  They must be paid: though six days smoothly run,
  The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.

  I don't know how it was, but he grew sick:
    The empress was alarm'd, and her physician
  (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick
    Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition
  Which augur'd of the dead, however quick
    Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition;
  At which the whole court was extremely troubled,
  The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled.

  Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours:
    Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin;
  Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours,
    Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin;
  Some said 't was a concoction of the humours,
    Which with the blood too readily will claim kin;
  Others again were ready to maintain,
  ''T was only the fatigue of last campaign.'

  But here is one prescription out of many:
    'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim.
  Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae
    Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him)
  'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae'
    (With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em).
  'Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus,
  Et haustus ter in die capiendus.'

  This is the way physicians mend or end us,
    Secundum artem: but although we sneer
  In health- when ill, we call them to attend us,
    Without the least propensity to jeer:
  While that 'hiatus maxime deflendus'
    To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near,
  Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe,
  We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.

  Juan demurr'd at this first notice to
    Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection,
  His youth and constitution bore him through,
    And sent the doctors in a new direction.
  But still his state was delicate: the hue
    Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection
  Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel
  The faculty- who said that he must travel.

  The climate was too cold, they said, for him,
    Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion
  Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim,
    Who did not like at first to lose her minion:
  But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim,
    And drooping like an eagle's with clipt pinion,
  She then resolved to send him on a mission,
  But in a style becoming his condition.

  There was just then a kind of a discussion,
    A sort of treaty or negotiation
  Between the British cabinet and Russian,
    Maintain'd with all the due prevarication
  With which great states such things are apt to push on;
    Something about the Baltic's navigation,
  Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis,
  Which Britons deem their 'uti possidetis.'

  So Catherine, who had a handsome way
    Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd
  This secret charge on Juan, to display
    At once her royal splendour, and reward
  His services. He kiss'd hands the next day,
    Received instructions how to play his card,
  Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours,
  Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's.

  But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens
    Are generally prosperous in reigning;
  Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means.
    But to continue: though her years were waning
  Her climacteric teased her like her teens;
    And though her dignity brook'd no complaining,
  So much did Juan's setting off distress her,
  She could not find at first a fit successor.

  But time, the comforter, will come at last;
    And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number
  Of candidates requesting to be placed,
    Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:-
  Not that she meant to fix again in haste,
    Nor did she find the quantity encumber,
  But always choosing with deliberation,
  Kept the place open for their emulation.

  While this high post of honour 's in abeyance,
    For one or two days, reader, we request
  You 'll mount with our young hero the conveyance
    Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best
  Barouche, which had the glory to display once
    The fair czarina's autocratic crest,
  When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris,
  Was given to her favourite, and now bore his.

  A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine,
    All private favourites of Don Juan;- for
  (Let deeper sages the true cause determine)
    He had a kind of inclination, or
  Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin,
    Live animals: an old maid of threescore
  For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd,
  Although he was not old, nor even a maid;-

  The animals aforesaid occupied
    Their station: there were valets, secretaries,
  In other vehicles; but at his side
    Sat little Leila, who survived the parries
  He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide
    Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies
  Her note, she don't forget the infant girl
  Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl

  Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile,
    And with that gentle, serious character,
  As rare in living beings as a fossile
    Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!'
  Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle
    With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err:
  But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore
  Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.

  Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as
    Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love.
  I cannot tell exactly what it was;
    He was not yet quite old enough to prove
  Parental feelings, and the other class,
    Call'd brotherly affection, could not move
  His bosom,- for he never had a sister:
  Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her!

  And still less was it sensual; for besides
    That he was not an ancient debauchee
  (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides,
    As acids rouse a dormant alkali),
  Although ('t will happen as our planet guides)
    His youth was not the chastest that might be,
  There was the purest Platonism at bottom
  Of all his feelings- only he forgot 'em.

  Just now there was no peril of temptation;
    He loved the infant orphan he had saved,
  As patriots (now and then) may love a nation;
    His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved
  Owing to him;- as also her salvation
    Through his means and the church's might be paved.
  But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted,
  The little Turk refused to be converted.

  'T was strange enough she should retain the impression
    Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter;
  But though three bishops told her the transgression,
    She show'd a great dislike to holy water:
  She also had no passion for confession;
    Perhaps she had nothing to confess:- no matter,
  Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it-
  She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.

  In fact, the only Christian she could bear
    Was Juan; whom she seem'd to have selected
  In place of what her home and friends once were.
    He naturally loved what he protected:
  And thus they form'd a rather curious pair,
    A guardian green in years, a ward connected
  In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender;
  And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.

  They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw,
    Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron:
  Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw
    Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.'
  'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw,
    Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren!
  To lose by one month's frost some twenty years
  Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.

  Let this not seem an anti-climax:- 'Oh!
    My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day.
  Think of the Thunderer's falling down below
    Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh!
  Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snow!
    But should we wish to warm us on our way
  Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name
  Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame.

  From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper,
    And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt,
  Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper,
    Has lately been the great Professor Kant.
  Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper
    About philosophy, pursued his jaunt
  To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions
  Have princes who spur more than their postilions.

  And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like,
    Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine:-
  Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike
    All phantasies, not even excepting mine;
  A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike,
    Make my soul pass the equinoctial line
  Between the present and past worlds, and hover
  Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.

  But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn,
    Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre
  Of the good feudal times forever gone,
    On which I have not time just now to lecture.
  From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne,
    A city which presents to the inspector
  Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone,
  The greatest number flesh hath ever known.

  From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys,
    That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches,
  Where juniper expresses its best juice,
    The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches.
  Senates and sages have condemn'd its use-
    But to deny the mob a cordial, which is
  Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel,
  Good government has left them, seems but cruel.

  Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail
    Went bounding for the island of the free,
  Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale;
    High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea,
  And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale;
    But Juan, season'd, as he well might be,
  By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs
  Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.

  At length they rose, like a white wall along
    The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt-
  What even young strangers feel a little strong
    At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt-
  A kind of pride that he should be among
    Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt
  Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole,
  And made the very billows pay them toll.

  I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth,
    Which holds what might have been the noblest nation;
  But though I owe it little but my birth,
    I feel a mix'd regret and veneration
  For its decaying fame and former worth.
    Seven years (the usual term of transportation)
  Of absence lay one's old resentments level,
  When a man's country 's going to the devil.

  Alas! could she but fully, truly, know
    How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd:
  How eager all the earth is for the blow
    Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword;
  How all the nations deem her their worst foe,
    That worse than worst of foes, the once adored
  False friend, who held out freedom to mankind,
  And now would chain them, to the very mind:-

  Would she be proud, or boast herself the free,
    Who is but first of slaves? The nations are
  In prison,- but the gaoler, what is he?
    No less a victim to the bolt and bar.
  Is the poor privilege to turn the key
    Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far
  From the enjoyment of the earth and air
  Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear.

  Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties,
    Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel;
  Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties;
    Thy waiters running mucks at every bell;
  Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties
    To those who upon land or water dwell;
  And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed,
  Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.

  Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique,
    And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit,
  Who did not limit much his bills per week,
    Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it
  (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek,
    Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it);
  But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny,
  Is free, the respiration's worth the money.

  On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!
    Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle;
  Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!
    Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle
  Along the road, as if they went to bury
    Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle
  With 'schnapps'- sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,'
  Affect no more than lightning a conductor.

  Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,
    Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
  As going at full speed- no matter where its
    Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry,
  And merely for the sake of its own merits;
    For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
  The greater is the pleasure in arriving
  At the great end of travel- which is driving.

  They saw at Canterbury the cathedral;
    Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone,
  Were pointed out as usual by the bedral,
    In the same quaint, uninterested tone:-
  There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All
    Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone,
  Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias;
  Which form that bitter draught, the human species.

  The effect on Juan was of course sublime:
    He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw
  That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time.
    Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe,
  Who died in the then great attempt to climb
    O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law
  Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed,
  And ask'd why such a structure had been raised:

  And being told it was 'God's house,' she said
    He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how
  He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead,
    The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low
  His holy temples in the lands which bred
    The True Believers:- and her infant brow
  Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign
  A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine.

  Oh! oh! through meadows managed like a garden,
    A paradise of hops and high production;
  For after years of travel by a bard in
    Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction,
  A green field is a sight which makes him pardon
    The absence of that more sublime construction,
  Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices,
  Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices.

  And when I think upon a pot of beer-
    But I won't weep!- and so drive on, postilions!
  As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career,
    Juan admired these highways of free millions;
  A country in all senses the most dear
    To foreigner or native, save some silly ones,
  Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture,
  And for their pains get only a fresh puncture.

  What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road!
    So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving
  The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad
    Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving.
  Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god
    Had told his son to satisfy his craving
  With the York mail;- but onward as we roll,
  'Surgit amari aliquid'- the toll

  Alas, how deeply painful is all payment!
    Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses:
  As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,
    Such is the shortest way to general curses.
  They hate a murderer much less than a claimant
    On that sweet ore which every body nurses;-
  Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
  But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

  So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken
    To your instructor. Juan now was borne,
  Just as the day began to wane and darken,
    O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn
  Toward the great city.- Ye who have a spark in
    Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn
  According as you take things well or ill;-
  Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill!

  The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
    A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space
  Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,'
    As some have qualified that wondrous place:
  But Juan felt, though not approaching home,
    As one who, though he were not of the race,
  Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother,
  Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.

  A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
    Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
  Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
    In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
  Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
    On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
  A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
  On a fool's head- and there is London Town!

  But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke
    Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour
  Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke
    The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):
  The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke
    Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper,
  Were nothing but the natural atmosphere,
  Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.

  He paused- and so will I; as doth a crew
    Before they give their broadside. By and by,
  My gentle countrymen, we will renew
    Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try
  To tell you truths you will not take as true,
    Because they are so;- a male Mrs. Fry,
  With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
  And brush a web or two from off the walls.

  Oh Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why
    Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin
  With Carlton, or with other houses? Try
    Your head at harden'd and imperial sin.
  To mend the people 's an absurdity,
    A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
  Unless you make their betters better:- Fy!
  I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

  Teach them the decencies of good threescore;
    Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses;
  Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,
    That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses;
  Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore,
    Too dull even for the dullest of excesses,
  The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
  A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.

  Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late,
    On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated,
  To set up vain pretence of being great,
    'T is not so to be good; and be it stated,
  The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;
    And tell them- But you won't, and I have prated
  Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle
  Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle.
                CANTO THE ELEVENTH.

  WHEN Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'
    And proved it- 't was no matter what he said:
  They say his system 't is in vain to batter,
    Too subtle for the airiest human head;
  And yet who can believe it? I would shatter
    Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
  Or adamant, to find the world a spirit,
  And wear my head, denying that I wear it.

  What a sublime discovery 't was to make the
    Universe universal egotism,
  That all 's ideal- all ourselves: I 'll stake the
    World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism.
  Oh Doubt!- if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee;
    But which I doubt extremely- thou sole prism
  Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
  Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.

  For ever and anon comes Indigestion,
    (Not the most 'dainty Ariel') and perplexes
  Our soarings with another sort of question:
    And that which after all my spirit vexes,
  Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on,
    Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,
  Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,
  The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder-

  If it be chance; or if it be according
    To the old text, still better:- lest it should
  Turn out so, we 'll say nothing 'gainst the wording,
    As several people think such hazards rude.
  They 're right; our days are too brief for affording
    Space to dispute what no one ever could
  Decide, and every body one day will
  Know very clearly- or at least lie still.

  And therefore will I leave off metaphysical
    Discussion, which is neither here nor there:
  If I agree that what is, is; then this I call
    Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair;
  The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical:
    I don't know what the reason is- the air
  Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks
  Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

  The first attack at once proved the Divinity
    (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);
  The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;
    The third, the usual Origin of Evil;
  The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity
    On so uncontrovertible a level,
  That I devoutly wish'd the three were four,
  On purpose to believe so much the more.

  To our Theme.- The man who has stood on the Acropolis,
    And look'd down over Attica; or he
  Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is,
    Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea
  In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis,
    Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh,
  May not think much of London's first appearance-
  But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?

  Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill;
    Sunset the time, the place the same declivity
  Which looks along that vale of good and ill
    Where London streets ferment in full activity;
  While every thing around was calm and still,
    Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he
  Heard,- and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum
  Of cities, that boil over with their scum:-

  I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation,
    Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit,
  And lost in wonder of so great a nation,
    Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it.
  'And here,' he cried, 'is Freedom's chosen station;
    Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it
  Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection
  Awaits it, each new meeting or election.

  'Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay
    But what they please; and if that things be dear,
  'T is only that they love to throw away
    Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.
  Here laws are all inviolate; none lay
    Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear:
  Here-' he was interrupted by a knife,
  With,- 'Damn your eyes! your money or your life!'

  These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads
    In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter
  Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,
    Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
  In which the heedless gentleman who gads
    Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter,
  May find himself within that isle of riches
  Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.

  Juan, who did not understand a word
    Of English, save their shibboleth, 'God damn!'
  And even that he had so rarely heard,
    He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,'
  Or 'God be with you!'- and 't is not absurd
    To think so: for half English as I am
  (To my misfortune), never can I say
  I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way;-

  Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,
    And being somewhat choleric and sudden,
  Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture,
    And fired it into one assailant's pudding-
  Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture,
    And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in,
  Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
  'Oh Jack! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!'

  On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
    And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,
  Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,
    And offering, as usual, late assistance.
  Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed
    As if his veins would pour out his existence,
  Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
  And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint.

  'Perhaps,' thought he, 'it is the country's wont
    To welcome foreigners in this way: now
  I recollect some innkeepers who don't
    Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
  In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
    But what is to be done? I can't allow
  The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
  So take him up; I 'll help you with the load.'

  But ere they could perform this pious duty,
    The dying man cried, 'Hold! I 've got my gruel!
  Oh for a glass of max! We 've miss'd our booty;
    Let me die where I am!' And as the fuel
  Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
    The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
  His breath,- he from his swelling throat untied
  A kerchief, crying, 'Give Sal that!'- and died.

  The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down
    Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell
  Exactly why it was before him thrown,
    Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
  Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
    A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
  Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled,
  His pockets first and then his body riddled.

  Don Juan, having done the best he could
    In all the circumstances of the case,
  As soon as 'Crowner's quest' allow'd, pursued
    His travels to the capital apace;-
  Esteeming it a little hard he should
    In twelve hours' time, and very little space,
  Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
  In self-defence: this made him meditative.

  He from the world had cut off a great man,
    Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
  Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
    Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle?
  Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's ban)
    On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
  Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing),
  So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?

  But Tom's no more- and so no more of Tom.
    Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 't is
  Not long before the most of them go home.
    Hail! Thamis, Hail! Upon thy verge it is
  That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum
    In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss,
  Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,'
  Which makes us wish ourselves in town at once;-

  Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees
    (Like lucus from no light); through prospects named
  Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please,
    Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed
  Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,
    With 'To be let' upon their doors proclaim'd;
  Through 'Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,'
  Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;-

  Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl
    Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion;
  Here taverns wooing to a pint of 'purl,'
    There mails fast flying off like a delusion;
  There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl
    In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion
  Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass
  (For in those days we had not got to gas);-

  Through this, and much, and more, is the approach
    Of travellers to mighty Babylon:
  Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,
    With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one.
  I could say more, but do not choose to encroach
    Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun
  Had set some time, and night was on the ridge
  Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge,-

  That 's rather fine. The gentle sound of Thamis-
    Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream,
  Though hardly heard through multifarious 'damme's'-
    The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam,
  The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is
    A spectral resident- whose pallid beam
  In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile-
  Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle.

  The Druids' groves are gone- so much the better:
    Stone-Henge is not- but what the devil is it?-
  But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,
    That madmen may not bite you on a visit;
  The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;
    The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it)
  To me appears a stiff yet grand erection;
  But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection.

  The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross,
    Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation
  Like gold as in comparison to dross,
    Match'd with the Continent's illumination,
  Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss.
    The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation,
  And when they grew so- on their new-found lantern,
  Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.

  A row of gentlemen along the streets
    Suspended may illuminate mankind,
  As also bonfires made of country seats;
    But the old way is best for the purblind:
  The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,
    A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind,
  Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten,
  Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.

  But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes
    Could recommence to hunt his honest man,
  And found him not amidst the various progenies
    Of this enormous city's spreading span,
  'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his
    Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,
  I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey,
  But see the world is only one attorney.

  Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall,
    Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner
  As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell
    Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner
  Admitted a small party as night fell,-
    Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner,
  Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels,
  St. James's Palace and St. James's 'Hells.'

  They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door
    A tide of well-clad waiters, and around
  The mob stood, and as usual several score
    Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound
  In decent London when the daylight 's o'er;
    Commodious but immoral, they are found
  Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.-
  But Juan now is stepping from his carriage

  Into one of the sweetest of hotels,
    Especially for foreigners- and mostly
  For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,
    And cannot find a bill's small items costly.
  There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells
    (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie),
  Until to some conspicuous square they pass,
  And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.

  Juan, whose was a delicate commission,
    Private, though publicly important, bore
  No title to point out with due precision
    The exact affair on which he was sent o'er.
  'T was merely known, that on a secret mission
    A foreigner of rank had graced our shore,
  Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said
  (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head.

  Some rumour also of some strange adventures
    Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;
  And as romantic heads are pretty painters,
    And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves
  Into the excursive, breaking the indentures
    Of sober reason wheresoe'er it moves,
  He found himself extremely in the fashion,
  Which serves our thinking people for a passion.

  I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite
    The contrary; but then 't is in the head;
  Yet as the consequences are as bright
    As if they acted with the heart instead,
  What after all can signify the site
    Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead
  In safety to the place for which you start,
  What matters if the road be head or heart?

  Juan presented in the proper place,
    To proper placemen, every Russ credential;
  And was received with all the due grimace
    By those who govern in the mood potential,
  Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,
    Thought (what in state affairs is most essential)
  That they as easily might do the youngster,
  As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.

  They err'd, as aged men will do; but by
    And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't,
  'T will be because our notion is not high
    Of politicians and their double front,
  Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:-
    Now what I love in women is, they won't
  Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
  So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

  And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is but
    The truth in masquerade; and I defy
  Historians, heroes, lawyers. priests, to put
    A fact without some leaven of a lie.
  The very shadow of true Truth would shut
    Up annals, revelations, poesy,
  And prophecy- except it should be dated
  Some years before the incidents related.

  Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now
    Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy?
  She rings the world's 'Te Deum,' and her brow
    Blushes for those who will not:- but to sigh
  Is idle; let us like most others bow,
    Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty,
  After the good example of 'Green Erin,'
  Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing.

  Don Juan was presented, and his dress
    And mien excited general admiration-
  I don't know which was more admired or less:
    One monstrous diamond drew much observation,
  Which Catherine in a moment of 'ivresse'
    (In love or brandy's fervent fermentation)
  Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd;
  And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd.

  Besides the ministers and underlings,
    Who must be courteous to the accredited
  Diplomatists of rather wavering kings,
    Until their royal riddle 's fully read,
  The very clerks,- those somewhat dirty springs
    Of office, or the house of office, fed
  By foul corruption into streams,- even they
  Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay:

  And insolence no doubt is what they are
    Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour,
  In the dear offices of peace or war;
    And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour,
  When for a passport, or some other bar
    To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore),
  If he found not his spawn of taxborn riches,

  But Juan was received with much 'empressement:'-
    These phrases of refinement I must borrow
  From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman,
    There is a move set down for joy or sorrow
  Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man
    In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough,
  More than on continents- as if the sea
  (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free.

  And yet the British 'Damme' 's rather Attic:
    Your continental oaths are but incontinent,
  And turn on things which no aristocratic
    Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent
  This subject quote; as it would be schismatic
    In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't:-
  But 'Damme' 's quite ethereal, though too daring-
  Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing.

  For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home;
    For true or false politeness (and scarce that
  Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam-
    The first the emblem (rarely though) of what
  You leave behind, the next of much you come
    To meet. However, 't is no time to chat
  On general topics: poems must confine
  Themselves to unity, like this of mine.

  In the great world,- which, being interpreted,
    Meaneth the west or worst end of a city,
  And about twice two thousand people bred
    By no means to be very wise or witty,
  But to sit up while others lie in bed,
    And look down on the universe with pity,-
  Juan, as an inveterate patrician,
  Was well received by persons of condition.

  He was a bachelor, which is a matter
    Of import both to virgin and to bride,
  The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter;
    And (should she not hold fast by love or pride)
  'T is also of some moment to the latter:
    A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side,
  Requires decorum, and is apt to double
  The horrid sin- and what 's still worse, the trouble.

  But Juan was a bachelor- of arts,
    And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had
  An air as sentimental as Mozart's
    Softest of melodies; and could be sad
  Or cheerful, without any 'flaws or starts,'
    Just at the proper time; and though a lad,
  Had seen the world- which is a curious sight,
  And very much unlike what people write.

  Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames
    Bloom'd also in less transitory hues;
  For both commodities dwell by the Thames,
    The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse,
  Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims,
    Such as no gentleman can quite refuse:
  Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers
  Inquired his income, and if he had brothers.

  The milliners who furnish 'drapery Misses'
    Throughout the season, upon speculation
  Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses
    Have waned into a crescent's coruscation,
  Thought such an opportunity as this is,
    Of a rich foreigner's initiation,
  Not to be overlook'd- and gave such credit,
  That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it.

  The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh o'er sonnets,
    And with the pages of the last Review
  Line the interior of their heads or bonnets,
    Advanced in all their azure's highest hue:
  They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its
    Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two;
  And which was softest, Russian or Castilian?
  And whether in his travels he saw Ilion?

  Juan, who was a little superficial,
    And not in literature a great Drawcansir,
  Examined by this learned and especial
    Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer:
  His duties warlike, loving or official,
    His steady application as a dancer,
  Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene,
  Which now he found was blue instead of green.

  However, he replied at hazard, with
    A modest confidence and calm assurance,
  Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,
    And pass'd for arguments of good endurance.
  That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith
    (Who at sixteen translated 'Hercules Furens'
  Into as furious English), with her best look,
  Set down his sayings in her common-place book.

  Juan knew several languages- as well
    He might- and brought them up with skill, in time
  To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle,
    Who still regretted that he did not rhyme.
  There wanted but this requisite to swell
    His qualities (with them) into sublime:
  Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish,
  Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.

  However, he did pretty well, and was
    Admitted as an aspirant to all
  The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,
    At great assemblies or in parties small,
  He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
    That being about their average numeral;
  Also the eighty 'greatest living poets,'
  As every paltry magazine can show its.

  In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,'
    Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
  Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
    Although 't is an imaginary thing.
  Even I- albeit I 'm sure I did not know it,
    Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king-
  Was reckon'd a considerable time,
  The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.

  But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero
    My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain:
  'La Belle Alliance' of dunces down at zero,
    Now that the Lion 's fall'n, may rise again:
  But I will fall at least as fell my hero;
    Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign;
  Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,
  With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

  Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell
    Before and after; but now grown more holy,
  The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
    With poets almost clergymen, or wholly;
  And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble
    Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley,
  Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,
  A modern Ancient Pistol- by the hilts?

  Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say,
    Sets up for being a sort of moral me;
  He 'll find it rather difficult some day
    To turn out both, or either, it may be.
  Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway;
    And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three;
  And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian 'Savage Landor'
  Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.

  John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique,
    Just as he really promised something great,
  If not intelligible, without Greek
    Contrived to talk about the gods of late,
  Much as they might have been supposed to speak.
    Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;
  'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
  Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

  The list grows long of live and dead pretenders
    To that which none will gain- or none will know
  The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders
    His last award, will have the long grass grow
  Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.
    If I might augur, I should rate but low
  Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty
  Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

  This is the literary lower empire,
    Where the praetorian bands take up the matter;-
  A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,'
    The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,
  With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire.
    Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
  I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,
  And show them what an intellectual war is.

  I think I know a trick or two, would turn
    Their flanks;- but it is hardly worth my while
  With such small gear to give myself concern:
    Indeed I 've not the necessary bile;
  My natural temper 's really aught but stern,
    And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile;
  And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy,
  And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.

  My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril
    Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past
  With some small profit through that field so sterile,
    Being tired in time, and, neither least nor last,
  Left it before he had been treated very ill;
    And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd
  Amongst the higher spirits of the day,
  The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.

  His morns he pass'd in business- which, dissected,
    Was like all business a laborious nothing
  That leads to lassitude, the most infected
    And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,
  And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,
    And talk in tender horrors of our loathing
  All kinds of toil, save for our country's good-
  Which grows no better, though 't is time it should.

  His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,
    Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour
  In riding round those vegetable puncheons
    Call'd 'Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower
  Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings;
    But after all it is the only 'bower'
  (In Moore's phrase), where the fashionable fair
  Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

  Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!
    Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar
  Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd
    Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor
  Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd;
    Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,
  Which opens to the thousand happy few
  An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu.'

  There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink
    With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz,
  The only dance which teaches girls to think,
    Makes one in love even with its very faults.
  Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink,
    And long the latest of arrivals halts,
  'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb,
  And gain an inch of staircase at a time.

  Thrice happy he who, after a survey
    Of the good company, can win a corner,
  A door that's in or boudoir out of the way,
    Where he may fix himself like small 'Jack Horner,'
  And let the Babel round run as it may,
    And look on as a mourner, or a scorner,
  Or an approver, or a mere spectator,
  Yawning a little as the night grows later.

  But this won't do, save by and by; and he
    Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share,
  Must steer with care through all that glittering sea
    Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where
  He deems it is his proper place to be;
    Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,
  Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill
  Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.

  Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views
    Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride,
  Let him take care that that which he pursues
    Is not at once too palpably descried.
  Full many an eager gentleman oft rues
    His haste: impatience is a blundering guide,
  Amongst a people famous for reflection,
  Who like to play the fool with circumspection.

  But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;
    Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:-
  Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper
    In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,
  Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper,
    The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill
  Can tender souls relate the rise and fall
  Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

  But these precautionary hints can touch
    Only the common run, who must pursue,
  And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much
    Or little overturns; and not the few
  Or many (for the number's sometimes such)
    Whom a good mien, especially if new,
  Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,
  Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.

  Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,
    Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger,
  Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom,
    Before he can escape from so much danger
  As will environ a conspicuous man. Some
    Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,'
  And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;-
  I wish they knew the life of a young noble.

  They are young, but know not youth- it is anticipated;
    Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou;
  Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated;
    Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew;
  Both senates see their nightly votes participated
    Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew;
  And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored,
  The family vault receives another lord.

  'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty- 'Where
    The world in which a man was born? 'Alas!
  Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there-
    I look for it- 't is gone, a globe of glass!
  Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere
    A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
  Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,
  And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

  Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows.
    Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell:
  Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those
    Who bound the bar or senate in their spell?
  Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?
    And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well?
  Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?
  And where- oh, where the devil are the rents?

  Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.
    Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third?
  Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.)
    And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?'
  Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled
    Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard:
  'Caw me, caw thee'- for six months hath been hatching
  This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.

  Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?
    The Honourable Mistresses and Misses?
  Some laid aside like an old Opera hat,
    Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is
  An evolution oft performed of late).
    Where are the Dublin shouts- and London hisses?
  Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where
  My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.

  Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?
    Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals
  So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,-
    Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels
  Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies
    Of fashion,- say what streams now fill those channels?
  Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent,
  Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.

  Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes,
    Have taken up at length with younger brothers:
  Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks:
    Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers;
  Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks:
    In short, the list of alterations bothers.
  There 's little strange in this, but something strange is
  The unusual quickness of these common changes.

  Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven
    I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to
  The humblest individual under heaven,
    Than might suffice a moderate century through.
  I knew that nought was lasting, but now even
    Change grows too changeable, without being new:
  Nought 's permanent among the human race,
  Except the Whigs not getting into place.

  I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter,
    Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke
  (No matter which) turn politician stupider,
    If that can well be, than his wooden look.
  But it is time that I should hoist my 'blue Peter,'
    And sail for a new theme:- I have seen- and shook
  To see it- the king hiss'd, and then caress'd;
  But don't pretend to settle which was best.

  I have seen the Landholders without a rap-
    I have seen Joanna Southcote- I have seen-
  The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap-
    I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen-
  I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap-
    I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean-
  I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses
  Kick off their burthens, meaning the high classes.

  I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and
    Interminable- not eternal- speakers-
  I have seen the funds at war with house and land-
    I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers-
  I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand
    By slaves on horseback- I have seen malt liquors
  Exchanged for 'thin potations' by John Bull-
  I have seen john half detect himself a fool.-

  But 'carpe diem,' Juan, 'carpe, carpe!'
    To-morrow sees another race as gay
  And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy.
    'Life 's a poor player,'- then 'play out the play,
  Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye
    Much less on what you do than what you say:
  Be hypocritical, be cautious, be
  Not what you seem, but always what you see.

  But how shall I relate in other cantos
    Of what befell our hero in the land,
  Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as
    A moral country? But I hold my hand-
  For I disdain to write an Atalantis;
    But 't is as well at once to understand,
  You are not a moral people, and you know it
  Without the aid of too sincere a poet.

  What Juan saw and underwent shall be
    My topic, with of course the due restriction
  Which is required by proper courtesy;
    And recollect the work is only fiction,
  And that I sing of neither mine nor me,
    Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction,
  Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt
  This- when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.

  Whether he married with the third or fourth
    Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess,
  Or whether with some virgin of more worth
    (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties)
  He took to regularly peopling Earth,
    Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,-
  Or whether he was taken in for damages,
  For being too excursive in his homages,-

  Is yet within the unread events of time.
    Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back
  Against the same given quantity of rhyme,
    For being as much the subject of attack
  As ever yet was any work sublime,
    By those who love to say that white is black.
  So much the better!- I may stand alone,
  But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.
                  CANTO THE TWELFTH.

  OF all the barbarous middle ages, that
    Which is most barbarous is the middle age
  Of man; it is- I really scarce know what;
    But when we hover between fool and sage,
  And don't know justly what we would be at-
    A period something like a printed page,
  Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair
  Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;-

  Too old for youth,- too young, at thirty-five,
    To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore,-
  I wonder people should be left alive;
    But since they are, that epoch is a bore:
  Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive;
    And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er;
  And money, that most pure imagination,
  Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.

  O Gold! Why call we misers miserable?
    Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall;
  Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable
    Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.
  Ye who but see the saving man at table,
    And scorn his temperate board, as none at all,
  And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing,
  Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring.

  Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker;
    Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss;
  But making money, slowly first, then quicker,
    And adding still a little through each cross
  (Which will come over things), beats love or liquor,
    The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross.
  O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper,
  Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour.

  Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign
    O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal?
  Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain?
    (That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all.)
  Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain
    Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all?
  The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?-
  Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring.

  Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte,
    Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan
  Is not a merely speculative hit,
    But seats a nation or upsets a throne.
  Republics also get involved a bit;
    Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown
  On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru,
  Must get itself discounted by a Jew.

  Why call the miser miserable? as
    I said before: the frugal life is his,
  Which in a saint or cynic ever was
    The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss
  Canonization for the self-same cause,
    And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities?
  Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;-
  Then there 's more merit in his self-denial.

  He is your only poet;- passion, pure
    And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays,
  Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure
    Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays
  Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;
    On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze,
  While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies
  Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.

  The lands on either side are his; the ship
    From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads
  For him the fragrant produce of each trip;
    Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads,
  And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip;
    His very cellars might be kings' abodes;
  While he, despising every sensual call,
  Commands- the intellectual lord of all.

  Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,
    To build a college, or to found a race,
  A hospital, a church,- and leave behind
    Some dome surmounted by his meagre face:
  Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind
    Even with the very ore which makes them base;
  Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
  Or revel in the joys of calculation.

  But whether all, or each, or none of these
    May be the hoarder's principle of action,
  The fool will call such mania a disease:-
    What is his own? Go- look at each transaction,
  Wars, revels, loves- do these bring men more ease
    Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction'?
  Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser!
  Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours- who 's wiser?

  How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests
    Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
  (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests
    Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines,
  But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests
    Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines,
  Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:-
  Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

  'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,'- 'for love
    Is heaven, and heaven is love:'- so sings the bard;
  Which it were rather difficult to prove
    (A thing with poetry in general hard).
  Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,'
    At least it rhymes to 'love;' but I 'm prepared
  To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental)
  If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental.

  But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone:
    Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides;
  Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none;
    Without cash, Malthus tells you- 'take no brides.'
  So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own
    High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides:
  And as for Heaven 'Heaven being Love,' why not say honey
  Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony.

  Is not all love prohibited whatever,
    Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt,
  After a sort; but somehow people never
    With the same thought the two words have help'd out:
  Love may exist with marriage, and should ever,
    And marriage also may exist without;
  But love sans bans is both a sin and shame,
  And ought to go by quite another name.

  Now if the 'court,' and 'camp,' and 'grove,' be not
    Recruited all with constant married men,
  Who never coveted their neighbour's lot,
    I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen;-
  Strange too in my 'buon camerado' Scott,
    So celebrated for his morals, when
  My Jeffrey held him up as an example
  To me;- of whom these morals are a sample.

  Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded,
    And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth,
  The only time when much success is needed:
    And my success produced what I, in sooth,
  Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded-
    Whate'er it was, 't was mine; I 've paid, in truth,
  Of late the penalty of such success,
  But have not learn'd to wish it any less.

  That suit in Chancery,- which some persons plead
    In an appeal to the unborn, whom they,
  In the faith of their procreative creed,
    Baptize posterity, or future clay,-
  To me seems but a dubious kind of reed
    To lean on for support in any way;
  Since odds are that posterity will know
  No more of them, than they of her, I trow.

  Why, I 'm posterity- and so are you;
    And whom do we remember? Not a hundred.
  Were every memory written down all true,
    The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd;
  Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few,
    And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd;
  And Mitford in the nineteenth century
  Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.

  Good people all, of every degree,
    Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers,
  In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be
    As serious as if I had for inditers
  Malthus and Wilberforce:- the last set free
    The Negroes and is worth a million fighters;
  While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites,
  And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes.

  I 'm serious- so are all men upon paper;
    And why should I not form my speculation,
  And hold up to the sun my little taper?
    Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation
  On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour;
    While sages write against all procreation,
  Unless a man can calculate his means
  Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans.

  That 's noble! That 's romantic! For my part,
    I think that 'Philo-genitiveness' is
  (Now here 's a word quite after my own heart,
    Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this,
  If that politeness set it not apart;
    But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss)-
  I say, methinks that 'Philo-genitiveness'
  Might meet from men a little more forgiveness.

  And now to business.- O my gentle Juan,
    Thou art in London- in that pleasant place,
  Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing,
    Which can await warm youth in its wild race.
  'T is true, that thy career is not a new one;
    Thou art no novice in the headlong chase
  Of early life; but this is a new land,
  Which foreigners can never understand.

  What with a small diversity of climate,
    Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate,
  I could send forth my mandate like a primate
    Upon the rest of Europe's social state;
  But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at,
    Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate.
  All countries have their 'Lions,' but in the
  There is but one superb menagerie.

  But I am sick of politics. Begin,
    'Paulo Majora.' Juan, undecided
  Amongst the paths of being 'taken in,'
    Above the ice had like a skater glided:
  When tired of play, he flirted without sin
    With some of those fair creatures who have prided
  Themselves on innocent tantalisation,
  And hate all vice except its reputation.

  But these are few, and in the end they make
    Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows
  That even the purest people may mistake
    Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows;
  And then men stare, as if a new ass spake
    To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows
  Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it)
  With the kind world's amen- 'Who would have thought it?'

  The little Leila, with her orient eyes,
    And taciturn Asiatic disposition
  (Which saw all western things with small surprise,
    To the surprise of people of condition,
  Who think that novelties are butterflies
    To be pursued as food for inanition),
  Her charming figure and romantic history
  Became a kind of fashionable mystery.

  The women much divided- as is usual
    Amongst the sex in little things or great.
  Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all-
    I have always liked you better than I state:
  Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all
    Of being apt to talk at a great rate;
  And now there was a general sensation
  Amongst you, about Leila's education.

  In one point only were you settled- and
    You had reason; 't was that a young child of grace,
  As beautiful as her own native land,
    And far away, the last bud of her race,
  Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command
    Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space,
  Would be much better taught beneath the eye
  Of peeresses whose follies had run dry.

  So first there was a generous emulation,
    And then there was a general competition,
  To undertake the orphan's education.
    As Juan was a person of condition,
  It had been an affront on this occasion
    To talk of a subscription or petition;
  But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages,
  Whose tale belongs to 'Hallam's Middle Ages,'

  And one or two sad, separate wives, without
    A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough-
  Begg'd to bring up the little girl and 'out,'-
    For that 's the phrase that settles all things now,
  Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout,
    And all her points as thorough-bred to show:
  And I assure you, that like virgin honey
  Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money).

  How all the needy honourable misters,
    Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy,
  The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters
    (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy
  At making matches, where ''t is gold that glisters,'
    Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy
  Buzz round 'the Fortune' with their busy battery,
  To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery!

  Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation;
    Nay, married dames will now and then discover
  Such pure disinterestedness of passion,
    I 've known them court an heiress for their lover.
  'Tantaene!' Such the virtues of high station,
    Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's 'Dover!'
  While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares,
  Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs.

  Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen.
    'T is fine to see them scattering refusals
  And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin
    (Friends of the party), who begin accusals,
  Such as- 'Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen
    Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals
  To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray,
  Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day?

  'Why?- Why?- Besides, Fred really was attach'd;
    'T was not her fortune- he has enough without:
  The time will come she 'll wish that she had snatch'd
    So good an opportunity, no doubt:-
  But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd,
    As I 'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout:
  And after all poor Frederick may do better-
  Pray did you see her answer to his letter?'

  Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets
    Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives,
  After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets
    Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives;
  And when at last the pretty creature gets
    Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives,
  It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected
  To find how very badly she selected.

  For sometimes they accept some long pursuer,
    Worn out with importunity; or fall
  (But here perhaps the instances are fewer)
    To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all.
  A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure
    (If 't is not vain examples to recall)
  To draw a high prize: now, howe'er he got her, I
  See nought more strange in this than t' other lottery.

  I, for my part (one 'modern instance' more,
    'True, 't is a pity- pity 't is, 't is true'),
  Was chosen from out an amatory score,
    Albeit my years were less discreet than few;
  But though I also had reform'd before
    Those became one who soon were to be two,
  I 'll not gainsay the generous public's voice,
  That the young lady made a monstrous choice.

  Oh, pardon my digression- or at least
    Peruse! 'T is always with a moral end
  That I dissert, like grace before a feast:
    For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend,
  A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest,
    My Muse by exhortation means to mend
  All people, at all times, and in most places,
  Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces.

  But now I 'm going to be immoral; now
    I mean to show things really as they are,
  Not as they ought to be: for I avow,
    That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far
  From much improvement with that virtuous plough
    Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar
  Upon the black loam long manured by Vice,
  Only to keep its corn at the old price.

  But first of little Leila we 'll dispose;
    For like a day-dawn she was young and pure,
  Or like the old comparison of snows,
    Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure.
  Like many people everybody knows,
    Don Juan was delighted to secure
  A goodly guardian for his infant charge,
  Who might not profit much by being at large.

  Besides, he had found out he was no tutor
    (I wish that others would find out the same);
  And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter,
    For silly wards will bring their guardians blame:
  So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor
    To make his little wild Asiatic tame,
  Consulting 'the Society for Vice
  Suppression,' Lady Pinchbeck was his choice.

  Olden she was- but had been very young;
    Virtuous she was- and had been, I believe;
  Although the world has such an evil tongue
    That- but my chaster ear will not receive
  An echo of a syllable that 's wrong:
    In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve,
  As that abominable tittle-tattle,
  Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.

  Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once
    A slight observer in a modest way),
  And so may every one except a dunce,
    That ladies in their youth a little gay,
  Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense
    Of the sad consequence of going astray,
  Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe
  Which the mere passionless can never know.

  While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue
    By railing at the unknown and envied passion,
  Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you,
    Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion,-
  The kinder veteran with calm words will court you,
    Entreating you to pause before you dash on;
  Expounding and illustrating the riddle
  Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle.

  Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter,
    As better knowing why they should be so,
  I think you 'll find from many a family picture,
    That daughters of such mothers as may know
  The world by experience rather than by lecture,
    Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show
  Of vestals brought into the marriage mart,
  Than those bred up by prudes without a heart.

  I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about-
    As who has not, if female, young, and pretty?
  But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about;
    She merely was deem'd amiable and witty,
  And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about:
    Then she was given to charity and pity,
  And pass'd (at least the latter years of life)
  For being a most exemplary wife.

  High in high circles, gentle in her own,
    She was the mild reprover of the young,
  Whenever- which means every day- they 'd shown
    An awkward inclination to go wrong.
  The quantity of good she did 's unknown,
    Or at the least would lengthen out my song:
  In brief, the little orphan of the East
  Had raised an interest in her, which increased.

  Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her,
    Because she thought him a good heart at bottom,
  A little spoil'd, but not so altogether;
    Which was a wonder, if you think who got him,
  And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither:
    Though this might ruin others, it did not him,
  At least entirely- for he had seen too many
  Changes in youth, to be surprised at any.

  And these vicissitudes tell best in youth;
    For when they happen at a riper age,
  People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth,
    And wonder Providence is not more sage.
  Adversity is the first path to truth:
    He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage,
  Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty,
  Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty.

  How far it profits is another matter.-
    Our hero gladly saw his little charge
  Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter
    Being long married, and thus set at large,
  Had left all the accomplishments she taught her
    To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge,
  To the next comer; or- as it will tell
  More Muse-like- like to Cytherea's shell.

  I call such things transmission; for there is
    A floating balance of accomplishment
  Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss,
    According as their minds or backs are bent.
  Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
    Of metaphysics; others are content
  With music; the most moderate shine as wits;
  While others have a genius turn'd for fits.

  But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords,
    Theology, fine arts, or finer stays,
  May be the baits for gentlemen or lords
    With regular descent, in these our days,
  The last year to the new transfers its hoards;
    New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise
  Of 'elegant' et caetera, in fresh batches-
  All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches.

  But now I will begin my poem. 'T is
    Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new,
  That from the first of Cantos up to this
    I 've not begun what we have to go through.
  These first twelve books are merely flourishes,
    Preludios, trying just a string or two
  Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure;
  And when so, you shall have the overture.

  My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin
    About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding:
  Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen;
    'T is a 'great moral lesson' they are reading.
  I thought, at setting off, about two dozen
    Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading,
  If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd,
  I think to canter gently through a hundred.

  Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts,
    Yclept the Great World; for it is the least,
  Although the highest: but as swords have hilts
    By which their power of mischief is increased,
  When man in battle or in quarrel tilts,
    Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east,
  Must still obey the high- which is their handle,
  Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.

  He had many friends who had many wives, and was
    Well look'd upon by both, to that extent
  Of friendship which you may accept or pass,
    It does nor good nor harm being merely meant
  To keep the wheels going of the higher class,
    And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent:
  And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls,
  For the first season such a life scarce palls.

  A young unmarried man, with a good name
    And fortune, has an awkward part to play;
  For good society is but a game,
    'The royal game of Goose,' as I may say,
  Where every body has some separate aim,
    An end to answer, or a plan to lay-
  The single ladies wishing to be double,
  The married ones to save the virgins trouble.

  I don't mean this as general, but particular
    Examples may be found of such pursuits:
  Though several also keep their perpendicular
    Like poplars, with good principles for roots;
  Yet many have a method more reticular-
    'Fishers for men,' like sirens with soft lutes:
  For talk six times with the same single lady,
  And you may get the wedding dresses ready.

  Perhaps you 'll have a letter from the mother,
    To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd;
  Perhaps you 'll have a visit from the brother,
    All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand
  What 'your intentions are?'- One way or other
    It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand:
  And between pity for her case and yours,
  You 'll add to Matrimony's list of cures.

  I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus,
    And some of them high names: I have also known
  Young men who- though they hated to discuss
    Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown-
  Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss,
    Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone,
  And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair,
  In happier plight than if they form'd a pair.

  There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated,
    A peril- not indeed like love or marriage,
  But not the less for this to be depreciated:
    It is- I meant and mean not to disparage
  The show of virtue even in the vitiated-
    It adds an outward grace unto their carriage-
  But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot,
  'Couleur de rose,' who 's neither white nor scarlet.

  Such is your cold coquette, who can't say 'No,'
    And won't say 'Yes,' and keeps you on and off-ing
  On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow-
    Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
  This works a world of sentimental woe,
    And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin;
  But yet is merely innocent flirtation,
  Not quite adultery, but adulteration.

  'Ye gods, I grow a talker!' Let us prate.
    The next of perils, though I place it sternest,
  Is when, without regard to 'church or state,'
    A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest.
  Abroad, such things decide few women's fate-
    (Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest)-
  But in old England, when a young bride errs,
  Poor thing! Eve's was a trifling case to hers.

  For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit
    Country, where a young couple of the same ages
  Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it.
  A verdict- grievous foe to those who cause it!-
    Forms a sad climax to romantic homages;
  Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders,
  And evidences which regale all readers.

  But they who blunder thus are raw beginners;
    A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy
  Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners,
    The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy;
  You may see such at all the balls and dinners,
    Among the proudest of our aristocracy,
  So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste-
  And all by having tact as well as taste.

  Juan, who did not stand in the predicament
    Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more;
  For he was sick- no, 't was not the word sick I meant-
    But he had seen so much love before,
  That he was not in heart so very weak;- I meant
    But thus much, and no sneer against the shore
  Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings,
  Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings.

  But coming young from lands and scenes romantic,
    Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion,
  And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic,
    Into a country where 't is half a fashion,
  Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic,
    Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation:
  Besides (alas! his taste- forgive and pity!)
  At first he did not think the women pretty.

  I say at first- for he found out at last,
    But by degrees, that they were fairer far
  Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast
    Beneath the influence of the eastern star.
  A further proof we should not judge in haste;
    Yet inexperience could not be his bar
  To taste:- the truth is, if men would confess,
  That novelties please less than they impress.

  Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to
    Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger,
  To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo,
    Where Geography finds no one to oblige her
  With such a chart as may be safely stuck to-
    For Europe ploughs in Afric like 'bos piger:'
  But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there
  No doubt I should be told that black is fair.

  It is. I will not swear that black is white;
    But I suspect in fact that white is black,
  And the whole matter rests upon eyesight.
    Ask a blind man, the best judge. You 'll attack
  Perhaps this new position- but I 'm right;
    Or if I 'm wrong, I 'll not be ta'en aback:-
  He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark
  Within; and what seest thou? A dubious spark.

  But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics,
    That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same
  Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics,
    Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame;
  And this reflection brings me to plain physics,
    And to the beauties of a foreign dame,
  Compared with those of our pure pearls of price,
  Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice.

  Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose
    Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes;-
  Not that there 's not a quantity of those
    Who have a due respect for their own wishes.
  Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows
    Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious:
  They warm into a scrape, but keep of course,
  As a reserve, a plunge into remorse.

  But this has nought to do with their outsides.
    I said that Juan did not think them pretty
  At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides
    Half her attractions- probably from pity-
  And rather calmly into the heart glides,
    Than storms it as a foe would take a city;
  But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try)
  She keeps it for you like a true ally.

  She cannot step as does an Arab barb,
    Or Andalusian girl from mass returning,
  Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb,
    Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning;
  Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb-
    le those bravuras (which I still am learning
  To like, though I have been seven years in Italy,
  And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);-

  She cannot do these things, nor one or two
    Others, in that off-hand and dashing style
  Which takes so much- to give the devil his due;
    Nor is she quite so ready with her smile,
  Nor settles all things in one interview
    (A thing approved as saving time and toil);-
  But though the soil may give you time and trouble,
  Well cultivated, it will render double.

  And if in fact she takes to a 'grande passion,'
    It is a very serious thing indeed:
  Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion,
    Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead,
  The pride of a mere child with a new sash on,
    Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed:
  But the tenth instance will be a tornado,
  For there 's no saying what they will or may do.

  The reason 's obvious; if there 's an eclat,
    They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias;
  And when the delicacies of the law
    Have fill'd their papers with their comments various,
  Society, that china without flaw
    (The hypocrite!), will banish them like Marius,
  To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt:
  For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt.

  Perhaps this is as it should be;- it is
    A comment on the Gospel's 'Sin no more,
  And be thy sins forgiven:'- but upon this
    I leave the saints to settle their own score.
  Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss,
    An erring woman finds an opener door
  For her return to Virtue- as they cal
  That lady, who should be at home to all.

  For me, I leave the matter where I find it,
    Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads
  People some ten times less in fact to mind it,
    And care but for discoveries and not deeds.
  And as for chastity, you 'll never bind it
    By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads,
  But aggravate the crime you have not prevented,
  By rendering desperate those who had else repented.

  But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd
    Upon the moral lessons of mankind:
  Besides, he had not seen of several hundred
    A lady altogether to his mind.
  A little 'blase'- 't is not to be wonder'd
    At, that his heart had got a tougher rind:
  And though not vainer from his past success,
  No doubt his sensibilities were less.

  He also had been busy seeing sights-
    The Parliament and all the other houses;
  Had sat beneath the gallery at nights,
    To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses)
  The world to gaze upon those northern lights
    Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses;
  He had also stood at times behind the throne-
  But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone.

  He saw, however, at the closing session,
    That noble sight, when really free the nation,
  A king in constitutional possession
    Of such a throne as is the proudest station,
  Though despots know it not- till the progression
    Of freedom shall complete their education.
  'T is not mere splendour makes the show august
  To eye or heart- it is the people's trust.

  There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now)
    A Prince, the prince of princes at the time,
  With fascination in his very bow,
    And full of promise, as the spring of prime.
  Though royalty was written on his brow,
    He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime,
  Of being, without alloy of fop or beau,
  A finish'd gentleman from top to toe.

  And Juan was received, as hath been said,
    Into the best society: and there
  Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid,
    However disciplined and debonnaire:-
  The talent and good humour he display'd,
    Besides the mark'd distinction of his air,
  Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation,
  Even though himself avoided the occasion.

  But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why,
    Is not to be put hastily together;
  And as my object is morality
    (Whatever people say), I don't know whether
  I 'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry,
    But harrow up his feelings till they wither,
  And hew out a huge monument of pathos,
  As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.

  Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction
    Ends. When the body of the book 's begun,
  You 'll find it of a different construction
    From what some people say 't will be when done:
  The plan at present 's simply in concoction,
    I can't oblige you, reader, to read on;
  That 's your affair, not mine: a real spirit
  Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it.

  And if my thunderbolt not always rattles,
    Remember, reader! you have had before
  The worst of tempests and the best of battles
    That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore,
  Besides the most sublime of- Heaven knows what else:
    An usurer could scarce expect much more-
  But my best canto, save one on astronomy,
  Will turn upon 'political economy.'

  That is your present theme for popularity:
    Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake,
  It grows an act of patriotic charity,
    To show the people the best way to break.
  My plan (but I, if but for singularity,
    Reserve it) will be very sure to take.
  Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers,
  And tell me what you think of your great thinkers.
               CANTO THE THIRTEENTH.

  I NOW mean to be serious;- it is time,
    Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
  A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime,
    And critically held as deleterious:
  Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime,
    Although when long a little apt to weary us;
  And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
  As an old temple dwindled to a column.

  The Lady Adeline Amundeville
    ('T is an old Norman name, and to be found
  In pedigrees, by those who wander still
    Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
  Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
    And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
  In Britain- which of course true patriots find
  The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

  I 'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
    I 'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:
  An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue,
    Is no great matter, so 't is in request,
  'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue-
    The kindest may be taken as a test.
  The fair sex should be always fair; and no man,
  Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman.

  And after that serene and somewhat dull
    Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days
  More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full,
    We may presume to criticise or praise;
  Because indifference begins to lull
    Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways;
  Also because the figure and the face
  Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place.

  I know that some would fain postpone this era,
    Reluctant as all placemen to resign
  Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera,
    For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line:
  But then they have their claret and Madeira
    To irrigate the dryness of decline;
  And county meetings, and the parliament,
  And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.

  And is there not religion, and reform,
    Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the 'Nation'?
  The struggle to be pilots in a storm?
    The landed and the monied speculation?
  The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm,
    Instead of love, that mere hallucination?
  Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure;
  Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

  Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd,
    Right honestly, 'he liked an honest hater!'-
  The only truth that yet has been confest
    Within these latest thousand years or later.
  Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest:-
    For my part, I am but a mere spectator,
  And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is,
  Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles;

  But neither love nor hate in much excess;
    Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes,
  It is because I cannot well do less,
    And now and then it also suits my rhymes.
  I should be very willing to redress
    Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes,
  Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale
  Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.

  Of all tales 't is the saddest- and more sad,
    Because it makes us smile: his hero 's right,
  And still pursues the right;- to curb the bad
    His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight
  His guerdon: 't is his virtue makes him mad!
    But his adventures form a sorry sight;
  A sorrier still is the great moral taught
  By that real epic unto all who have thought.

  Redressing injury, revenging wrong,
    To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff;
  Opposing singly the united strong,
    From foreign yoke to free the helpless native:-
  Alas! must noblest views, like an old song,
    Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative,
  A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought!
  And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote?

  Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away;
    A single laugh demolish'd the right arm
  Of his own country;- seldom since that day
    Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm,
  The world gave ground before her bright array;
    And therefore have his volumes done such harm,
  That all their glory, as a composition,
  Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition.

  I 'm 'at my old lunes'- digression, and forget
    The Lady Adeline Amundeville;
  The fair most fatal Juan ever met,
    Although she was not evil nor meant ill;
  But Destiny and Passion spread the net
    (Fate is a good excuse for our own will),
  And caught them;- what do they not catch, methinks?
  But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx.

  I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare
    To venture a solution: 'Davus sum!'
  And now I will proceed upon the pair.
    Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum,
  Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair;
    Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb.
  The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd,
  And since that time there has not been a second.

  Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation,
    And wedded unto one she had loved well-
  A man known in the councils of the nation,
    Cool, and quite English, imperturbable,
  Though apt to act with fire upon occasion,
    Proud of himself and her: the world could tell
  Nought against either, and both seem'd secure-
  She in her virtue, he in his hauteur.

  It chanced some diplomatical relations,
    Arising out of business, often brought
  Himself and Juan in their mutual stations
    Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught
  By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience,
    And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought,
  And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends
  In making men what courtesy calls friends.

  And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as
    Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow
  In judging men- when once his judgment was
    Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe,
  Had all the pertinacity pride has,
    Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow,
  And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided,
  Because its own good pleasure hath decided.

  His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions,
    Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more
  His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians
    And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before.
  His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians,
    Of common likings, which make some deplore
  What they should laugh at- the mere ague still
  Of men's regard, the fever or the chill.

  ''T is not in mortals to command success:
    But do you more, Sempronius- don't deserve it,'
  And take my word, you won't have any less.
    Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it;
  Give gently way, when there 's too great a press;
    And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,
  For, like a racer, or a boxer training,
  'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining.

  Lord Henry also liked to be superior,
    As most men do, the little or the great;
  The very lowest find out an inferior,
    At least they think so, to exert their state
  Upon: for there are very few things wearier
    Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight,
  Which mortals generously would divide,
  By bidding others carry while they ride.

  In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal,
    O'er Juan he could no distinction claim;
  In years he had the advantage of time's sequel;
    And, as he thought, in country much the same-
  Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill,
    At which all modern nations vainly aim;
  And the Lord Henry was a great debater,
  So that few members kept the house up later.

  These were advantages: and then he thought-
    It was his foible, but by no means sinister-
  That few or none more than himself had caught
    Court mysteries, having been himself a minister:
  He liked to teach that which he had been taught,
    And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir;
  And reconciled all qualities which grace man,
  Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman.

  He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity;
    He almost honour'd him for his docility;
  Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity,
    Or contradicted but with proud humility.
  He knew the world, and would not see depravity
    In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility,
  If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop-
  For then they are very difficult to stop.

  And then he talk'd with him about Madrid,
    Constantinople, and such distant places;
  Where people always did as they were bid,
    Or did what they should not with foreign graces.
  Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid
    Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races;
  And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian,
  Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian.

  And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs,
    And diplomatic dinners, or at other-
  For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs,
    As in freemasonry a higher brother.
  Upon his talent Henry had no doubts;
    His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother;
  And all men like to show their hospitality
  To him whose breeding matches with his quality.

  At Blank-Blank Square;- for we will break no squares
    By naming streets: since men are so censorious,
  And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares,
    Reaping allusions private and inglorious,
  Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs,
    Which were, or are, or are to be notorious,
  That therefore do I previously declare,
  Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square.

  Also there bin another pious reason
    For making squares and streets anonymous;
  Which is, that there is scarce a single season
    Which doth not shake some very splendid house
  With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason-
    A topic scandal doth delight to rouse:
  Such I might stumble over unawares,
  Unless I knew the very chastest squares.

  'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly,
    A place where peccadillos are unknown;
  But I have motives, whether wise or silly,
    For letting that pure sanctuary alone.
  Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I
    Find one where nothing naughty can be shown,
  A vestal shrine of innocence of heart:

  At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square,
    Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest,
  As many other noble scions were;
    And some who had but talent for their crest;
  Or wealth, which is a passport every where;
    Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best
  Recommendation; and to be well drest
  Will very often supersede the rest.

  And since 'there 's safety in a multitude
    Of counsellors,' as Solomon has said,
  Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood;-
    Indeed we see the daily proof display'd
  In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud,
    Where'er collective wisdom can parade,
  Which is the only cause that we can guess
  Of Britain's present wealth and happiness;-

  But as 'there 's safety' grafted in the number
    'Of counsellors' for men, thus for the sex
  A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber;
    Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex-
  Variety itself will more encumber.
    'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks;
  And thus with women: howsoe'er it shocks some's
  Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs.

  But Adeline had not the least occasion
    For such a shield, which leaves but little merit
  To virtue proper, or good education.
    Her chief resource was in her own high spirit,
  Which judged mankind at their due estimation;
    And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it:
  Secure of admiration, its impression
  Was faint, as of an every-day possession.

  To all she was polite without parade;
    To some she show'd attention of that kind
  Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd
    In such a sort as cannot leave behind
  A trace unworthy either wife or maid;-
    A gentle, genial courtesy of mind,
  To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious,
  Just to console sad glory for being glorious;

  Which is in all respects, save now and then,
    A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze
  Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men
    Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise,
  The praise of persecution; gaze again
    On the most favour'd; and amidst the blaze
  Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd,
  What can ye recognise?- a gilded cloud.

  There also was of course in Adeline
    That calm patrician polish in the address,
  Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line
    Of any thing which nature would express;
  Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,-
    At least his manner suffers not to guess
  That any thing he views can greatly please.
  Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese-

  Perhaps from Horace: his 'Nil admirari'
    Was what he call'd the 'Art of Happiness;'
  An art on which the artists greatly vary,
    And have not yet attain'd to much success.
  However, 't is expedient to be wary:
    Indifference certes don't produce distress;
  And rash enthusiasm in good society
  Were nothing but a moral inebriety.

  But Adeline was not indifferent: for
    (Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow,
  As a volcano holds the lava more
    Within- et caetera. Shall I go on?- No!
  I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor,
    So let the often-used volcano go.
  Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others,
  It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers!

  I 'll have another figure in a trice:-
    What say you to a bottle of champagne?
  Frozen into a very vinous ice,
    Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain,
  Yet in the very centre, past all price,
    About a liquid glassful will remain;
  And this is stronger than the strongest grape
  Could e'er express in its expanded shape:

  'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence;
    And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre
  A hidden nectar under a cold presence.
    And such are many- though I only meant her
  From whom I now deduce these moral lessons,
    On which the Muse has always sought to enter.
  And your cold people are beyond all price,
  When once you have broken their confounded ice.

  But after all they are a North-West Passage
    Unto the glowing India of the soul;
  And as the good ships sent upon that message
    Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole
  (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage),
    Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal;
  For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost
  (A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost.

  And young beginners may as well commence
    With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman;
  While those who are not beginners should have sense
    Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon
  With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense,
    The dreary 'Fuimus' of all things human,
  Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out
  Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.

  But heaven must be diverted; its diversion
    Is sometimes truculent- but never mind:
  The world upon the whole is worth the assertion
    (If but for comfort) that all things are kind:
  And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,
    Of the two principles, but leaves behind
  As many doubts as any other doctrine
  Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.

  The English winter- ending in July,
    To recommence in August- now was done.
  'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly;
    On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run.
  But for post-horses who finds sympathy?
    Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son,
  Always premising that said son at college
  Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.

  The London winter 's ended in July-
    Sometimes a little later. I don't err
  In this: whatever other blunders lie
    Upon my shoulders, here I must aver
  My Muse a glass of weatherology;
    For parliament is our barometer:
  Let radicals its other acts attack,
  Its sessions form our only almanack.

  When its quicksilver 's down at zero,- lo
    Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!
  Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho,
    And happiest they who horses can engage;
  The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row
    Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;
  And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,
  Sigh- as the postboys fasten on the traces.

  They and their bills, 'Arcadians both,' are left
    To the Greek kalends of another session.
  Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,
    What hope remains? Of hope the full possession,
  Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,
    At a long date- till they can get a fresh one-
  Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large;
  Also the solace of an overcharge.

  But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord,
    Nodding beside my lady in his carriage.
  Away! away! 'Fresh horses!' are the word,
    And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage;
  The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
    The postboys have no reason to disparage
  Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence,
  The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence.

  'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey-
    That gentleman of lords and gentlemen;
  Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky,
    Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen
  Can paint,- 'Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!'
    (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,
  If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel,
  Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)

  The London winter and the country summer
    Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity,
  When nature wears the gown that doth become her,
    To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
  And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
    Listening debates not very wise or witty,
  Ere patriots their true country can remember;-
  But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September.

  I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone;
    The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made,
  Were vanish'd to be what they call alone-
    That is, with thirty servants for parade,
  As many guests, or more; before whom groan
    As many covers, duly, daily, laid.
  Let none accuse Old England's hospitality-
  Its quantity is but condensed to quality.

  Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline
    Departed like the rest of their compeers,
  The peerage, to a mansion very fine;
    The Gothic Babel of a thousand years.
  None than themselves could boast a longer line,
    Where time through heroes and through beauties steers;
  And oaks as olden as their pedigree
  Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.

  A paragraph in every paper told
    Of their departure: such is modern fame:
  'T is pity that it takes no farther hold
    Than an advertisement, or much the same;
  When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold.
    The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim-
  'Departure, for his country seat, to-day,
  Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.

  'We understand the splendid host intends
    To entertain, this autumn, a select
  And numerous party of his noble friends;
    'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct,
    With many more by rank and fashion deck'd;
  Also a foreigner of high condition,
  The envoy of the secret Russian mission.'

  And thus we see- who doubts the Morning Post?
    (Whose articles are like the 'Thirty-nine,'
  Which those most swear to who believe them most)-
    Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine,
  Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host,
    With those who, Pope says, 'greatly daring dine.'
  'T is odd, but true,- last war the News abounded
  More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded;-

  As thus: 'On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
    Present, Lords A. B. C.'- Earls, dukes, by name
  Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner:
    Then underneath, and in the very same
  Column; date, 'Falmouth. There has lately been here
    The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame,
  Whose loss in the late action we regret:
  The vacancies are fill'd up- see Gazette.'

  To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,-
    An old, old monastery once, and now
  Still older mansion; of a rich and rare
    Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow
  Few specimens yet left us can compare
    Withal: it lies perhaps a little low,
  Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind,
  To shelter their devotion from the wind.

  It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,
    Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak
  Stood like Caractacus in act to rally
    His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke;
  And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally
    The dappled foresters- as day awoke,
  The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
  To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.

  Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,
    Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
  By a river, which its soften'd way did take
    In currents through the calmer water spread
  Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake
    And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
  The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
  With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.

  Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,
    Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding,
  Its shriller echoes- like an infant made
    Quiet- sank into softer ripples, gliding
  Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd,
    Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding
  Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue,
  According as the skies their shadows threw.

  A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile
    (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart
  In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle.
    These last had disappear'd- a loss to art:
  The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,
    And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,
  Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march,
  In gazing on that venerable arch.

  Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,
    Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone;
  But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,
    But in the war which struck Charles from his throne,
  When each house was a fortalice, as tell
    The annals of full many a line undone,-
  The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain
  For those who knew not to resign or reign.

  But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned,
    The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child,
  With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round,
    Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd;
  She made the earth below seem holy ground.
    This may be superstition, weak or wild,
  But even the faintest relics of a shrine
  Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.

  A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
    Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
  Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter,
    Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings,
  Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
    The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings
  The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire
  Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

  But in the noontide of the moon, and when
    The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
  There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
    Is musical- a dying accent driven
  Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
    Some deem it but the distant echo given
  Back to the night wind by the waterfall,
  And harmonised by the old choral wall:

  Others, that some original shape, or form
    Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power
  (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm
    In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour)
  To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.
    Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower;
  The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such
  The fact:- I 've heard it- once perhaps too much.

  Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd,
    Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint-
  Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,
    And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
  The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made,
    And sparkled into basins, where it spent
  Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,
  Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

  The mansion's self was vast and venerable,
    With more of the monastic than has been
  Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,
    The cells, too, and refectory, I ween:
  An exquisite small chapel had been able,
    Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene;
  The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk,
  And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

  Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd
    By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
  Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined,
    Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts,
  Yet left a grand impression on the mind,
    At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts:
  We gaze upon a giant for his stature,
  Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

  Steel barons, molten the next generation
    To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls,
  Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
    And Lady Marys blooming into girls,
  With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
    And countesses mature in robes and pearls:
  Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely,
  Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.

  Judges in very formidable ermine
    Were there, with brows that did not much invite
  The accused to think their lordships would determine
    His cause by leaning much from might to right:
  Bishops, who had not left a single sermon:
    Attorneys-general, awful to the sight,
  As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us)
  Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'

  Generals, some all in armour, of the old
    And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead;
  Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold,
    Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
  Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:
    Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed;
  And here and there some stern high patriot stood,
  Who could not get the place for which he sued.

  But ever and anon, to soothe your vision,
    Fatigued with these hereditary glories,
  There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,
    Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's;
  Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone
    In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories
  Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted
  His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

  Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine;
    There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light,
  Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain
    Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:-
  But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,
    Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight:
  His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish
  Or Dutch with thirst- What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.

  O reader! if that thou canst read,- and know,
    'T is not enough to spell, or even to read,
  To constitute a reader; there must go
    Virtues of which both you and I have need;-
  Firstly, begin with the beginning (though
    That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed;
  Thirdly, commence not with the end- or, sinning
  In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

  But, reader, thou hast patient been of late,
    While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear,
  Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,
    Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.
  That poets were so from their earliest date,
    By Homer's 'Catalogue of ships' is clear;
  But a mere modern must be moderate-
  I spare you then the furniture and plate.

  The mellow autumn came, and with it came
    The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
  The corn is cut, the manor full of game;
    The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
  In russet jacket:- lynx-like is his aim;
    Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.
  Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
  And ah, ye poachers!- 'T is no sport for peasants.

  An English autumn, though it hath no vines,
    Blushing with Bacchant coronals along
  The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines
    The red grape in the sunny lands of song,
  Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines;
    The claret light, and the Madeira strong.
  If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her,
  The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

  Then, if she hath not that serene decline
    Which makes the southern autumn's day appear
  As if 't would to a second spring resign
    The season, rather than to winter drear,
  Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,-
    The sea-coal fires the 'earliest of the year;'
  Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow,
  As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.

  And for the effeminate villeggiatura-
    Rife with more horns than hounds- she hath the chase,
  So animated that it might allure
    Saint from his beads to join the jocund race;
  Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,
    And wear the Melton jacket for a space:
  If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame
  Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.

  The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey,
    Consisted of- we give the sex the pas-
  The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby;
    The Ladies Scilly, Busey;- Miss Eclat,
  Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby,
    And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw;
  Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep,
  Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:

  With other Countesses of Blank- but rank;
    At once the 'lie' and the 'elite' of crowds;
  Who pass like water filter'd in a tank,
    All purged and pious from their native clouds;
  Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank:
    No matter how or why, the passport shrouds
  The 'passee' and the past; for good society
  Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,-

  That is, up to a certain point; which point
    Forms the most difficult in punctuation.
  Appearances appear to form the joint
    On which it hinges in a higher station;
  And so that no explosion cry 'Aroint
    Thee, witch!' or each Medea has her Jason;
  Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci)
  'Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.'

  I can't exactly trace their rule of right,
    Which hath a little leaning to a lottery.
  I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite
    By the mere combination of a coterie;
  Also a so-so matron boldly fight
    Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,
  And shine the very Siria of the spheres,
  Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.

  I have seen more than I 'll say:- but we will see
    How our villeggiatura will get on.
  The party might consist of thirty-three
    Of highest caste- the Brahmins of the ton.
  I have named a few, not foremost in degree,
    But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run.
  By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these,
  There also were some Irish absentees.

  There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
    Who limits all his battles to the bar
  And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,
    He shows more appetite for words than war.
  There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
    Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star.
  There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker;
  And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

  There was the Duke of Dash, who was a- duke,
    'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers
  Like Charlemagne's- and all such peers in look
    And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
  For commoners had ever them mistook.
    There were the six Miss Rawbolds- pretty dears!
  All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
  Less on a convent than a coronet.

  There were four Honourable Misters, whose
    Honour was more before their names than after;
  There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,
    Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here,
  Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;
    But the clubs found it rather serious laughter,
  Because- such was his magic power to please-
  The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees.

  There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,
    Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;
  Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;
    Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.
  There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,
    Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
  And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
  Good at all things, but better at a bet.

  There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman;
    And General Fireface, famous in the field,
  A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
    Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.
  There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,
    In his grave office so completely skill'd,
  That when a culprit came far condemnation,
  He had his judge's joke for consolation.

  Good company 's a chess-board- there are kings,
    Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world 's a game;
  Save that the puppets pull at their own strings,
    Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.
  My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,
    Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
  Alighting rarely:- were she but a hornet,
  Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

  I had forgotten- but must not forget-
    An orator, the latest of the session,
  Who had deliver'd well a very set
    Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression
  Upon debate: the papers echoed yet
    With his debut, which made a strong impression,
  And rank'd with what is every day display'd-
  'The best first speech that ever yet was made.'

  Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote
    And lost virginity of oratory,
  Proud of his learning (just enough to quote),
    He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory:
  With memory excellent to get by rote,
    With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story,
  Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery,
  'His country's pride,' he came down to the country.

  There also were two wits by acclamation,
    Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,
  Both lawyers and both men of education;
    But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed:
  Longbow was rich in an imagination
    As beautiful and bounding as a steed,
  But sometimes stumbling over a potato,-
  While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.

  Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;
    But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp,
  With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,
    And make a music, whether flat or sharp.
  Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word:
    At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp:
  Both wits- one born so, and the other bred-
  This by his heart, his rival by his head.

  If all these seem a heterogeneous mas
    To be assembled at a country seat,
  Yet think, a specimen of every class
    Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.
  The days of Comedy are gone, alas!
    When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete:
  Society is smooth'd to that excess,
  That manners hardly differ more than dress.

  Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground-
    Ridiculous enough, but also dull;
  Professions, too, are no more to be found
    Professional; and there is nought to cull
  Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound,
    They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull.
  Society is now one polish'd horde,
  Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

  But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning
    The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth;
  And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,
    You may be Boaz, and I- modest Ruth.
  Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening
    Forbids. it great impression in my youth
  Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries,
  'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'

  But what we can we glean in this vile age
    Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.
  I must not quite omit the talking sage,
    Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist,
  Who, in his common-place book, had a page
    Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'-
  'Alas, poor ghost!'- What unexpected woes
  Await those who have studied their bon-mots!

  Firstly, they must allure the conversation
    By many windings to their clever clinch;
  And secondly, must let slip no occasion,
    Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,
  But take an ell- and make a great sensation,
    If possible; and thirdly, never flinch
  When some smart talker puts them to the test,
  But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best.

  Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts;
    The party we have touch'd on were the guests:
  Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
    To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
  I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
    Albeit all human history attests
  That happiness for man- the hungry sinner!-
  Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

  Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,'
    Held out unto the hungry Israelites;
  To this we have added since, the love of money,
    The only sort of pleasure which requites.
  Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
    We tire of mistresses and parasites;
  But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee?
  When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

  The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,
    Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport-
  The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
    The middle-aged to make the day more short;
  For ennui is a growth of English root,
    Though nameless in our language:- we retort
  The fact for words, and let the French translate
  That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.

  The elderly walk'd through the library,
    And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
  Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously,
    And made upon the hot-house several strictures,
  Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
    Or on the morning papers read their lectures,
  Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
  Longing at sixty for the hour of six.

  But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union
    Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were
  Masters of their own time- or in communion,
    Or solitary, as they chose to bear
  The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
    Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
  What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
  When, where, and how he chose for that repast.

  The ladies- some rouged, some a little pale-
    Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
  Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale,
    Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
  Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail,
    And settled bonnets by the newest code,
  Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
  To make each correspondent a new debtor.

  For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
    The earth has nothing like a she epistle,
  And hardly heaven- because it never ends.
    I love the mystery of a female missal,
  Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
    But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
  When he allured poor Dolon:- you had better
  Take care what you reply to such a letter.

  Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;-
    Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;-
  Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice,
    And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
  And angling, too, that solitary vice,
    Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says;
  The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
  Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

  With evening came the banquet and the wine;
    The conversazione; the duet,
  Attuned by voices more or less divine
    (My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
  The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
    But the two youngest loved more to be set
  Down to the harp- because to music's charms
  They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

  Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
    For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
  Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze;
    Then there was small-talk ready when required;
  Flirtation- but decorous; the mere praise
    Of charms that should or should not be admired.
  The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again,
  And then retreated soberly- at ten.

  The politicians, in a nook apart,
    Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres;
  The wits watch'd every loophole for their art,
    To introduce a bon-mot head and ears;
  Small is the rest of those who would be smart,
    A moment's good thing may have cost them years
  Before they find an hour to introduce it;
  And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

  But all was gentle and aristocratic
    In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold,
  As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
    There now are no Squire Westerns as of old;
  And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
    But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
  We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones,
  But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

  They separated at an early hour;
    That is, ere midnight- which is London's noon:
  But in the country ladies seek their bower
    A little earlier than the waning moon.
  Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower-
    May the rose call back its true colour soon!
  Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,
  And lower the price of rouge- at least some winters.
               CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.

  IF from great nature's or our own abyss
    Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
  Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-
    But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
  One system eats another up, and this
    Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
  For when his pious consort gave him stones
  In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

  But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
    And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
  Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
    After due search, your faith to any question?
  Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
    You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
  Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
  And yet what are your other evidences?

  For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
    Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
  Except perhaps that you were born to die?
    And both may after all turn out untrue.
  An age may come, Font of Eternity,
    When nothing shall be either old or new.
  Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
  And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

  A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
    Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
  How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
    The very Suicide that pays his debt
  At once without instalments (an old way
    Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
  Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
  Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

  'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
    And there 's a courage which grows out of fear,
  Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
    The worst to know it:- when the mountains rear
  Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
    You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
  The gulf of rock yawns,- you can't gaze a minute
  Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

  'T is true, you don't- but, pale and struck with terror,
    Retire: but look into your past impression!
  And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror
    Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession,
  The lurking bias, be it truth or error,
    To the unknown; a secret prepossession,
  To plunge with all your fears- but where? You know not,
  And that's the reason why you do- or do not.

  But what 's this to the purpose? you will say.
    Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation,
  For which my sole excuse is- 't is my way;
    Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion
  I write what 's uppermost, without delay:
    This narrative is not meant for narration,
  But a mere airy and fantastic basis,
  To build up common things with common places.

  You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith,
    'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;'
  And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
    Is poesy, according as the mind glows;
  A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death,
    A shadow which the onward soul behind throws:
  And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise,
  But just to play with, as an infant plays.

  The world is all before me- or behind;
    For I have seen a portion of that same,
  And quite enough for me to keep in mind;-
    Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame,
  To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind,
    Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame;
  For I was rather famous in my time,
  Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.

  I have brought this world about my ears, and eke
    The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who
  Upon my head have bid their thunders break
    In pious libels by no means a few.
  And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
    Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
  In youth I wrote because my mind was full,
  And now because I feel it growing dull.

  But 'why then publish?'- There are no rewards
    Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.
  I ask in turn,- Why do you play at cards?
    Why drink? Why read?- To make some hour less dreary.
  It occupies me to turn back regards
    On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery;
  And what I write I cast upon the stream,
  To swim or sink- I have had at least my dream.

  I think that were I certain of success,
    I hardly could compose another line:
  So long I 've battled either more or less,
    That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
  This feeling 't is not easy to express,
    And yet 't is not affected, I opine.
  In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing-
  The one is winning, and the other losing.

  Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
    She gathers a repertory of facts,
  Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
    But mostly sings of human things and acts-
  And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction;
    For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
  And were her object only what 's call'd glory,
  With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.

  Love, war, a tempest- surely there 's variety;
    Also a seasoning slight of lucubration;
  A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society;
    A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
  If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety
    Both in performance and in preparation;
  And though these lines should only line portmanteaus,
  Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.

  The portion of this world which I at present
    Have taken up to fill the following sermon,
  Is one of which there 's no description recent.
    The reason why is easy to determine:
  Although it seems both prominent and pleasant,
    There is a sameness in its gems and ermine,
  A dull and family likeness through all ages,
  Of no great promise for poetic pages.

  With much to excite, there 's little to exalt;
    Nothing that speaks to all men and all times;
  A sort of varnish over every fault;
    A kind of common-place, even in their crimes;
  Factitious passions, wit without much salt,
    A want of that true nature which sublimes
  Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony
  Of character, in those at least who have got any.

  Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade,
    They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill;
  But then the roll-call draws them back afraid,
    And they must be or seem what they were: still
  Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade;
    But when of the first sight you have had your fill,
  It palls- at least it did so upon me,
  This paradise of pleasure and ennui.

  When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,
    Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more;
  With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming;
    Seen beauties brought to market by the score,
  Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming;
    There 's little left but to be bored or bore.
  Witness those 'ci-devant jeunes hommes' who stem
  The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.

  'T is said- indeed a general complaint-
    That no one has succeeded in describing
  The monde, exactly as they ought to paint:
    Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing
  The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint,
    To furnish matter for their moral gibing;
  And that their books have but one style in common-
  My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.

  But this can't well be true, just now; for writers
    Are grown of the beau monde a part potential:
  I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters,
    Especially when young, for that 's essential.
  Why do their sketches fail them as inditers
    Of what they deem themselves most consequential,
  The real portrait of the highest tribe?
  'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe.

  'Haud ignara loquor;' these are Nugae, 'quarum
    Pars parva fui,' but still art and part.
  Now I could much more easily sketch a harem,
    A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,
  Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em,
    For reasons which I choose to keep apart.
  'Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit-'
  Which means that vulgar people must not share it.

  And therefore what I throw off is ideal-
    Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons;
  Which bears the same relation to the real,
    As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's.
  The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all;
    My music has some mystic diapasons;
  And there is much which could not be appreciated
  In any manner by the uninitiated.

  Alas! worlds fall- and woman, since she fell'd
    The world (as, since that history less polite
  Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held)
    Has not yet given up the practice quite.
  Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd,
    Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right,
  Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins
  Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,-

  A daily plague, which in the aggregate
    May average on the whole with parturition.
  But as to women, who can penetrate
    The real sufferings of their she condition?
  Man's very sympathy with their estate
    Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion.
  Their love, their virtue, beauty, education,
  But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.

  All this were very well, and can't be better;
    But even this is difficult, Heaven knows,
  So many troubles from her birth beset her,
    Such small distinction between friends and foes,
  The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,
    That- but ask any woman if she'd choose
  (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been
  Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen?

  'Petticoat influence' is a great reproach,
    Which even those who obey would fain be thought
  To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;
    But since beneath it upon earth we are brought,
  By various joltings of life's hackney coach,
    I for one venerate a petticoat-
  A garment of a mystical sublimity,
  No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.

  Much I respect, and much I have adored,
    In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil,
  Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard,
    And more attracts by all it doth conceal-
  A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,
    A loving letter with a mystic seal,
  A cure for grief- for what can ever rankle
  Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?

  And when upon a silent, sullen day,
    With a sirocco, for example, blowing,
  When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,
    And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing,
  And the sky shows that very ancient gray,
    The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,-
  'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant,
  To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.

  We left our heroes and our heroines
    In that fair clime which don't depend on climate,
  Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs,
    Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at,
  Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines,
    Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at,
  Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun-
  Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
    Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated
  For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
    I 'd rather not say what might be related
  Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
    Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated:
  Her late performance had been a dead set
  At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

  This noble personage began to look
    A little black upon this new flirtation;
  But such small licences must lovers brook,
    Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
  Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!
    'T will but precipitate a situation
  Extremely disagreeable, but common
  To calculators when they count on woman.

  The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd;
    The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
  Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;
    Some would not deem such women could be found;
  Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard;
    Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound;
  And several pitied with sincere regret
  Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

  But what is odd, none ever named the duke,
    Who, one might think, was something in the affair;
  True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took
    But small concern about the when, or where,
  Or what his consort did: if he could brook
    Her gaieties, none had a right to stare:
  Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
  Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.

  But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line!
    Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
  My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,
    Began to think the duchess' conduct free;
  Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
    And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
  Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
  For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

  There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
    'T is so becoming to the soul and face,
  Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
    And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
  Without a friend, what were humanity,
    To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
  Consoling us with- 'Would you had thought twice!
  Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice!'

  O job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough,
    Especially when we are ill at ease;
  They are but bad pilots when the weather 's rough,
    Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
  Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,
    As they will do like leaves at the first breeze:
  When your affairs come round, one way or t' other,
  Go to the coffee-house, and take another.

  But this is not my maxim: had it been,
    Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not-
  I would not be a tortoise in his screen
    Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not.
  'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen
    That which humanity may bear, or bear not:
  'T will teach discernment to the sensitive,
  And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

  Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
    Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
  Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,'
    Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
  Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do,
    Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
  And solace your slight lapse 'gainst 'bonos mores,'
  With a long memorandum of old stories.

  The Lady Adeline's serene severity
    Was not confined to feeling for her friend,
  Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity,
    Unless her habits should begin to mend:
  But Juan also shared in her austerity,
    But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd:
  His inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
  And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.

  These forty days' advantage of her years-
    And hers were those which can face calculation,
  Boldly referring to the list of peers
    And noble births, nor dread the enumeration-
  Gave her a right to have maternal fears
    For a young gentleman's fit education,
  Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap,
  In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap.

  This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty-
    Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
  The strictest in chronology and virtue
    Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
  O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
    With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
  Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
  If but to keep thy credit as a mower.

  But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
    Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
  'T was rather her experience made her sage,
    For she had seen the world and stood its test,
  As I have said in- I forget what page;
    My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd
  By this time;- but strike six from seven-and-twenty,
  And you will find her sum of years in plenty.

  At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
    She put all coronets into commotion:
  At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted
    With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean:
  At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
    A hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
  She had consented to create again
  That Adam, call'd 'The happiest of men.'

  Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,
    Admired, adored; but also so correct,
  That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
    Without the apparel of being circumspect:
  They could not even glean the slightest splinters
    From off the marble, which had no defect.
  She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
  To bear a son and heir- and one miscarriage.

  Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
    Those little glitterers of the London night;
  But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her-
    She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
  Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;
    But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
  And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify
  A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify?

  I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle
    Which with the landlord makes too long a stand,
  Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle,
    Especially with politics on hand;
  I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,
    Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand;
  I hate it, as I hate an argument,
  A laureate's ode, or servile peer's 'content.'

  'T is sad to hack into the roots of things,
    They are so much intertwisted with the earth;
  So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
    I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.
  To trace all actions to their secret springs
    Would make indeed some melancholy mirth;
  But this is not at present my concern,
  And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.

  With the kind view of saving an eclat,
    Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
  The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw
    That Juan was unlikely to resist
  (For foreigners don't know that a faux pas
    In England ranks quite on a different list
  From those of other lands unblest with juries,
  Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);-

  The Lady Adeline resolved to take
    Such measures as she thought might best impede
  The farther progress of this sad mistake.
    She thought with some simplicity indeed;
  But innocence is bold even at the stake,
    And simple in the world, and doth not need
  Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
  Whose virtue lies in never being detected.

  It was not that she fear'd the very worst:
    His Grace was an enduring, married man,
  And was not likely all at once to burst
    Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan
  Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first
    The magic of her Grace's talisman,
  And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret)
  With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

  Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante,
    And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere;
  One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
    A lover with caprices soft and dear,
  That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
    Find one, each day of the delightful year;
  Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
  And- what is worst of all- won't let you go:

  The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
    Or make a Werter of him in the end.
  No wonder then a purer soul should dread
    This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
  It were much better to be wed or dead,
    Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
  'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
  If that a 'bonne fortune' be really 'bonne.'

  And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart,
    Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
  She call'd her husband now and then apart,
    And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile
  Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art
    To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile;
  And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet,
  In such guise that she could make nothing of it.

  Firstly, he said, 'he never interfered
    In any body's business but the king's:'
  Next, that 'he never judged from what appear'd,
    Without strong reason, of those sort of things:'
  Thirdly, that 'Juan had more brain than beard,
    And was not to be held in leading strings;'
  And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice,
  'That good but rarely came from good advice.'

  And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth
    Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse
  To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth-
    At least as far as bienseance allows:
  That time would temper Juan's faults of youth;
    That young men rarely made monastic vows;
  That opposition only more attaches-
  But here a messenger brought in despatches:

  And being of the council call'd 'the Privy,'
    Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet,
  To furnish matter for some future Livy
    To tell how he reduced the nation's debt;
  And if their full contents I do not give ye,
    It is because I do not know them yet;
  But I shall add them in a brief appendix,
  To come between mine epic and its index.

  But ere he went, he added a slight hint,
    Another gentle common-place or two,
  Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint,
    And pass, for want of better, though not new:
  Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't,
    And having casually glanced it through,
  Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her,
  Less like a young wife than an aged sister.

  He was a cold, good, honourable man,
    Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing;
  A goodly spirit for a state divan,
    A figure fit to walk before a king;
  Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van
    On birthdays, glorious with a star and string;
  The very model of a chamberlain-
  And such I mean to make him when I reign.

  But there was something wanting on the whole-
    I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell-
  Which pretty women- the sweet souls!- call soul.
    Certes it was not body; he was well
  Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole,
    A handsome man, that human miracle;
  And in each circumstance of love or war
  Had still preserved his perpendicular.

  Still there was something wanting, as I 've said-
    That undefinable 'Je ne scais quoi,'
  Which, for what I know, may of yore have led
    To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy
  The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed;
    Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy
  Was much inferior to King Menelaus:-
  But thus it is some women will betray us.

  There is an awkward thing which much perplexes,
    Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved
  By turns the difference of the several sexes;
    Neither can show quite how they would be loved.
  The sensual for a short time but connects us,
    The sentimental boasts to be unmoved;
  But both together form a kind of centaur,
  Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.

  A something all-sufficient for the heart
    Is that for which the sex are always seeking:
  But how to fill up that same vacant part?
    There lies the rub- and this they are but weak in.
  Frail mariners afloat without a chart,
    They run before the wind through high seas breaking;
  And when they have made the shore through every shock,
  'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.

  There is a flower call'd 'Love in Idleness,'
    For which see Shakspeare's everblooming garden;-
  I will not make his great description less,
    And beg his British godship's humble pardon,
  If in my extremity of rhyme's distress,
    I touch a single leaf where he is warden;-
  But though the flower is different, with the French
  Or Swiss Rousseau, cry 'Voila la Pervenche!'

  Eureka! I have found it! What I mean
    To say is, not that love is idleness,
  But that in love such idleness has been
    An accessory, as I have cause to guess.
  Hard labour's an indifferent go-between;
    Your men of business are not apt to express
  Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo,
  Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.

  'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,'
    Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong;
  His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,'
    Is much more to the purpose of his song;
  Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,
    Unless good company be kept too long;
  But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station,
  Thrice happy they who have an occupation!

  Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing,
    Eve made up millinery with fig leaves-
  The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,
    As far as I know, that the church receives:
  And since that time it need not cost much showing,
    That many of the ills o'er which man grieves,
  And still more women, spring from not employing
  Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.

  And hence high life is oft a dreary void,
    A rack of pleasures, where we must invent
  A something wherewithal to be annoy'd.
    Bards may sing what they please about Content;
  Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd;
    And hence arise the woes of sentiment,
  Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances
  Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.

  I do declare, upon an affidavit,
    Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen;
  Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,
    Would some believe that such a tale had been:
  But such intent I never had, nor have it;
    Some truths are better kept behind a screen,
  Especially when they would look like lies;
  I therefore deal in generalities.

  'An oyster may be cross'd in love,'- and why?
    Because he mopeth idly in his shell,
  And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
    Much as a monk may do within his cell:
  And a-propos of monks, their piety
    With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
  Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
  Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.

  O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,
    Whose merit none enough can sing or say,
  Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down,
    Thou moral Washington of Africa!
  But there 's another little thing, I own,
    Which you should perpetrate some summer's day,
  And set the other halt of earth to rights;
  You have freed the blacks- now pray shut up the whites.

  Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander!
    Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal;
  Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,'
    And ask them how they like to be in thrall?
  Shut up each high heroic salamander,
    Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small);
  Shut up- no, not the King, but the Pavilion,
  Or else 't will cost us all another million.

  Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out;
    And you will be perhaps surprised to find
  All things pursue exactly the same route,
    As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
  This I could prove beyond a single doubt,
    Were there a jot of sense among mankind;
  But till that point d'appui is found, alas!
  Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was.

  Our gentle Adeline had one defect-
    Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion;
  Her conduct had been perfectly correct,
    As she had seen nought claiming its expansion.
  A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd,
    Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one;
  But when the latter works its own undoing,
  Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.

  She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love
    Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
  The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move
    Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil.
  She had nothing to complain of, or reprove,
    No bickerings, no connubial turmoil:
  Their union was a model to behold,
  Serene and noble,- conjugal, but cold.

  There was no great disparity of years,
    Though much in temper; but they never clash'd:
  They moved like stars united in their spheres,
    Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
  Where mingled and yet separate appears
    The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
  Through the serene and placid glassy deep,
  Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

  Now when she once had ta'en an interest
    In any thing, however she might flatter
  Herself that her intentions were the best,
    Intense intentions are a dangerous matter:
  Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd,
    And gather'd as they run like growing water
  Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast
  Was not at first too readily impress'd.

  But when it was, she had that lurking demon
    Of double nature, and thus doubly named-
  Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen,
    That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed
  As obstinacy, both in men and women,
    Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed:-
  And 't will perplex the casuist in morality
  To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality.

  Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo,
    It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity:
  Must the event decide between the two?
    I leave it to your people of sagacity
  To draw the line between the false and true,
    If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity:
  My business is with Lady Adeline,
  Who in her way too was a heroine.

  She knew not her own heart; then how should I?
    I think not she was then in love with Juan:
  If so, she would have had the strength to fly
    The wild sensation, unto her a new one:
  She merely felt a common sympathy
    (I will not say it was a false or true one)
  In him, because she thought he was in danger,-
  Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger,

  She was, or thought she was, his friend- and this
    Without the farce of friendship, or romance
  Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss
    Ladies who have studied friendship but in France,
  Or Germany, where people purely kiss.
    To thus much Adeline would not advance;
  But of such friendship as man's may to man be
  She was as capable as woman can be.

  No doubt the secret influence of the sex
    Will there, as also in the ties of blood,
  An innocent predominance annex,
    And tune the concord to a finer mood.
  If free from passion, which all friendship checks,
    And your true feelings fully understood,
  No friend like to a woman earth discovers,
  So that you have not been nor will be lovers.

  Love bears within its breast the very germ
    Of change; and how should this be otherwise?
  That violent things more quickly find a term
    Is shown through nature's whole analogies;
  And how should the most fierce of all be firm?
    Would you have endless lightning in the skies?
  Methinks Love's very title says enough:
  How should 'the tender passion' e'er be tough?

  Alas! by all experience, seldom yet
    (I merely quote what I have heard from many)
  Had lovers not some reason to regret
    The passion which made Solomon a zany.
  I 've also seen some wives (not to forget
    The marriage state, the best or worst of any)
  Who were the very paragons of wives,
  Yet made the misery of at least two lives.

  I 've also seen some female friends ( 't is odd,
    But true- as, if expedient, I could prove)
  That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad,
    At home, far more than ever yet was Love-
  Who did not quit me when Oppression trod
    Upon me; whom no scandal could remove;
  Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles,
  Despite the snake Society's loud rattles.

  Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline
    Grew friends in this or any other sense,
  Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine:
    At present I am glad of a pretence
  To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine,
    And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense;
  The surest way for ladies and for books
  To bait their tender, or their tenter, hooks.

  Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish
    To read Don Quixote in the original,
  A pleasure before which all others vanish;
    Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 'small,'
  Or serious, are the topics I must banish
    To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall
  Say something to the purpose, and display
  Considerable talent in my way.

  Above all, I beg all men to forbear
    Anticipating aught about the matter:
  They 'll only make mistakes about the fair,
    And Juan too, especially the latter.
  And I shall take a much more serious air
    Than I have yet done, in this epic satire.
  It is not clear that Adeline and Juan
  Will fall; but if they do, 't will be their ruin.

  But great things spring from little:- Would you think,
    That in our youth, as dangerous a passion
  As e'er brought man and woman to the brink
    Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion,
  As few would ever dream could form the link
    Of such a sentimental situation?
  You 'll never guess, I 'll bet you millions, milliards-
  It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards.

  'T is strange,- but true; for truth is always strange;
    Stranger than fiction; if it could be told,
  How much would novels gain by the exchange!
    How differently the world would men behold!
  How oft would vice and virtue places change!
    The new world would be nothing to the old,
  If some Columbus of the moral seas
  Would show mankind their souls' antipodes.

  What 'antres vast and deserts idle' then
    Would be discover'd in the human soul!
  What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men,
    With self-love in the centre as their pole!
  What Anthropophagi are nine of ten
    Of those who hold the kingdoms in control
  Were things but only call'd by their right name,
  Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame.
               CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.

  AH!- What should follow slips from my reflection;
    Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
  As a-propos of hope or retrospection,
    As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
  All present life is but an interjection,
    An 'Oh!' or 'Ah!' of joy or misery,
  Or a 'Ha! ha!' or 'Bah!'- a yawn, or 'Pooh!'
  Of which perhaps the latter is most true.

  But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope
    Or a singultus- emblems of emotion,
  The grand antithesis to great ennui,
    Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,-
  That watery outline of eternity,
    Or miniature at least, as is my notion,
  Which ministers unto the soul's delight,
  In seeing matters which are out of sight.

  But all are better than the sigh supprest,
    Corroding in the cavern of the heart,
  Making the countenance a masque of rest,
    And turning human nature to an art.
  Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
    Dissimulation always sets apart
  A corner for herself; and therefore fiction
  Is that which passes with least contradiction.

  Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not
    Remember, without telling, passion's errors?
  The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,
    Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors:
  What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float,
    He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;
  The ruby glass that shakes within his hand
  Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.

  And as for love- O love!- We will proceed.
    The Lady Adeline Amundeville,
  A pretty name as one would wish to read,
    Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill.
  There 's music in the sighing of a reed;
    There 's music in the gushing of a rill;
  There 's music in all things, if men had ears:
  Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

  The Lady Adeline, right honourable;
    And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so;
  For few of the soft sex are very stable
    In their resolves- alas! that I should say so!
  They differ as wine differs from its label,
    When once decanted;- I presume to guess so,
  But will not swear: yet both upon occasion,
  Till old, may undergo adulteration.

  But Adeline was of the purest vintage,
    The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet
  Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage,
    Or glorious as a diamond richly set;
  A page where Time should hesitate to print age,
    And for which Nature might forego her debt-
  Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't
  The luck of finding every body solvent.

  O Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily
    Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap,
  Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely,
    Some splendid debtor he would take by sap:
  But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he
    Advances with exasperated rap,
  And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome,
  On ready money, or 'a draft on Ransom.'

  Whate'er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty!
    She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey.
  What though she now and then may slip from duty,
    The more 's the reason why you ought to stay.
  Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty,
    You should be civil in a modest way:
  Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases,
  And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases.

  Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous
    Where she was interested (as was said),
  Because she was not apt, like some of us,
    To like too readily, or too high bred
  To show it (points we need not now discuss)-
    Would give up artlessly both heart and head
  Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent,
  For objects worthy of the sentiment.

  Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour,
    That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure,
  She had heard; but women hear with more good humour
    Such aberrations than we men of rigour:
  Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more
    Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour;
  Because he had, like Alcibiades,
  The art of living in all climes with ease.

  His manner was perhaps the more seductive,
    Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce;
  Nothing affected, studied, or constructive
    Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse
  Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective,
    To indicate a Cupidon broke loose,
  And seem to say, 'Resist us if you can'-
  Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man.

  They are wrong- that 's not the way to set about it;
    As, if they told the truth, could well be shown.
  But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it;
    In fact, his manner was his own alone;
  Sincere he was- at least you could not doubt it,
    In listening merely to his voice's tone.
  The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice
  An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

  By nature soft, his whole address held off
    Suspicion: though not timid, his regard
  Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof,
    To shield himself than put you on your guard:
  Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough,
    But modesty 's at times its own reward,
  Like virtue; and the absence of pretension
  Will go much farther than there 's need to mention.

  Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud;
    Insinuating without insinuation;
  Observant of the foibles of the crowd,
    Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation;
  Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,
    So as to make them feel he knew his station
  And theirs:- without a struggle for priority,
  He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority.

  That is, with men: with women he was what
    They pleased to make or take him for; and their
  Imagination 's quite enough for that:
    So that the outline 's tolerably fair,
  They fill the canvas up- and 'verbum sat.'
    If once their phantasies be brought to bear
  Upon an object, whether sad or playful,
  They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.

  Adeline, no deep judge of character,
    Was apt to add a colouring from her own:
  'T is thus the good will amiably err,
    And eke the wise, as has been often shown.
  Experience is the chief philosopher,
    But saddest when his science is well known:
  And persecuted sages teach the schools
  Their folly in forgetting there are fools.

  Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon?
    Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still,
  Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,
    And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?
  Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,
    How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill
  Volumes with similar sad illustrations,
  But leave them to the conscience of the nations.

  I perch upon an humbler promontory,
    Amidst life's infinite variety:
  With no great care for what is nicknamed glory,
    But speculating as I cast mine eye
  On what may suit or may not suit my story,
    And never straining hard to versify,
  I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk
  With any body in a ride or walk.

  I don't know that there may be much ability
    Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme;
  But there 's a conversational facility,
    Which may round off an hour upon a time.
  Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility
    In mine irregularity of chime,
  Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary,
  Just as I feel the 'Improvvisatore.'

  'Omnia vult belle Matho dicere- dic aliquando
    Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.'
  The first is rather more than mortal can do;
    The second may be sadly done or gaily;
  The third is still more difficult to stand to;
    The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily.
  The whole together is what I could wish
  To serve in this conundrum of a dish.

  A modest hope- but modesty 's my forte,
    And pride my feeble:- let us ramble on.
  I meant to make this poem very short,
    But now I can't tell where it may not run.
  No doubt, if I had wish' to pay my court
    To critics, or to hail the setting sun
  Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision
  Were more;- but I was born for opposition.

  But then 't is mostly on the weaker side;
    So that I verily believe if they
  Who now are basking in their full-blown pride
    Were shaken down, and 'dogs had had their day,'
  Though at the first I might perchance deride
    Their tumble, I should turn the other way,
  And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty,
  Because I hate even democratic royalty.

  I think I should have made a decent spouse,
    If I had never proved the soft condition;
  I think I should have made monastic vows,
    But for my own peculiar superstition:
  'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows,
    Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,
  Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet,
  If some one had not told me to forego it.

  But 'laissez aller'- knights and dames I sing,
    Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight
  Which seems at first to need no lofty wing,
    Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite:
  The difficultly lies in colouring
    (Keeping the due proportions still in sight)
  With nature manners which are artificial,
  And rend'ring general that which is especial.

  The difference is, that in the days of old
    Men made the manners; manners now make men-
  Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold,
    At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten.
  Now this at all events must render cold
    Your writers, who must either draw again
  Days better drawn before, or else assume
  The present, with their common-place costume.

  We 'll do our best to make the best on 't:- March!
    March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter;
  And when you may not be sublime, be arch,
    Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter.
  We surely may find something worth research:
    Columbus found a new world in a cutter,
  Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage,
  While yet America was in her non-age.

  When Adeline, in all her growing sense
    Of Juan's merits and his situation,
  Felt on the whole an interest intense,-
    Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,
  Or that he had an air of innocence,
    Which is for innocence a sad temptation,-
  As women hate half measures, on the whole,
  She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul.

  She had a good opinion of advice,
    Like all who give and eke receive it gratis,
  For which small thanks are still the market price,
    Even where the article at highest rate is:
  She thought upon the subject twice or thrice,
    And morally decided, the best state is
  For morals, marriage; and this question carried,
  She seriously advised him to get married.

  Juan replied, with all becoming deference,
    He had a predilection for that tie;
  But that, at present, with immediate reference
    To his own circumstances, there might lie
  Some difficulties, as in his own preference,
    Or that of her to whom he might apply:
  That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady,
  If that they were not married all already.

  Next to the making matches for herself,
    And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin,
  Arranging them like books on the same shelf,
    There 's nothing women love to dabble in
  More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf)
    Than match-making in general: 't is no sin
  Certes, but a preventative, and therefore
  That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.

  But never yet (except of course a miss
    Unwed, or mistress never to be wed,
  Or wed already, who object to this)
    Was there chaste dame who had not in her head
  Some drama of the marriage unities,
    Observed as strictly both at board and bed
  As those of Aristotle, though sometimes
  They turn out melodrames or pantomimes.

  They generally have some only son,
    Some heir to a large property, some friend
  Of an old family, some gay Sir john,
    Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end
  A line, and leave posterity undone,
    Unless a marriage was applied to mend
  The prospect and their morals: and besides,
  They have at hand a blooming glut of brides.

  From these they will be careful to select,
    For this an heiress, and for that a beauty;
  For one a songstress who hath no defect,
    For t' other one who promises much duty;
  For this a lady no one can reject,
    Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty;
  A second for her excellent connections;
  A third, because there can be no objections.

  When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage
    In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes
  Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage,
    Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes,
  Without those sad expenses which disparage
    What Nature naturally most encourages)-
  Why call'd he 'Harmony' a state sans wedlock?
  Now here I 've got the preacher at a dead lock.

  Because he either meant to sneer at harmony
    Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly.
  But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany
    Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly,
  Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any
    Of ours, although they propagate more broadly.
  My objection 's to his title, not his ritual,
  Although I wonder how it grew habitual.

  But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons,
    Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation-
  Professors of that genial art, and patrons
    Of all the modest part of propagation;
  Which after all at such a desperate rate runs,
    That half its produce tends to emigration,
  That sad result of passions and potatoes-
  Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.

  Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell;
    I wish she had: his book 's the eleventh commandment,
  Which says, 'Thou shalt not marry,' unless well:
    This he (as far as I can understand) meant.
  'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell
    Nor canvass what so 'eminent a hand' meant;
  But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,
  Or turning marriage into arithmetic.

  But Adeline, who probably presumed
    That Juan had enough of maintenance,
  Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd-
    As on the whole it is an even chance
  That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd,
    May retrograde a little in the dance
  Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame,
  Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death'- but 't is the same);-

  But Adeline determined Juan's wedding
    In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman:
  But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading,
    Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman.
  And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding.
    She deem'd his merits something more than common:
  All these were unobjectionable matches,
  And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.

  There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea,
    That usual paragon, an only daughter,
  Who seem'd the cream of equanimity
    Till skimm'd- and then there was some milk and water,
  With a slight shade of blue too, it might be,
    Beneath the surface; but what did it matter?
  Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet,
  And being consumptive, live on a milk diet.

  And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring,
    A dashing demoiselle of good estate,
  Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string;
    But whether English dukes grew rare of late,
  Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string,
    By which such sirens can attract our great,
  She took up with some foreign younger brother,
  A Russ or Turk- the one 's as good as t' other.

  And then there was- but why should I go on,
    Unless the ladies should go off?- there was
  Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,
    Of the best class, and better than her class,-
  Aurora Raby, a young star who shone
    O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass,
  A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded,
  A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded;

  Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only
    Child to the care of guardians good and kind;
  But still her aspect had an air so lonely!
    Blood is not water; and where shall we find
  Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie
    By death, when we are left, alas! behind,
  To feel, in friendless palaces, a home
  Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb?

  Early in years, and yet more infantine
    In figure, she had something of sublime
  In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine.
    All youth- but with an aspect beyond time;
  Radiant and grave- as pitying man's decline;
    Mournful- but mournful of another's crime,
  She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door.
  And grieved for those who could return no more.

  She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere,
    As far as her own gentle heart allow'd,
  And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear
    Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud
  Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear
    Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd
  To novel power; and as she was the last,
  She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

  She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,
    As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,
  As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,
    And kept her heart serene within its zone.
  There was awe in the homage which she drew;
    Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne
  Apart from the surrounding world, and strong
  In its own strength- most strange in one so young!

  Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue
    Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted,
  Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue
    Beyond the charmers we have already cited;
  Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog
    Against her being mention'd as well fitted,
  By many virtues, to be worth the trouble
  Of single gentlemen who would be double.

  And this omission, like that of the bust
    Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,
  Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.
    This he express'd half smiling and half serious;
  When Adeline replied with some disgust,
    And with an air, to say the least, imperious,
  She marvell'd 'what he saw in such a baby
  As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?'

  Juan rejoin'd- 'She was a Catholic,
    And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion;
  Since he was sure his mother would fall sick,
    And the Pope thunder excommunication,
  If-' But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique
    Herself extremely on the inoculation
  Of others with her own opinions, stated-
  As usual- the same reason which she late did.

  And wherefore not? A reasonable reason,
    If good, is none the worse for repetition;
  If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on,
    And amplify: you lose much by concision,
  Whereas insisting in or out of season
    Convinces all men, even a politician;
  Or- what is just the same- it wearies out.
  So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route?

  Why Adeline had this slight prejudice-
    For prejudice it was- against a creature
  As pure as sanctity itself from vice,
    With all the added charm of form and feature,
  For me appears a question far too nice,
    Since Adeline was liberal by nature;
  But nature 's nature, and has more caprices
  Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.

  Perhaps she did not like the quiet way
    With which Aurora on those baubles look'd,
  Which charm most people in their earlier day:
    For there are few things by mankind less brook'd,
  And womankind too, if we so may say,
    Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked,
  Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few
  Who look upon them as they ought to do.

  It was not envy- Adeline had none;
    Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.
  It was not scorn- which could not light on one
    Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.
  It was not jealousy, I think: but shun
    Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind.
  It was not- but 't is easier far, alas!
  To say what it was not than what it was.

  Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme
    Of such discussion. She was there a guest;
  A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream
    Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest,
  Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam
    Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest.
  Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled-
  She had so much, or little, of the child.

  The dashing and proud air of Adeline
    Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze
  Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine,
    Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays.
  Juan was something she could not divine,
    Being no sibyl in the new world's ways;
  Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,
  Because she did not pin her faith on feature.

  His fame too,- for he had that kind of fame
    Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,
  A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,
    Half virtues and whole vices being combined;
  Faults which attract because they are not tame;
    Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:-
  These seals upon her wax made no impression,
  Such was her coldness or her self-possession.

  Juan knew nought of such a character-
    High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee;
  Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:
    The island girl, bred up by the lone sea,
  More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere,
    Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be,
  Nor would be thus:- the difference in them
  Was such as lies between a flower and gem.

  Having wound up with this sublime comparison,
    Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative,
  And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;'
    Scott, the superlative of my comparative-
  Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen,
    Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if
  There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire,
  Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.

  I say, in my slight way I may proceed
    To play upon the surface of humanity.
  I write the world, nor care if the world read,
    At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
  My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed
    More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I
  Thought that it might turn out so- now I know it,
  But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.

  The conference or congress (for it ended
    As congresses of late do) of the Lady
  Adeline and Don Juan rather blended
    Some acids with the sweets- for she was heady;
  But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended,
    The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready,
  But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress,
  Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.

  Great things were now to be achieved at table,
    With massy plate for armour, knives and forks
  For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able
    (His feasts are not the worst part of his works)
  To draw up in array a single day-bill
    Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks,
  In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout,

  There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,'
    Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too,
  A turbot for relief of those who cram,
    Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;'
    How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?-
  'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory,
  Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.

  But I must crowd all into one grand mess
    Or mass; for should I stretch into detail,
  My Muse would run much more into excess,
    Than when some squeamish people deem her frail.
  But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess
    Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale
  However doth require some slight refection,
  Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.

  Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon,
    With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison;
  Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon-
    A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon;
  They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on,
    Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison;
  And then there was champagne with foaming whirls,
  As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls.

  Then there was God knows what 'a l'Allemande,'
    'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'-
  With things I can't withstand or understand,
    Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole;
  And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand,
    Gently to lull down the subsiding soul;
  While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles
  (There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles.

  What are the fillets on the victor's brow
    To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch
  Which nodded to the nation's spoils below?
    Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march?
  Gone to where victories must like dinners go.
    Farther I shall not follow the research:
  But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges,
  When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges?

  Those truffles too are no bad accessaries,
    Follow'd by 'petits puits d'amour'- a dish
  Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies,
    So every one may dress it to his wish,
  According to the best of dictionaries,
    Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish;
  But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is,
  There 's pretty picking in those 'petits puits.'

  The mind is lost in mighty contemplation
    Of intellect expanded on two courses;
  And indigestion's grand multiplication
    Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.
  Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration,
    That cookery could have call'd forth such resources,
  As form a science and a nomenclature
  From out the commonest demands of nature?

  The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled;
    The diners of celebrity dined well;
  The ladies with more moderation mingled
    In the feast, pecking less than I can tell;
  Also the younger men too: for a springald
    Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel,
  But thinks less of good eating than the whisper
  (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.

  Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier,
    The salmi, the consomme, the puree,
  All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber
    Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way:
  I must not introduce even a spare rib here,
    'Bubble and squeak' would spoil my liquid lay:
  But I have dined, and must forego, Alas!
  The chaste description even of a 'becasse;'

  And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines
    From nature for the service of the gout-
  Taste or the gout,- pronounce it as inclines
    Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do;
  But after, there are sometimes certain signs
    Which prove plain English truer of the two.
  Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-
  But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.

  The simple olives, best allies of wine,
    Must I pass over in my bill of fare?
  I must, although a favourite 'plat' of mine
    In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where:
  On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine,
    The grass my table-cloth, in open-air,
  On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes,
  Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.

  Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and 'fowl,
    And vegetables, all in masquerade,
  The guests were placed according to their roll,
    But various as the various meats display'd:
  Don Juan sat next 'an l'Espagnole'-
    No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;
  But so far like a lady, that 't was drest
  Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest.

  By some odd chance too, he was placed between
    Aurora and the Lady Adeline-
  A situation difficult, I ween,
    For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine.
  Also the conference which we have seen
    Was not such as to encourage him to shine;
  For Adeline, addressing few words to him,
  With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him.

  I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears:
    This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things
  Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears,
    Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs.
  Like that same mystic music of the spheres,
    Which no one bears, so loudly though it rings,
  'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard
  Long dialogues- which pass'd without a word!

  Aurora sat with that indifference
    Which piques a preux chevalier- as it ought:
  Of all offences that 's the worst offence,
    Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought.
  Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence,
    Was not exactly pleased to be so caught;
  Like a good ship entangled among ice,
  And after so much excellent advice.

  To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,
    Or something which was nothing, as urbanity
  Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside,
    Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.
  The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?
    Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?
  Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes
  Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

  And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;'
    A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend,
  Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it,
    Both in the case of lover and of friend,
  Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,
    To bring what was a jest to a serious end:
  For all men prophesy what is or was,
  And hate those who won't let them come to pass.

  Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,
    Slight but select, and just enough to express,
  To females of perspicuous comprehensions,
    That he would rather make them more than less.
  Aurora at the last (so history mentions,
    Though probably much less a fact than guess)
  So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison,
  As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

  From answering she began to question; this
    With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet
  Thought her predictions went not much amiss,
    Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette-
  So very difficult, they say, it is
    To keep extremes from meeting, when once set
  In motion; but she here too much refined-
  Aurora's spirit was not of that kind.

  But Juan had a sort of winning way,
    A proud humility, if such there be,
  Which show'd such deference to what females say,
    As if each charming word were a decree.
  His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
    And taught him when to be reserved or free:
  He had the art of drawing people out,
  Without their seeing what he was about.

  Aurora, who in her indifference
    Confounded him in common with the crowd
  Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense
    Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-
  Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)
    To feel that flattery which attracts the proud
  Rather by deference than compliment,
  And wins even by a delicate dissent.

  And then he had good looks;- that point was carried
    Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve
  To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married-
    A case which to the juries we may leave,
  Since with digressions we too long have tarried.
    Now though we know of old that looks deceive,
  And always have done, somehow these good looks
  Make more impression than the best of books.

  Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces,
    Was very young, although so very sage,
  Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,
    Especially upon a printed page.
  But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces,
    Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
  And Socrates, that model of all duty,
  Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.

  And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic,
    But innocently so, as Socrates;
  And really, if the sage sublime and Attic
    At seventy years had phantasies like these,
  Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic
    Has shown, I know not why they should displease
  In virgins- always in a modest way,
  Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.'

  Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke
    (See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd
  Opinions two, which at first sight may look
    Twin opposites, the second is the best.
  Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook,
    Or none at all- which seems a sorry jest:
  But if a writer should be quite consistent,
  How could he possibly show things existent?

  If people contradict themselves, can
    Help contradicting them, and every body,
  Even my veracious self?- But that 's a lie:
    I never did so, never will- how should I?
  He who doubts all things nothing can deny:
    Truth's fountains may be clear- her streams are muddy,
  And cut through such canals of contradiction,
  That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

  Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,
    Are false, but may he render'd also true,
  By those who sow them in a land that 's arable.
    'T is wonderful what fable will not do!
  'T is said it makes reality more bearable:
    But what 's reality? Who has its clue?
  Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.
  Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

  Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear;
    Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
  God help us! Since we have need on our career
    To keep our holy beacons always bright,
  'T is time that some new prophet should appear,
    Or old indulge man with a second sight.
  Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
  Without a small refreshment from the spheres.

  But here again, why will I thus entangle
    Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
  So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
    And yet, such is my folly, or my fate,
  I always knock my head against some angle
    About the present, past, or future state.
  Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
  For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

  But though I am a temperate theologian,
    And also meek as a metaphysician,
  Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,
    As Eldon on a lunatic commission-
  In politics my duty is to show John
    Bull something of the lower world's condition.
  It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,
  To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.

  But politics, and policy, and piety,
    Are topics which I sometimes introduce,
  Not only for the sake of their variety,
    But as subservient to a moral use;
  Because my business is to dress society,
    And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.
  And now, that we may furnish with some matter all
  Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

  And now I will give up all argument;
    And positively henceforth no temptation
  Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'-
    Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation.
  Indeed, I never knew what people meant
    By deeming that my Muse's conversation
  Was dangerous;- I think she is as harmless
  As some who labour more and yet may charm less.

  Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?
    No; but you have heard- I understand- be dumb!
  And don't regret the time you may have lost,
    For you have got that pleasure still to come:
  And do not think I mean to sneer at most
    Of these things, or by ridicule benumb
  That source of the sublime and the mysterious:-
  For certain reasons my belief is serious.

  Serious? You laugh;- you may: that will I not;
    My smiles must be sincere or not at all.
  I say I do believe a haunted spot
    Exists- and where? That shall I not recall,
  Because I 'd rather it should be forgot,
    'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal.
  In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very
  Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.

  The night (I sing by night- sometimes an owl,
    And now and then a nightingale) is dim,
  And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl
    Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
  Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl-
    I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
  The dying embers dwindle in the grate-
  I think too that I have sate up too late:

  And therefore, though 't is by no means my way
    To rhyme at noon- when I have other things
  To think of, if I ever think- I say
    I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,
  And prudently postpone, until mid-day,
    Treating a topic which, alas! but brings
  Shadows;- but you must be in my condition
  Before you learn to call this superstition.

  Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
    'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
  How little do we know that which we are!
    How less what we may be! The eternal surge
  Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
    Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
  Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves
  Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
               CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.

  THE antique Persians taught three useful things,
    To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.
  This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings-
    A mode adopted since by modern youth.
  Bows have they, generally with two strings;
    Horses they ride without remorse or ruth;
  At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever,
  But draw the long bow better now than ever.

  The cause of this effect, or this defect,-
    'For this effect defective comes by cause,'-
  Is what I have not leisure to inspect;
    But this I must say in my own applause,
  Of all the Muses that I recollect,
    Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws
  In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction
  The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.

  And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats
    From any thing, this epic will contain
  A wilderness of the most rare conceits,
    Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain.
  'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets,
    Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain,
  But wonder they so few are, since my tale is
  'De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.'

  But of all truths which she has told, the most
    True is that which she is about to tell.
  I said it was a story of a ghost-
    What then? I only know it so befell.
  Have you explored the limits of the coast,
    Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?
  'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as
  The sceptics who would not believe Columbus.

  Some people would impose now with authority,
    Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle;
  Men whose historical superiority
    Is always greatest at a miracle.
  But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
    Who bids all men believe the impossible,
  Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he
  Quiets at once with 'quia impossibile.'

  And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all;
    Believe:- if 't is improbable you must,
  And if it is impossible, you shall:
    'T is always best to take things upon trust.
  I do not speak profanely, to recall
    Those holier mysteries which the wise and just
  Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted,
  As all truths must, the more they are disputed:

  I merely mean to say what Johnson said,
    That in the course of some six thousand years,
  All nations have believed that from the dead
    A visitant at intervals appears;
  And what is strangest upon this strange head,
    Is, that whatever bar the reason rears
  'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still
  In its behalf, let those deny who will.

  The dinner and the soiree too were done,
    The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired,
  The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one-
    The song was silent, and the dance expired:
  The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone
    Like fleecy Clouds into the sky retired,
  And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon
  Than dying tapers- and the peeping moon.

  The evaporation of a joyous day
    Is like the last glass of champagne, without
  The foam which made its virgin bumper gay;
    Or like a system coupled with a doubt;
  Or like a soda bottle when its spray
    Has sparkled and let half its spirit out;
  Or like a billow left by storms behind,
  Without the animation of the wind;

  Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,
    Or none; or like- like nothing that I know
  Except itself;- such is the human breast;
    A thing, of which similitudes can show
  No real likeness,- like the old Tyrian vest
    Dyed purple, none at present can tell how,
  If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.
  So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal!

  But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
    Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre
  May sit like that of Nessus, and recall
    Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber.
  Titus exclaim'd, 'I 've lost a day!' Of all
    The nights and days most people can remember
  (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd),
  I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd.

  And Juan, on retiring for the night,
    Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised:
  He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright
    Than Adeline (such is advice) advised;
  If he had known exactly his own plight,
    He probably would have philosophised:
  A great resource to all, and ne'er denied
  Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd.

  He sigh'd;- the next resource is the full moon,
    Where all sighs are deposited; and now
  It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone
    As clear as such a climate will allow;
  And Juan's mind was in the proper tone
    To hail her with the apostrophe- 'O thou!'
  Of amatory egotism the Tuism,
  Which further to explain would be a truism.

  But lover, poet, or astronomer,
    Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold,
  Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her:
    Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold
  Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err);
    Deep secrets to her rolling light are told;
  The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways,
  And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.

  Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed
    For contemplation rather than his pillow:
  The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,
    Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow,
  With all the mystery by midnight caused;
    Below his window waved (of course) a willow;
  And he stood gazing out on the cascade
  That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade.

  Upon his table or his toilet,- which
    Of these is not exactly ascertain'd
  (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch
    Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd),-
  A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche,
    Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd,
  In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all
  That time has left our fathers of their hall.

  Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw
    His chamber door wide open- and went forth
  Into a gallery, of a sombre hue,
    Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth,
  Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too,
    As doubtless should be people of high birth.
  But by dim lights the portraits of the dead
  Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

  The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint
    Look living in the moon; and as you turn
  Backward and forward to the echoes faint
    Of your own footsteps- voices from the urn
  Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint
    Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern,
  As if to ask how you can dare to keep
  A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.

  And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,
    The charms of other days, in starlight gleams,
  Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave
    Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams
  On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,
    But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.
  A picture is the past; even ere its frame
  Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.

  As Juan mused on mutability,
    Or on his mistress- terms synonymous-
  No sound except the echo of his sigh
    Or step ran sadly through that antique house;
  When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,
    A supernatural agent- or a mouse,
  Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass
  Most people as it plays along the arras.

  It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd
    In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd,
  Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
    With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
  His garments only a slight murmur made;
    He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
  But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by,
  Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

  Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint
    Of such a spirit in these halls of old,
  But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't
    Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold,
  Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint,
    Which passes ghosts in currency like gold,
  But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.
  And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

  Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd- the thing of air,
    Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place;
  And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,
    Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base
  As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair
    Twine like a knot of snakes around his face;
  He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted,
  To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

  The third time, after a still longer pause,
    The shadow pass'd away- but where? the hall
  Was long, and thus far there was no great cause
    To think his vanishing unnatural:
  Doors there were many, through which, by the laws
    Of physics, bodies whether short or tall
  Might come or go; but Juan could not state
  Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.

  He stood- how long he knew not, but it seem'd
    An age- expectant, powerless, with his eyes
  Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd;
    Then by degrees recall'd his energies,
  And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream,
    But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,
  Waking already, and return'd at length
  Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

  All there was as he left it: still his taper
    Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,
  Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;
    He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse
  Their office; he took up an old newspaper;
    The paper was right easy to peruse;
  He read an article the king attacking,
  And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.'

  This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook-
    He shut his door, and after having read
  A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,
    Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.
  There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook,
    With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;
  And though it was no opiate, slumber crept
  Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.

  He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,
    Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision,
  And whether it ought not to be disclosed,
    At risk of being quizz'd for superstition.
  The more he thought, the more his mind was posed:
    In the mean time, his valet, whose precision
  Was great, because his master brook'd no less,
  Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.

  He dress'd; and like young people he was wont
    To take some trouble with his toilet, but
  This morning rather spent less time upon 't;
    Aside his very mirror soon was put;
  His curls fell negligently o'er his front,
    His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut,
  His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied
  Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side.

  And when he walk'd down into the saloon,
    He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea,
  Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon,
    Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be,
  Which made him have recourse unto his spoon;
    So much distrait he was, that all could see
  That something was the matter- Adeline
  The first- but what she could not well divine.

  She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale
    Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd
  Something, but what 's not stated in my tale.
    Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd;
  The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil,
    And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd.
  Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes
  Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise.

  But seeing him all cold and silent still,
    And everybody wondering more or less,
  Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?'
    He started, and said, 'Yes- no- rather- yes.'
  The family physician had great skill,
    And being present, now began to express
  His readiness to feel his pulse and tell
  The cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.'

  'Quite well; yes,- no.'- These answers were mysterious,
    And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both,
  However they might savour of delirious;
    Something like illness of a sudden growth
  Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious:
    But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth
  To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted
  It was not the physician that he wanted.

  Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate,
    Also the muffin whereof he complain'd,
  Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,
    At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;
  Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late?
    Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd
  With some slight, light, hereditary twinges
  Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

  Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd
    A few words of condolence on his state:
  'You look,' quoth he, 'as if you had had your rest
    Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.'
  'What friar?' said Juan; and he did his best
    To put the question with an air sedate,
  Or careless; but the effort was not valid
  To hinder him from growing still more pallid.

  'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?
    The spirit of these walls?'- 'In truth not I.'
  'Why Fame- but Fame you know 's sometimes a liar-
    Tells an odd story, of which by and by:
  Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,
    Or that our sires had a more gifted eye
  For such sights, though the tale is half believed,
  The friar of late has not been oft perceived.

    (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow,
  And from its context thought she could divine
    Connexions stronger then he chose to avow
  With this same legend)- 'if you but design
    To jest, you 'll choose some other theme just now,
  Because the present tale has oft been told,
  And is not much improved by growing old.'

  'Jest!' quoth Milor; 'why, Adeline, you know
    That we ourselves- 't was in the honey-moon-
    But, come, I 'll set your story to a tune.'
  Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow,
    She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon
  As touch'd, and plaintively began to play
  The air of ''T was a Friar of Orders Gray.'

  'But add the words,' cried Henry, 'which you made;
    For Adeline is half a poetess,'
  Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.
    Of course the others could not but express
  In courtesy their wish to see display'd
    By one three talents, for there were no less-
  The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once
  Could hardly be united by a dunce.

  After some fascinating hesitation,-
    The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,
  I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,-
    Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground
  At first, then kindling into animation,
    Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound,
  And sang with much simplicity,- a merit
  Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.

       Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
         Who sitteth by Norman stone,
       For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
         And his mass of the days that are gone.
       When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
         Made Norman Church his prey,
       And expell'd the friars, one friar still
         Would not be driven away.

       Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right,
         To turn church lands to lay,
       With sword in hand, and torch to light
         Their walls, if they said nay;
       A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd,
         And he did not seem form'd of clay,
       For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church,
         Though he is not seen by day.

       And whether for good, or whether for ill,
         It is not mine to say;
       But still with the house of Amundeville
         He abideth night and day.
       By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said,
         He flits on the bridal eve;
       And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death
         He comes- but not to grieve.

       When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn,
         And when aught is to befall
       That ancient line, in the "we moonshine
         He walks from hall to hall.
       His form you may trace, but not his face,
         'T is shadow'd by his cowl;
       But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,
         And they seem of a parted soul.

       But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
         He still retains his sway,
       For he is yet the church's heir
         Whoever may be the lay.
       Amundeville is lord by day,
         But the monk is lord by night;
       Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal
         To question that friar's right.

       Say nought to him as he walks the hall,
         And he 'll say nought to you;
       He sweeps along in his dusky pall,
         As o'er the grass the dew.
       Then grammercy! for the Black Friar;
         Heaven sain him, fair or foul!
       And whatsoe'er may be his prayer,
         Let ours be for his soul.

  The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires
    Died from the touch that kindled them to sound;
  And the pause follow'd, which when song expires
    Pervades a moment those who listen round;
  And then of course the circle much admires,
    Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound,
  The tones, the feeling, and the execution,
  To the performer's diffident confusion.

  Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,
    As if she rated such accomplishment
  As the mere pastime of an idle day,
    Pursued an instant for her own content,
  Would now and then as 't were without display,
    Yet with display in fact, at times relent
  To such performances with haughty smile,
  To show she could, if it were worth her while.

  Now this (but we will whisper it aside)
    Was- pardon the pedantic illustration-
  Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride,
    As did the Cynic on some like occasion;
  Deeming the sage would be much mortified,
    Or thrown into a philosophic passion,
  For a spoil'd carpet- but the 'Attic Bee'
  Was much consoled by his own repartee.

  Thus Adeline would throw into the shade
    (By doing easily, whene'er she chose,
  What dilettanti do with vast parade)
    Their sort of half profession; for it grows
  To something like this when too oft display'd;
    And that it is so everybody knows
  Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other,
  Show off- to please their company or mother.

  Oh! the long evenings of duets and trios!
    The admirations and the speculations;
  The 'Mamma Mia's!' and the 'Amor Mio's!'
    The 'Tanti palpiti's' on such occasions:
  The 'Lasciami's,' and quavering 'Addio's!'
    Amongst our own most musical of nations;
  With 'Tu mi chamas's' from Portingale,
  To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.

  In Babylon's bravuras- as the home
    Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands,
  That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam
    O'er far Atlantic continents or islands,
  The calentures of music which o'ercome
    All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands,
  No more to be beheld but in such visions-
  Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.

  She also had a twilight tinge of 'Blue,'
    Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote,
  Made epigrams occasionally too
    Upon her friends, as everybody ought.
  But still from that sublimer azure hue,
    So much the present dye, she was remote;
  Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet,
  And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.

  Aurora- since we are touching upon taste,
    Which now-a-days is the thermometer
  By whose degrees all characters are class'd-
    Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err.
  The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste
    Had more of her existence, for in her
  There was a depth of feeling to embrace
  Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space.

  Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace,
    The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind,
  If she had any, was upon her face,
    And that was of a fascinating kind.
  A little turn for mischief you might trace
    Also thereon,- but that 's not much; we find
  Few females without some such gentle leaven,
  For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven.

  I have not heard she was at all poetic,
    Though once she was seen reading the 'Bath Guide,'
  And 'Hayley's Triumphs,' which she deem'd pathetic,
    Because she said her temper had been tried
  So much, the bard had really been prophetic
    Of what she had gone through with- since a bride.
  But of all verse, what most ensured her praise
  Were sonnets to herself, or 'bouts rimes.'

  'T were difficult to say what was the object
    Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay
  To bear on what appear'd to her the subject
    Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day.
  Perhaps she merely had the simple project
    To laugh him out of his supposed dismay;
  Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it,
  Though why I cannot say- at least this minute.

  But so far the immediate effect
    Was to restore him to his self-propriety,
  A thing quite necessary to the elect,
    Who wish to take the tone of their society:
  In which you cannot be too circumspect,
    Whether the mode be persiflage or piety,
  But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy,
  On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy.

  And therefore Juan now began to rally
    His spirits, and without more explanation
  To jest upon such themes in many a sally.
    Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion,
  With various similar remarks to tally,
    But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration
  Of this same mystic friar's curious doings,
  About the present family's deaths and wooings.

  Of these few could say more than has been said;
    They pass'd as such things do, for superstition
  With some, while others, who had more in dread
    The theme, half credited the strange tradition;
  And much was talk'd on all sides on that head:
    But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision,
  Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it)
  Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it.

  And then, the mid-day having worn to one,
    The company prepared to separate;
  Some to their several pastimes, or to none,
    Some wondering 't was so early, some so late.
  There was a goodly match too, to be run
    Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate,
  And a young race-horse of old pedigree
  Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see.

  There was a picture-dealer who had brought
    A special Titian, warranted original,
  So precious that it was not to be bought,
    Though princes the possessor were besieging all.
  The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought
    The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all
  His subjects by his gracious acceptation)
  Too scanty, in these times of low taxation.

  But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,-
    The friend of artists, if not arts,- the owner,
  With motives the most classical and pure,
    So that he would have been the very donor,
  Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer,
    So much he deem'd his patronage an honour,
  Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale,
  But for his judgment- never known to fail.

  There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic
    Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect,
  Brought to survey these grey walls, which though so thick,
    Might have from time acquired some slight defect;
  Who after rummaging the Abbey through thick
    And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect
  New buildings of correctest conformation,
  And throw down old- which he call'd restoration.

  The cost would be a trifle- an 'old song,'
    Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burden
  Of that same tune, when people hum it long)-
    The price would speedily repay its worth in
  An edifice no less sublime than strong,
    By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in
  Its glory, through all ages shining sunny,
  For Gothic daring shown in English money.

  There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage
    Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase;
  Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage,
    And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's torches,
  Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage,
    'Untying' squires 'to fight against the churches;'
  There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman,
  For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman.

  There were two poachers caught in a steel trap,
    Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence;
  There was a country girl in a close cap
    And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since-
  Since- since- in youth, I had the sad mishap-
    But luckily I have paid few parish fees since):
  That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour,
  Presents the problem of a double figure.

  A reel within a bottle is a mystery,
    One can't tell how it e'er got in or out;
  Therefore the present piece of natural history
    I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt;
  And merely state, though not for the consistory,
    Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout
  The constable, beneath a warrant's banner,
  Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor.

  Now justices of peace must judge all pieces
    Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game
  And morals of the country from caprices
    Of those who have not a license for the same;
  And of all things, excepting tithes and leases,
    Perhaps these are most difficult to tame:
  Preserving partridges and pretty wenches
  Are puzzles to the most precautious benches.

  The present culprit was extremely pale,
    Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red
  By nature, as in higher dames less hale
    'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed.
  Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail,
    Poor soul! for she was country born and bred,
  And knew no better in her immorality
  Than to wax white- for blushes are for quality.

  Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye,
    Had gather'd a large tear into its corner,
  Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry,
    For she was not a sentimental mourner
  Parading all her sensibility,
    Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner,
  But stood in trembling, patient tribulation,
  To be call'd up for her examination.

  Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there,
    Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent.
  The lawyers in the study; and in air
    The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent
  From town, viz., architect and dealer, were
    Both busy (as a general in his tent
  Writing despatches) in their several stations,
  Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations.

  But this poor girl was left in the great hall,
    While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail,
  Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the 'small')
    A mighty mug of moral double ale.
  She waited until justice could recall
    Its kind attentions to their proper pale,
  To name a thing in nomenclature rather
  Perplexing for most virgins- a child's father.

  You see here was enough of occupation
    For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses.
  There was much bustle too, and preparation
    Below stairs on the score of second courses;
  Because, as suits their rank and situation,
    Those who in counties have great land resources
  Have 'Public days,' when all men may carouse,
  Though not exactly what 's call'd 'open house.'

  But once a week or fortnight, uninvited
    (Thus we translate a general invitation),
  All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted,
    May drop in without cards, and take their station
  At the full board, and sit alike delighted
    With fashionable wines and conversation;
  And, as the isthmus of the grand connection,
  Talk o'er themselves the past and next election.

  Lord Henry was a great electioneerer,
    Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit;
  But county contests cost him rather dearer,
    Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit
  Had English influence in the self-same sphere here;
    His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit,
  Was member for the 'other interest' (meaning
  The same self-interest, with a different leaning).

  Courteous and cautious therefore in his county,
    He was all things to all men, and dispensed
  To some civility, to others bounty,
    And promises to all- which last commenced
  To gather to a somewhat large amount, he
    Not calculating how much they condensed;
  But what with keeping some, and breaking others,
  His word had the same value as another's.

  A friend to freedom and freeholders- yet
    No less a friend to government- he held,
  That he exactly the just medium hit
    'Twixt place and patriotism- albeit compell'd,
  Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit,
    He added modestly, when rebels rail'd),
  To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd,
  But that with them all law would be demolish'd.

  He was 'free to confess' (whence comes this phrase?
    Is 't English? No- 't is only parliamentary)
  That innovation's spirit now-a-days
    Had made more progress than for the last century.
  He would not tread a factious path to praise,
    Though for the public weal disposed to venture high;
  As for his place, he could but say this of it,
  That the fatigue was greater than the profit.

  Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life
    Had ever been his sole and whole ambition;
  But could he quit his king in times of strife,
    Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition?
  When demagogues would with a butcher's knife
    Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!)
  The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings
  Have tied together commons, lords, and kings.

  Sooner 'come lace into the civil list
    And champion him to the utmost'- he would keep it,
  Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd:
    Profit he care not for, let others reap it;
  But should the day come when place ceased to exist,
    The country would have far more cause to weep it:
  For how could it go on? Explain who can!
  He gloried in the name of Englishman.

  He was as independent- ay, much more-
    Than those who were not paid for independence,
  As common soldiers, or a common- shore,
    Have in their several arts or parts ascendance
  O'er the irregulars in lust or gore,
    Who do not give professional attendance.
  Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager
  To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar.

  All this (save the last stanza) Henry said,
    And thought. I say no more- I 've said too much;
  For all of us have either heard or read-
    Off- or upon the hustings- some slight such
  Hints from the independent heart or head
    Of the official candidate. I 'll touch
  No more on this- the dinner-bell hath rung,
  And grace is said; the grace I should have sung-

  But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play.
    'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old
  Was wont to boast- as if a glutton's tray
    Were something very glorious to behold.
  But 't was a public feast and public day,-
    Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold,
  Great plenty, much formality, small cheer,
  And every body out of their own sphere.

  The squires familiarly formal, and
    My lords and ladies proudly condescending;
  The very servants puzzling how to hand
    Their plates- without it might be too much bending
  From their high places by the sideboard's stand-
    Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending.
  For any deviation from the graces
  Might cost both man and master too- their places.

  There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen,
    Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to lurch;
  Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen
    Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search
  Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen.
    There were some massy members of the church,
  Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches,
  And several who sung fewer psalms than catches.

  There were some country wags too- and, alas!
    Some exiles from the town, who had been driven
  To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass,
    And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven.
  And lo! upon that day it came to pass,
    I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven,
  The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,
  The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with.

  I knew him in his livelier London days,
    A brilliant diner out, though but a curate;
  And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise,
    Until preferment, coming at a sure rate
  (O Providence! how wondrous are thy ways!
    Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?),
  Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln,
  A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on.

  His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes;
    But both were thrown away amongst the fens;
  For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks.
    No longer ready ears and short-hand pens
  Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax:
    The poor priest was reduced to common sense,
  Or to coarse efforts very loud and long,
  To hammer a horse laugh from the thick throng.

  There is a difference, says the song, 'between
    A beggar and a queen,' or was (of late
  The latter worse used of the two we 've seen-
    But we 'll say nothing of affairs of state);
  A difference ''twixt a bishop and a dean,'
    A difference between crockery ware and plate,
  As between English beef and Spartan broth-
  And yet great heroes have been bred by both.

  But of all nature's discrepancies, none
    Upon the whole is greater than the difference
  Beheld between the country and the town,
    Of which the latter merits every preference
  From those who have few resources of their own,
    And only think, or act, or feel, with reference
  To some small plan of interest or ambition-
  Both which are limited to no condition.

  But 'en avant!' The light loves languish o'er
    Long banquets and too many guests, although
  A slight repast makes people love much more,
    Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know
  Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore
    With vivifying Venus, who doth owe
  To these the invention of champagne and truffles:
  Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.

  Dully past o'er the dinner of the day;
    And Juan took his place, he knew not where,
  Confused, in the confusion, and distrait,
    And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair:
  Though knives and forks clank'd round as in a fray,
    He seem'd unconscious of all passing there,
  Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish
  (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.

  On which, at the third asking of the bans,
    He started; and perceiving smiles around
  Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once,
    And hastily- as nothing can confound
  A wise man more than laughter from a dunce-
    Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound,
  And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it
  He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot.

  This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd,
    The supplicator being an amateur;
  But others, who were left with scarce a third,
    Were angry- as they well might, to be sure.
  They wonder'd how a young man so absurd
    Lord Henry at his table should endure;
  And this, and his not knowing how much oats
  Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes.

  They little knew, or might have sympathised,
    That he the night before had seen a ghost,
  A prologue which but slightly harmonised
    With the substantial company engross'd
  By matter, and so much materialised,
    That one scarce knew at what to marvel most
  Of two things- how (the question rather odd is)
  Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies.

  But what confused him more than smile or stare
    From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around,
  Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air,
    Especially as he had been renown'd
  For some vivacity among the fair,
    Even in the country circle's narrow bound
  (For little things upon my lord's estate
  Were good small talk for others still less great)-

  Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his,
    And something like a smile upon her cheek.
  Now this he really rather took amiss:
    In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak
  A strong external motive; and in this
    Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique
  Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles
  Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles.

  'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation,
    Indicative of some surprise and pity;
  And Juan grew carnation with vexation,
    Which was not very wise, and still less witty,
  Since he had gain'd at least her observation,
    A most important outwork of the city-
  As Juan should have known, had not his senses
  By last night's ghost been driven from their defences.

  But what was bad, she did not blush in turn,
    Nor seem embarrass'd- quite the contrary;
  Her aspect was as usual, still- not stern-
    And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye,
  Yet grew a little pale- with what? concern?
    I know not; but her colour ne'er was high-
  Though sometimes faintly flush'd- and always clear,
  As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.

  But Adeline was occupied by fame
    This day; and watching, witching, condescending
  To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game,
    And dignity with courtesy so blending,
  As all must blend whose part it is to aim
    (Especially as the sixth year is ending)
  At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's
  Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.

  Though this was most expedient on the whole,
    And usual- Juan, when he cast a glance
  On Adeline while playing her grand role,
    Which she went through as though it were a dance,
  Betraying only now and then her soul
    By a look scarce perceptibly askance
  (Of weariness or scorn), began to feel
  Some doubt how much of Adeline was real;

  So well she acted all and every part
    By turns- with that vivacious versatility,
  Which many people take for want of heart.
    They err- 't is merely what is call'd mobility,
  A thing of temperament and not of art,
    Though seeming so, from its supposed facility;
  And false- though true; for surely they 're sincerest
  Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.

  This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,
    Heroes sometimes, though seldom- sages never;
  But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,
    Little that 's great, but much of what is clever;
  Most orators, but very few financiers,
    Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour,
  Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours,
  And grow quite figurative with their figures.

  The poets of arithmetic are they
    Who, though they prove not two and two to be
  Five, as they might do in a modest way,
    Have plainly made it out that four are three,
  Judging by what they take, and what they pay.
    The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea,
  That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
  The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.

  While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,
    The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease;
  Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces,
    Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize
  The ridicules of people in all places-
    That honey of your fashionable bees-
  And store it up for mischievous enjoyment;
  And this at present was her kind employment.

  However, the day closed, as days must close;
    The evening also waned- and coffee came.
  Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose,
    And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
  Retired: with most unfashionable bows
    Their docile esquires also did the same,
  Delighted with their dinner and their host,
  But with the Lady Adeline the most.

  Some praised her beauty; others her great grace;
    The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity
  Was obvious in each feature of her face,
    Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity.
  Yes; she was truly worthy her high place!
    No one could envy her deserved prosperity.
  And then her dress- what beautiful simplicity
  Draperied her form with curious felicity!

  Meanwhile Sweet Adeline deserved their praises,
    By an impartial indemnification
  For all her past exertion and soft phrases,
    In a most edifying conversation,
  Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces,
    And families, even to the last relation;
  Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses,
  And truculent distortion of their tresses.

  True, she said little- 't was the rest that broke
    Forth into universal epigram;
  But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke:
    Like Addison's 'faint praise,' so wont to damn,
  Her own but served to set off every joke,
    As music chimes in with a melodrame.
  How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
  I ask but this of mine, to- not defend.

  There were but two exceptions to this keen
    Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one
  Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;
    And Juan, too, in general behind none
  In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
    Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:
  In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
  He would not join them in a single sally.

  'T is true he saw Aurora look as though
    She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook
  Its motive for that charity we owe
    But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
  Farther- it might or might not be so.
    But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
  Observing little in his reverie,
  Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.

  The ghost at least had done him this much good,
    In making him as silent as a ghost,
  If in the circumstances which ensued
    He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most.
  And certainly Aurora had renew'd
    In him some feelings he had lately lost,
  Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
  Are so divine, that I must deem them real:-

  The love of higher things and better days;
    The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
  Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways;
    The moments when we gather from a glance
  More joy than from all future pride or praise,
    Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance
  The heart in an existence of its own,
  Of which another's bosom is the zone.

  Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian
    That hath a memory, or that had a heart?
  Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian:
    Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart.
  Anacreon only had the soul to tie an
    Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart
  Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks,
  Still we respect thee, 'Alma Venus Genetrix!'

  And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
    Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
  Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
    Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
  Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
    Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond
  Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
  And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.

  The night was as before: he was undrest,
    Saving his night-gown, which is an undress;
  Completely 'sans culotte,' and without vest;
    In short, he hardly could be clothed with less:
  But apprehensive of his spectral guest,
    He sate with feelings awkward to express
  (By those who have not had such visitations),
  Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.

  And not in vain he listen'd;- Hush! what 's that?
    I see- I see- Ah, no!- 't is not- yet 't is-
  Ye powers! it is the- the- the- Pooh! the cat!
    The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
  So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,
    Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
  Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,
  And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

  Again- what is 't? The wind? No, no- this time
    It is the sable friar as before,
  With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,
    Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.
  Again through shadows of the night sublime,
    When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
  The starry darkness round her like a girdle
  Spangled with gems- the monk made his blood curdle.

  A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,
    Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter,
  Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
    Sounding like very supernatural water,
  Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!
    For immaterialism 's a serious matter;
  So that even those whose faith is the most great
  In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete.

  Were his eyes open?- Yes! and his mouth too.
    Surprise has this effect- to make one dumb,
  Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through
    As wide as if a long speech were to come.
  Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
    Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:
  His eyes were open, and (as was before
  Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?- the door.

  It open'd with a most infernal creak,
    Like that of hell. 'Lasciate ogni speranza
  Voi che entrate!' The hinge seem'd to speak,
    Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza;
  Or- but all words upon such themes are weak:
    A single shade 's sufficient to entrance
  Hero- for what is substance to a spirit?
  Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?

  The door flew wide,- not swiftly, but, as fly
    The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight,-
  And then swung back; nor close- but stood awry,
    Half letting in long shadows on the light,
  Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high,
    For he had two, both tolerably bright,
  And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood
  The sable friar in his solemn hood.

  Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
    The night before; but being sick of shaking,
  He first inclined to think he had been mistaken;
    And then to be ashamed of such mistaking;
  His own internal ghost began to awaken
    Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking-
  Hinting that soul and body on the whole
  Were odds against a disembodied soul.

  And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,
    And he arose, advanced- the shade retreated;
  But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,
    Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
  Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,
    At whatsoever risk of being defeated:
  The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until
  He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

  Juan put forth one arm- Eternal powers!
    It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall,
  On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers,
    Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall;
  He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers
    When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal.
  How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity
  Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.

  But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes glared,
    And rather variably for stony death:
  Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,
    The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
  A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd;
    A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath,
  Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
  The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud.

  And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust
    His other arm forth- Wonder upon wonder!
  It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust,
    Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
  He found, as people on most trials must,
    That he had made at first a silly blunder,
  And that in his confusion he had caught
  Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

  The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul
    As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood:
  A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole
    Forth into something much like flesh and blood;
  Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,
    And they reveal'd- alas! that e'er they should!
  In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,
  The phantom of her frolic Grace- Fitz-Fulke!
               CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH.

  THE world is full of orphans: firstly, those
    Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase;
  But many a lonely tree the loftier grows
    Than others crowded in the Forest's maze.-
  The next are such as are not doomed to lose
    Their tender parents in their budding days,
  But, merely, their parental tenderness,
  Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less.

  The next are 'only Children,' as they are styled,
    Who grow up Children only, since th' old saw
  Pronounces that an 'only 's' a spoilt child-
    But not to go too far, I hold it law,
  That where their education, harsh or mild,
    Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe,
  The sufferers- be 't in heart or intellect-
  Whate'er the cause, are orphans in effect.

  But to return unto the stricter rule-
    As far as words make rules- our common notion
  Of orphan paints at once a parish school,
    A half-starved babe, a wreck upon Life's ocean,
  A human (what the Italians nickname) 'Mule'!
    A theme for Pity or some worse emotion;
  Yet, if examined, it might be admitted
  The wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied.

  Too soon they are Parents to themselves: for what
    Are Tutors, Guardians, and so forth, compared
  With Nature's genial Genitors? so that
    A child of Chancery, that Star-Chamber ward
  (I 'll take the likeness I can first come at),
    Is like- a duckling by Dame Partlett rear'd,
  And frights- especially if 't is a daughter,
  Th' old Hen- by running headlong to the water.

  There is a common-place book argument,
    Which glibly glides from every tongue;
  When any dare a new light to present,
    'If you are right, then everybody 's wrong'!
  Suppose the converse of this precedent
    So often urged, so loudly and so long;
  'If you are wrong, then everybody 's right'!
  Was ever everybody yet so quite?

  Therefore I would solicit free discussion
    Upon all points- no matter what, or whose-
  Because as Ages upon Ages push on,
    The last is apt the former to accuse
  Of pillowing its head on a pin-cushion,
    Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse:
  What was a paradox becomes a truth or
  A something like it- witness Luther!

  The Sacraments have been reduced to two,
    And Witches unto none, though somewhat late
  Since burning aged women (save a few-
  Mischief in families, as some know or knew,
    Should still be singed, but lightly, let me state)
  Has been declared an act of inurbanity
  Malgre Sir Matthew Hales's great humanity.

  Great Galileo was debarr'd the Sun,
    Because he fix'd it; and, to stop his talking,
  How Earth could round the solar orbit run,
    Found his own legs embargo'd from mere walking:
  The man was well-nigh dead, ere men begun
    To think his skull had not some need of caulking;
  But now, it seems, he 's right- his notion just:
  No doubt a consolation to his dust

  Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates- but pages
    Might be fill'd up, as vainly as before,
  With the sad usage of all sorts of sages,
    Who, in his life-time, each, was deem'd a Bore!
  The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages:
    This they must bear with and, perhaps, much more;
  The wise man 's sure when he no more can share it, he
  Will have a firm Post Obit on posterity.

  If such doom waits each Intellectual Giant,
    We little people in our lesser way,
  In Life's small rubs should surely be more pliant,
    And so for one will I- as well I may-
  Would that I were less bilious- but, oh, fie on 't!
    Just as I make my mind up every day,
  To be a 'totus, teres,' Stoic, Sage,
  The wind shifts and I fly into a rage.

  Temperate I am- yet never had a temper;
    Modest I am- yet with some slight assurance;
  Changeable too- yet somehow 'Idem semper;'
    Patient- but not enamour'd of endurance;
  Cheerful- but, sometimes, rather apt to whimper;
    Mild- but at times a sort of 'Hercules furens;'
  So that I almost think that the same skin
  For one without- has two or three within.

  Our Hero was, in Canto the Sixteenth,
    Left in a tender moonlight situation,
  Such as enables Man to show his strength
    Moral or physical: on this occasion
  Whether his virtue triumph'd- or, at length,
    His vice- for he was of a kindling nation-
  Is more than I shall venture to describe;-
  Unless some Beauty with a kiss should bribe.

  I leave the thing a problem, like all things:-
    The morning came- and breakfast, tea and toast,
  Of which most men partake, but no one sings.
    The company whose birth, wealth, worth, has cost
  My trembling Lyre already several strings,
    Assembled with our hostess, and mine host;
  The guests dropp'd in- the last but one, Her Grace,
  The latest, Juan, with his virgin face.

  Which best it is to encounter- Ghost, or none,
    'T were difficult to say; but Juan look'd
  As if he had combated with more than one,
    Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brook'd
  The light that through the Gothic window shone:
    Her Grace, too, had a sort of air rebuked-
  Seem'd pale and shiver'd, as if she had kept
  A vigil, or dreamt rather more than slept.


                       THE END


by Samuel Taylor Coleridge |

Christabel

PART I

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff, which
From her kennel beneath the rock
Maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'T is a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.-
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek-
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Dressed in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were;
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 't was frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she-
Beautiful exceedingly!

'Mary mother, save me now!'
Said Christabel, 'and who art thou?'

The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:-
'Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!'
Said Christabel, 'How camest thou here?'
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:-
'My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced, I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell-
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand,' thus ended she,
'And help a wretched maid to flee.'

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:
'O well, bright dame, may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth, and friends withal,
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.'

She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
'All our household are at rest,
The hall is silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth;
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.'

They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.

So, free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the Lady by her side;
'Praise we the Virgin all divine,
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!'
'Alas, alas!' said Geraldine,
'I cannot speak for weariness.'
So, free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make.
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
For what can aid the mastiff bitch?

They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will.
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
'O softly tread,' said Christabel,
'My father seldom sleepeth well.'
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And, jealous of the listening air,
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron's room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel's feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
'O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.'

'And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?'
Christabel answered- 'Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!'
'I would,' said Geraldine, 'she were!'

But soon, with altered voice, said she-
'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee.'
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine-
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman. off! 't is given to me.'

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue-
'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride-
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!'
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, ''T is over now!'
Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor, whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countree.

And thus the lofty lady spake-
'All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake,
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'

Quoth Christabel, 'So let it be!'
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress
And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain, of weal and woe,
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline.
To look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropped to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side-
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs:
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the maiden's side!-
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah, well-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:

'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard'st a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:
And didst bring her home with thee, in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'

It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale-
Her face, oh, call it fair not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear.
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah, woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is-
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine-
Thou'st had thy will! By tarn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!

And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds-
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 't is but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit 't were,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all.

PART II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead:
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law began
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke- a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
Saith Bracy the bard, 'So let it knell!
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can!'
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t' other,
The death-note to their living brother;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borrowdale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christabel.
'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well.'

And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side-
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air,
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
'Sure I have sinned!' said Christabel,
'Now heaven be praised if all be well!'
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom,
Enter the Baron's presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady's tale,
And when she told her father's name,
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted- ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between.
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sir Leoline, a moment's space,
Stood gazing on the damsel's face:
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again.

O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry,
That they, who thus had wronged the dame
Were base as spotted infamy!
'And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek
My tourney court- that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!'
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again-
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest,
While in the lady's arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o'er her eyes
Spread smiles like light!
With new surprise,
'What ails then my beloved child?'
The Baron said- His daughter mild
Made answer, 'All will yet be well!'
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.

Yet he who saw this Geraldine,
Had deemed her sure a thing divine.
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she feared she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she prayed
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.
'Nay!
Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.
'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.

'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.

'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
More loud than your horses' echoing feet!
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free-
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.
He bids thee come without delay
With all thy numerous array;
And take thy lovely daughter home:
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
White with their panting palfreys' foam:
And, by mine honor! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!-
- For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'

The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing;
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious hail on all bestowing;
'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me;
That I had vowed with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warned by a vision in my rest!
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call'st by thy own daughter's name-
Sir Leoline! I saw the same,
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wondered what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see,
Save the grass and herbs underneath the old tree.
And in my dream methought I went
To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peered, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Coiled around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couched,
Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
I woke; it was the midnight hour,
The clock was echoing in the tower;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away-
It seems to live upon my eye!
And thence I vowed this self-same day
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.'

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile;
Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couched her head upon her breast,
And looked askance at Christabel-
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!-
One moment- and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turned round,
And like a thing that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She rolled her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees- no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise,
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view-
As far as such a look could be
In eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
Then falling at the Baron's feet,
'By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!'
She said: and more she could not say;
For what she knew she could not tell,
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride.
So fair, so innocent, so mild;
The same, for whom thy lady died!
O by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died:
Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
Sir Leoline!
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
Her child and thine?

Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonored thus in his old age;
Dishonored by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the insulted daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end-
He rolled his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle ministrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere-
'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!

(Coleridge never finished the poem;
this conclusion is by James Gillman,
who cared for Coleridge during the
latter years. He wrote the following
based on what the poet would outline
for his friends.)

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II

A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.

THE END 


by Samuel Taylor Coleridge |

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

PART ONE

IT IS an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,
'There was a ship,' quoth he.
'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye--
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon--'
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners' hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
Why look'st thou so?'--'With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.'

PART TWO

THE Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assur'ed were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

PART THREE

THERE passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a mist;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame.
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
Is DEATH that woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip--
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horn'ed Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,--
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

PART FOUR

'I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.'--
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay

I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man's eye!
Seven days, seven nights saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside--

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
The charm'ed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
Then coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

PART FIVE

OH sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light--almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a bless'ed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools--
We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'
Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their corses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned--they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the Ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid: and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean:
But in a minute she 'gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion--
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound:
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?
By him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.'

The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.'

PART SIX

First Voice

'BUT tell me, tell me! speak again,
They soft response renewing--
What makes that ship drive on so fast?
What is the ocean doing?'

Second Voice

'Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast--

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.'

First Voice

'But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?'

Second Voice
'The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen--

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring--
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray--
O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay, the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady, weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned my eyes upon the deck--
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly, sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart--
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the Pilot's cheer;
My head was turned perforce away
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third-I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He'll shrieve my soul he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.

PART SEVEN

THIS Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve--
He hath a cushion plump:
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
'Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now?'

'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said--
'And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf's young.'

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
(The Pilot made reply)
I am a-feared'--'Push on, push on!'
Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dead:
It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,
The Devil knows how to row.'

And now, all in my own countree,
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'
The Hermit crossed his brow.
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say--
What manner of man art thou?

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The wedding-guests are there:
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are:
And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seem'ed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!--

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn. 


by Emily Dickinson |

Awake ye muses nine

 Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,
Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine!

Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain.
All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air,
God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair!
The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one,
Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun;
The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be,
Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree.
The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small,
None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball;
The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives,
And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves;
The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won,
And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son.
The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune,
The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon,
Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows,
No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose.
The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride,
Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide;
Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,
And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.
Now to the application, to the reading of the roll,
To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul:
Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone,
Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap'st what thou hast sown.
Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long,
And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song?
There's Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair,
And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair!
Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see
Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree;
Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb,
And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time!
Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower,
And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower --
And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum --
And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!


by Geoffrey Chaucer |

The Knights Tale

 WHILOM*, as olde stories tellen us, *formerly
There was a duke that highte* Theseus. *was called <2>
Of Athens he was lord and governor,
And in his time such a conqueror
That greater was there none under the sun.
Full many a riche country had he won.
What with his wisdom and his chivalry,
He conquer'd all the regne of Feminie,<3>
That whilom was y-cleped Scythia;
And weddede the Queen Hippolyta
And brought her home with him to his country
With muchel* glory and great solemnity, *great
And eke her younge sister Emily,
And thus with vict'ry and with melody
Let I this worthy Duke to Athens ride,
And all his host, in armes him beside.

And certes, if it n'ere* too long to hear, *were not
I would have told you fully the mannere,
How wonnen* was the regne of Feminie, <4> *won
By Theseus, and by his chivalry;
And of the greate battle for the nonce
Betwixt Athenes and the Amazons;
And how assieged was Hippolyta,
The faire hardy queen of Scythia;
And of the feast that was at her wedding
And of the tempest at her homecoming.
But all these things I must as now forbear.
I have, God wot, a large field to ear* *plough<5>;
And weake be the oxen in my plough;
The remnant of my tale is long enow.
I will not *letten eke none of this rout*. *hinder any of
Let every fellow tell his tale about, this company*
And let see now who shall the supper win.
There *as I left*, I will again begin. *where I left off*

This Duke, of whom I make mentioun,
When he was come almost unto the town,
In all his weal, and in his moste pride,
He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,
Where that there kneeled in the highe way
A company of ladies, tway and tway,
Each after other, clad in clothes black:
But such a cry and such a woe they make,
That in this world n'is creature living,
That hearde such another waimenting* *lamenting <6>
And of this crying would they never stenten*, *desist
Till they the reines of his bridle henten*. *seize
"What folk be ye that at mine homecoming
Perturben so my feaste with crying?"
Quoth Theseus; "Have ye so great envy
Of mine honour, that thus complain and cry?
Or who hath you misboden*, or offended? *wronged
Do telle me, if it may be amended;
And why that ye be clad thus all in black?"

The oldest lady of them all then spake,
When she had swooned, with a deadly cheer*, *countenance
That it was ruthe* for to see or hear. *pity
She saide; "Lord, to whom fortune hath given
Vict'ry, and as a conqueror to liven,
Nought grieveth us your glory and your honour;
But we beseechen mercy and succour.
Have mercy on our woe and our distress;
Some drop of pity, through thy gentleness,
Upon us wretched women let now fall.
For certes, lord, there is none of us all
That hath not been a duchess or a queen;
Now be we caitives*, as it is well seen: *captives
Thanked be Fortune, and her false wheel,
That *none estate ensureth to be wele*. *assures no continuance of
And certes, lord, t'abiden your presence prosperous estate*
Here in this temple of the goddess Clemence
We have been waiting all this fortenight:
Now help us, lord, since it lies in thy might.

"I, wretched wight, that weep and waile thus,
Was whilom wife to king Capaneus,
That starf* at Thebes, cursed be that day: *died <7>
And alle we that be in this array,
And maken all this lamentatioun,
We losten all our husbands at that town,
While that the siege thereabouten lay.
And yet the olde Creon, wellaway!
That lord is now of Thebes the city,
Fulfilled of ire and of iniquity,
He for despite, and for his tyranny,
To do the deade bodies villainy*, *insult
Of all our lorde's, which that been y-slaw, *slain
Hath all the bodies on an heap y-draw,
And will not suffer them by none assent
Neither to be y-buried, nor y-brent*, *burnt
But maketh houndes eat them in despite."
And with that word, withoute more respite
They fallen groff,* and cryden piteously; *grovelling
"Have on us wretched women some mercy,
And let our sorrow sinken in thine heart."

This gentle Duke down from his courser start
With hearte piteous, when he heard them speak.
Him thoughte that his heart would all to-break,
When he saw them so piteous and so mate* *abased
That whilom weren of so great estate.
And in his armes he them all up hent*, *raised, took
And them comforted in full good intent,
And swore his oath, as he was true knight,
He woulde do *so farforthly his might* *as far as his power went*
Upon the tyrant Creon them to wreak*, *avenge
That all the people of Greece shoulde speak,
How Creon was of Theseus y-served,
As he that had his death full well deserved.
And right anon withoute more abode* *delay
His banner he display'd, and forth he rode
To Thebes-ward, and all his, host beside:
No ner* Athenes would he go nor ride, *nearer
Nor take his ease fully half a day,
But onward on his way that night he lay:
And sent anon Hippolyta the queen,
And Emily her younge sister sheen* *bright, lovely
Unto the town of Athens for to dwell:
And forth he rit*; there is no more to tell. *rode

The red statue of Mars with spear and targe* *shield
So shineth in his white banner large
That all the fieldes glitter up and down:
And by his banner borne is his pennon
Of gold full rich, in which there was y-beat* *stamped
The Minotaur<8> which that he slew in Crete
Thus rit this Duke, thus rit this conqueror
And in his host of chivalry the flower,
Till that he came to Thebes, and alight
Fair in a field, there as he thought to fight.
But shortly for to speaken of this thing,
With Creon, which that was of Thebes king,
He fought, and slew him manly as a knight
In plain bataille, and put his folk to flight:
And by assault he won the city after,
And rent adown both wall, and spar, and rafter;
And to the ladies he restored again
The bodies of their husbands that were slain,
To do obsequies, as was then the guise*. *custom

But it were all too long for to devise* *describe
The greate clamour, and the waimenting*, *lamenting
Which that the ladies made at the brenning* *burning
Of the bodies, and the great honour
That Theseus the noble conqueror
Did to the ladies, when they from him went:
But shortly for to tell is mine intent.
When that this worthy Duke, this Theseus,
Had Creon slain, and wonnen Thebes thus,
Still in the field he took all night his rest,
And did with all the country as him lest*. *pleased
To ransack in the tas* of bodies dead, *heap
Them for to strip of *harness and of **weed, *armour **clothes
The pillers* did their business and cure, *pillagers <9>
After the battle and discomfiture.
And so befell, that in the tas they found,
Through girt with many a grievous bloody wound,
Two younge knightes *ligging by and by* *lying side by side*
Both in *one armes*, wrought full richely: *the same armour*
Of whiche two, Arcita hight that one,
And he that other highte Palamon.
Not fully quick*, nor fully dead they were, *alive
But by their coat-armour, and by their gear,
The heralds knew them well in special,
As those that weren of the blood royal
Of Thebes, and *of sistren two y-born*. *born of two sisters*
Out of the tas the pillers have them torn,
And have them carried soft unto the tent
Of Theseus, and he full soon them sent
To Athens, for to dwellen in prison
Perpetually, he *n'olde no ranson*. *would take no ransom*
And when this worthy Duke had thus y-done,
He took his host, and home he rit anon
With laurel crowned as a conquerour;
And there he lived in joy and in honour
Term of his life; what needeth wordes mo'?
And in a tower, in anguish and in woe,
Dwellen this Palamon, and eke Arcite,
For evermore, there may no gold them quite* *set free

Thus passed year by year, and day by day,
Till it fell ones in a morn of May
That Emily, that fairer was to seen
Than is the lily upon his stalke green,
And fresher than the May with flowers new
(For with the rose colour strove her hue;
I n'ot* which was the finer of them two), *know not
Ere it was day, as she was wont to do,
She was arisen, and all ready dight*, *dressed
For May will have no sluggardy a-night;
The season pricketh every gentle heart,
And maketh him out of his sleep to start,
And saith, "Arise, and do thine observance."

This maketh Emily have remembrance
To do honour to May, and for to rise.
Y-clothed was she fresh for to devise;
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress,
Behind her back, a yarde long I guess.
And in the garden at *the sun uprist* *sunrise
She walketh up and down where as her list.
She gathereth flowers, party* white and red, *mingled
To make a sotel* garland for her head, *subtle, well-arranged
And as an angel heavenly she sung.
The greate tower, that was so thick and strong,
Which of the castle was the chief dungeon<10>
(Where as these knightes weren in prison,
Of which I tolde you, and telle shall),
Was even joinant* to the garden wall, *adjoining
There as this Emily had her playing.

Bright was the sun, and clear that morrowning,
And Palamon, this woful prisoner,
As was his wont, by leave of his gaoler,
Was ris'n, and roamed in a chamber on high,
In which he all the noble city sigh*, *saw
And eke the garden, full of branches green,
There as this fresh Emelia the sheen
Was in her walk, and roamed up and down.
This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon
Went in his chamber roaming to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe:
That he was born, full oft he said, Alas!
And so befell, by aventure or cas*, *chance
That through a window thick of many a bar
Of iron great, and square as any spar,
He cast his eyes upon Emelia,
And therewithal he blent* and cried, Ah! *started aside
As though he stungen were unto the heart.
And with that cry Arcite anon up start,
And saide, "Cousin mine, what aileth thee,
That art so pale and deadly for to see?
Why cried'st thou? who hath thee done offence?
For Godde's love, take all in patience
Our prison*, for it may none other be. *imprisonment
Fortune hath giv'n us this adversity'.
Some wick'* aspect or disposition *wicked
Of Saturn<11>, by some constellation,
Hath giv'n us this, although we had it sworn,
So stood the heaven when that we were born,
We must endure; this is the short and plain.

This Palamon answer'd, and said again:
"Cousin, forsooth of this opinion
Thou hast a vain imagination.
This prison caused me not for to cry;
But I was hurt right now thorough mine eye
Into mine heart; that will my bane* be. *destruction
The fairness of the lady that I see
Yond in the garden roaming to and fro,
Is cause of all my crying and my woe.
I *n'ot wher* she be woman or goddess, *know not whether*
But Venus is it, soothly* as I guess, *truly
And therewithal on knees adown he fill,
And saide: "Venus, if it be your will
You in this garden thus to transfigure
Before me sorrowful wretched creature,
Out of this prison help that we may scape.
And if so be our destiny be shape
By etern word to dien in prison,
Of our lineage have some compassion,
That is so low y-brought by tyranny."

And with that word Arcita *gan espy* *began to look forth*
Where as this lady roamed to and fro
And with that sight her beauty hurt him so,
That if that Palamon was wounded sore,
Arcite is hurt as much as he, or more.
And with a sigh he saide piteously:
"The freshe beauty slay'th me suddenly
Of her that roameth yonder in the place.
And but* I have her mercy and her grace, *unless
That I may see her at the leaste way,
I am but dead; there is no more to say."
This Palamon, when he these wordes heard,
Dispiteously* he looked, and answer'd: *angrily
"Whether say'st thou this in earnest or in play?"
"Nay," quoth Arcite, "in earnest, by my fay*. *faith
God help me so, *me lust full ill to play*." *I am in no humour
This Palamon gan knit his browes tway. for jesting*
"It were," quoth he, "to thee no great honour
For to be false, nor for to be traitour
To me, that am thy cousin and thy brother
Y-sworn full deep, and each of us to other,
That never for to dien in the pain <12>,
Till that the death departen shall us twain,
Neither of us in love to hinder other,
Nor in none other case, my leve* brother; *dear
But that thou shouldest truly farther me
In every case, as I should farther thee.
This was thine oath, and mine also certain;
I wot it well, thou dar'st it not withsayn*, *deny
Thus art thou of my counsel out of doubt,
And now thou wouldest falsely be about
To love my lady, whom I love and serve,
And ever shall, until mine hearte sterve* *die
Now certes, false Arcite, thou shalt not so
I lov'd her first, and tolde thee my woe
As to my counsel, and my brother sworn
To farther me, as I have told beforn.
For which thou art y-bounden as a knight
To helpe me, if it lie in thy might,
Or elles art thou false, I dare well sayn,"

This Arcita full proudly spake again:
"Thou shalt," quoth he, "be rather* false than I, *sooner
And thou art false, I tell thee utterly;
For par amour I lov'd her first ere thou.
What wilt thou say? *thou wist it not right now* *even now thou
Whether she be a woman or goddess. knowest not*
Thine is affection of holiness,
And mine is love, as to a creature:
For which I tolde thee mine aventure
As to my cousin, and my brother sworn
I pose*, that thou loved'st her beforn: *suppose
Wost* thou not well the olde clerke's saw<13>, *know'st
That who shall give a lover any law?
Love is a greater lawe, by my pan,
Than may be giv'n to any earthly man:
Therefore positive law, and such decree,
Is broke alway for love in each degree
A man must needes love, maugre his head.
He may not flee it, though he should be dead,
*All be she* maid, or widow, or else wife. *whether she be*
And eke it is not likely all thy life
To standen in her grace, no more than I
For well thou wost thyselfe verily,
That thou and I be damned to prison
Perpetual, us gaineth no ranson.
We strive, as did the houndes for the bone;
They fought all day, and yet their part was none.
There came a kite, while that they were so wroth,
And bare away the bone betwixt them both.
And therefore at the kinge's court, my brother,
Each man for himselfe, there is no other.
Love if thee list; for I love and aye shall
And soothly, leve brother, this is all.
Here in this prison musten we endure,
And each of us take his Aventure."

Great was the strife and long between these tway,
If that I hadde leisure for to say;
But to the effect: it happen'd on a day
(To tell it you as shortly as I may),
A worthy duke that hight Perithous<14>
That fellow was to the Duke Theseus
Since thilke* day that they were children lite** *that **little
Was come to Athens, his fellow to visite,
And for to play, as he was wont to do;
For in this world he loved no man so;
And he lov'd him as tenderly again.
So well they lov'd, as olde bookes sayn,
That when that one was dead, soothly to sayn,
His fellow went and sought him down in hell:
But of that story list me not to write.
Duke Perithous loved well Arcite,
And had him known at Thebes year by year:
And finally at request and prayere
Of Perithous, withoute ranson
Duke Theseus him let out of prison,
Freely to go, where him list over all,
In such a guise, as I you tellen shall
This was the forword*, plainly to indite, *promise
Betwixte Theseus and him Arcite:
That if so were, that Arcite were y-found
Ever in his life, by day or night, one stound* *moment<15>
In any country of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was accorded thus,
That with a sword he shoulde lose his head;
There was none other remedy nor rede*. *counsel
But took his leave, and homeward he him sped;
Let him beware, his necke lieth *to wed*. *in pledge*

How great a sorrow suff'reth now Arcite!
The death he feeleth through his hearte smite;
He weepeth, waileth, crieth piteously;
To slay himself he waiteth privily.
He said; "Alas the day that I was born!
Now is my prison worse than beforn:
*Now is me shape* eternally to dwell *it is fixed for me*
Not in purgatory, but right in hell.
Alas! that ever I knew Perithous.
For elles had I dwelt with Theseus
Y-fettered in his prison evermo'.
Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe.
Only the sight of her, whom that I serve,
Though that I never may her grace deserve,
Would have sufficed right enough for me.
O deare cousin Palamon," quoth he,
"Thine is the vict'ry of this aventure,
Full blissfully in prison to endure:
In prison? nay certes, in paradise.
Well hath fortune y-turned thee the dice,
That hast the sight of her, and I th' absence.
For possible is, since thou hast her presence,
And art a knight, a worthy and an able,
That by some cas*, since fortune is changeable, *chance
Thou may'st to thy desire sometime attain.
But I that am exiled, and barren
Of alle grace, and in so great despair,
That there n'is earthe, water, fire, nor air,
Nor creature, that of them maked is,
That may me helpe nor comfort in this,
Well ought I *sterve in wanhope* and distress. *die in despair*
Farewell my life, my lust*, and my gladness. *pleasure
Alas, *why plainen men so in commune *why do men so often complain
Of purveyance of God*, or of Fortune, of God's providence?*
That giveth them full oft in many a guise
Well better than they can themselves devise?
Some man desireth for to have richess,
That cause is of his murder or great sickness.
And some man would out of his prison fain,
That in his house is of his meinie* slain. *servants <16>
Infinite harmes be in this mattere.
We wot never what thing we pray for here.
We fare as he that drunk is as a mouse.
A drunken man wot well he hath an house,
But he wot not which is the right way thither,
And to a drunken man the way is slither*. *slippery
And certes in this world so fare we.
We seeke fast after felicity,
But we go wrong full often truely.
Thus we may sayen all, and namely* I, *especially
That ween'd*, and had a great opinion, *thought
That if I might escape from prison
Then had I been in joy and perfect heal,
Where now I am exiled from my weal.
Since that I may not see you, Emily,
I am but dead; there is no remedy."

Upon that other side, Palamon,
When that he wist Arcita was agone,
Much sorrow maketh, that the greate tower
Resounded of his yelling and clamour
The pure* fetters on his shinnes great *very <17>
Were of his bitter salte teares wet.

"Alas!" quoth he, "Arcita, cousin mine,
Of all our strife, God wot, the fruit is thine.
Thou walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
And of my woe thou *givest little charge*. *takest little heed*
Thou mayst, since thou hast wisdom and manhead*, *manhood, courage
Assemble all the folk of our kindred,
And make a war so sharp on this country
That by some aventure, or some treaty,
Thou mayst have her to lady and to wife,
For whom that I must needes lose my life.
For as by way of possibility,
Since thou art at thy large, of prison free,
And art a lord, great is thine avantage,
More than is mine, that sterve here in a cage.
For I must weep and wail, while that I live,
With all the woe that prison may me give,
And eke with pain that love me gives also,
That doubles all my torment and my woe."

Therewith the fire of jealousy upstart
Within his breast, and hent* him by the heart *seized
So woodly*, that he like was to behold *madly
The box-tree, or the ashes dead and cold.
Then said; "O cruel goddess, that govern
This world with binding of your word etern* *eternal
And writen in the table of adamant
Your parlement* and your eternal grant, *consultation
What is mankind more *unto you y-hold* *by you esteemed
Than is the sheep, that rouketh* in the fold! *lie huddled together
For slain is man, right as another beast;
And dwelleth eke in prison and arrest,
And hath sickness, and great adversity,
And oftentimes guilteless, pardie* *by God
What governance is in your prescience,
That guilteless tormenteth innocence?
And yet increaseth this all my penance,
That man is bounden to his observance
For Godde's sake to *letten of his will*, *restrain his desire*
Whereas a beast may all his lust fulfil.
And when a beast is dead, he hath no pain;
But man after his death must weep and plain,
Though in this worlde he have care and woe:
Withoute doubt it maye standen so.
"The answer of this leave I to divines,
But well I wot, that in this world great pine* is; *pain, trouble
Alas! I see a serpent or a thief
That many a true man hath done mischief,
Go at his large, and where him list may turn.
But I must be in prison through Saturn,
And eke through Juno, jealous and eke wood*, *mad
That hath well nigh destroyed all the blood
Of Thebes, with his waste walles wide.
And Venus slay'th me on that other side
For jealousy, and fear of him, Arcite."

Now will I stent* of Palamon a lite**, *pause **little
And let him in his prison stille dwell,
And of Arcita forth I will you tell.
The summer passeth, and the nightes long
Increase double-wise the paines strong
Both of the lover and the prisonere.
I n'ot* which hath the wofuller mistere**. *know not **condition
For, shortly for to say, this Palamon
Perpetually is damned to prison,
In chaines and in fetters to be dead;
And Arcite is exiled *on his head* *on peril of his head*
For evermore as out of that country,
Nor never more he shall his lady see.
You lovers ask I now this question,<18>
Who lieth the worse, Arcite or Palamon?
The one may see his lady day by day,
But in prison he dwelle must alway.
The other where him list may ride or go,
But see his lady shall he never mo'.
Now deem all as you liste, ye that can,
For I will tell you forth as I began.

When that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
Full oft a day he swelt*, and said, "Alas!" *fainted
For see this lady he shall never mo'.
And shortly to concluden all his woe,
So much sorrow had never creature
That is or shall be while the world may dure.
His sleep, his meat, his drink is *him byraft*, *taken away from him*
That lean he wex*, and dry as any shaft. *became
His eyen hollow, grisly to behold,
His hue sallow, and pale as ashes cold,
And solitary he was, ever alone,
And wailing all the night, making his moan.
And if he hearde song or instrument,
Then would he weepen, he might not be stent*. *stopped
So feeble were his spirits, and so low,
And changed so, that no man coulde know
His speech, neither his voice, though men it heard.
And in his gear* for all the world he far'd *behaviour <19>
Not only like the lovers' malady
Of Eros, but rather y-like manie* *madness
Engender'd of humours melancholic,
Before his head in his cell fantastic.<20>
And shortly turned was all upside down,
Both habit and eke dispositioun,
Of him, this woful lover Dan* Arcite. *Lord <21>
Why should I all day of his woe indite?
When he endured had a year or two
This cruel torment, and this pain and woe,
At Thebes, in his country, as I said,
Upon a night in sleep as he him laid,
Him thought how that the winged god Mercury
Before him stood, and bade him to be merry.
His sleepy yard* in hand he bare upright; *rod <22>
A hat he wore upon his haires bright.
Arrayed was this god (as he took keep*) *notice
As he was when that Argus<23> took his sleep;
And said him thus: "To Athens shalt thou wend*; *go
There is thee shapen* of thy woe an end." *fixed, prepared
And with that word Arcite woke and start.
"Now truely how sore that e'er me smart,"
Quoth he, "to Athens right now will I fare.
Nor for no dread of death shall I not spare
To see my lady that I love and serve;
In her presence *I recke not to sterve.*" *do not care if I die*
And with that word he caught a great mirror,
And saw that changed was all his colour,
And saw his visage all in other kind.
And right anon it ran him ill his mind,
That since his face was so disfigur'd
Of malady the which he had endur'd,
He mighte well, if that he *bare him low,* *lived in lowly fashion*
Live in Athenes evermore unknow,
And see his lady wellnigh day by day.
And right anon he changed his array,
And clad him as a poore labourer.
And all alone, save only a squier,
That knew his privity* and all his cas**, *secrets **fortune
Which was disguised poorly as he was,
To Athens is he gone the nexte* way. *nearest <24>
And to the court he went upon a day,
And at the gate he proffer'd his service,
To drudge and draw, what so men would devise*. *order
And, shortly of this matter for to sayn,
He fell in office with a chamberlain,
The which that dwelling was with Emily.
For he was wise, and coulde soon espy
Of every servant which that served her.
Well could he hewe wood, and water bear,
For he was young and mighty for the nones*, *occasion
And thereto he was strong and big of bones
To do that any wight can him devise.

A year or two he was in this service,
Page of the chamber of Emily the bright;
And Philostrate he saide that he hight.
But half so well belov'd a man as he
Ne was there never in court of his degree.
He was so gentle of conditioun,
That throughout all the court was his renown.
They saide that it were a charity
That Theseus would *enhance his degree*, *elevate him in rank*
And put him in some worshipful service,
There as he might his virtue exercise.
And thus within a while his name sprung
Both of his deedes, and of his good tongue,
That Theseus hath taken him so near,
That of his chamber he hath made him squire,
And gave him gold to maintain his degree;
And eke men brought him out of his country
From year to year full privily his rent.
But honestly and slyly* he it spent, *discreetly, prudently
That no man wonder'd how that he it had.
And three year in this wise his life be lad*, *led
And bare him so in peace and eke in werre*, *war
There was no man that Theseus had so derre*. *dear
And in this blisse leave I now Arcite,
And speak I will of Palamon a lite*. *little

In darkness horrible, and strong prison,
This seven year hath sitten Palamon,
Forpined*, what for love, and for distress. *pined, wasted away
Who feeleth double sorrow and heaviness
But Palamon? that love distraineth* so, *afflicts
That wood* out of his wits he went for woe, *mad
And eke thereto he is a prisonere
Perpetual, not only for a year.
Who coulde rhyme in English properly
His martyrdom? forsooth*, it is not I; *truly
Therefore I pass as lightly as I may.
It fell that in the seventh year, in May
The thirde night (as olde bookes sayn,
That all this story tellen more plain),
Were it by a venture or destiny
(As when a thing is shapen* it shall be), *settled, decreed
That soon after the midnight, Palamon
By helping of a friend brake his prison,
And fled the city fast as he might go,
For he had given drink his gaoler so
Of a clary <25>, made of a certain wine,
With *narcotise and opie* of Thebes fine, *narcotics and opium*
That all the night, though that men would him shake,
The gaoler slept, he mighte not awake:
And thus he fled as fast as ever he may.
The night was short, and *faste by the day *close at hand was
That needes cast he must himself to hide*. the day during which
And to a grove faste there beside he must cast about, or contrive,
With dreadful foot then stalked Palamon. to conceal himself.*
For shortly this was his opinion,
That in the grove he would him hide all day,
And in the night then would he take his way
To Thebes-ward, his friendes for to pray
On Theseus to help him to warray*. *make war <26>
And shortly either he would lose his life,
Or winnen Emily unto his wife.
This is th' effect, and his intention plain.

Now will I turn to Arcita again,
That little wist how nighe was his care,
Till that Fortune had brought him in the snare.
The busy lark, the messenger of day,
Saluteth in her song the morning gray;
And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright,
That all the orient laugheth at the sight,
And with his streames* drieth in the greves** *rays **groves
The silver droppes, hanging on the leaves;
And Arcite, that is in the court royal
With Theseus, his squier principal,
Is ris'n, and looketh on the merry day.
And for to do his observance to May,
Remembering the point* of his desire, *object
He on his courser, starting as the fire,
Is ridden to the fieldes him to play,
Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.
And to the grove, of which I have you told,
By a venture his way began to hold,
To make him a garland of the greves*, *groves
Were it of woodbine, or of hawthorn leaves,
And loud he sang against the sun so sheen*. *shining bright
"O May, with all thy flowers and thy green,
Right welcome be thou, faire freshe May,
I hope that I some green here getten may."
And from his courser*, with a lusty heart, *horse
Into the grove full hastily he start,
And in a path he roamed up and down,
There as by aventure this Palamon
Was in a bush, that no man might him see,
For sore afeard of his death was he.
Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite;
God wot he would have *trowed it full lite*. *full little believed it*
But sooth is said, gone since full many years,
The field hath eyen*, and the wood hath ears, *eyes
It is full fair a man *to bear him even*, *to be on his guard*
For all day meeten men at *unset steven*. *unexpected time <27>
Full little wot Arcite of his fellaw,
That was so nigh to hearken of his saw*, *saying, speech
For in the bush he sitteth now full still.
When that Arcite had roamed all his fill,
And *sungen all the roundel* lustily, *sang the roundelay*<28>
Into a study he fell suddenly,
As do those lovers in their *quainte gears*, *odd fashions*
Now in the crop*, and now down in the breres**, <29> *tree-top
Now up, now down, as bucket in a well. **briars
Right as the Friday, soothly for to tell,
Now shineth it, and now it raineth fast,
Right so can geary* Venus overcast *changeful
The heartes of her folk, right as her day
Is gearful*, right so changeth she array. *changeful
Seldom is Friday all the weeke like.
When Arcite had y-sung, he gan to sike*, *sigh
And sat him down withouten any more:
"Alas!" quoth he, "the day that I was bore!
How longe, Juno, through thy cruelty
Wilt thou warrayen* Thebes the city? *torment
Alas! y-brought is to confusion
The blood royal of Cadm' and Amphion:
Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man,
That Thebes built, or first the town began,
And of the city first was crowned king.
Of his lineage am I, and his offspring
By very line, as of the stock royal;
And now I am *so caitiff and so thrall*, *wretched and enslaved*
That he that is my mortal enemy,
I serve him as his squier poorely.
And yet doth Juno me well more shame,
For I dare not beknow* mine owen name, *acknowledge <30>
But there as I was wont to hight Arcite,
Now hight I Philostrate, not worth a mite.
Alas! thou fell Mars, and alas! Juno,
Thus hath your ire our lineage all fordo* *undone, ruined
Save only me, and wretched Palamon,
That Theseus martyreth in prison.
And over all this, to slay me utterly,
Love hath his fiery dart so brenningly* *burningly
Y-sticked through my true careful heart,
That shapen was my death erst than my shert. <31>
Ye slay me with your eyen, Emily;
Ye be the cause wherefore that I die.
Of all the remnant of mine other care
Ne set I not the *mountance of a tare*, *value of a straw*
So that I could do aught to your pleasance."

And with that word he fell down in a trance
A longe time; and afterward upstart
This Palamon, that thought thorough his heart
He felt a cold sword suddenly to glide:
For ire he quoke*, no longer would he hide. *quaked
And when that he had heard Arcite's tale,
As he were wood*, with face dead and pale, *mad
He start him up out of the bushes thick,
And said: "False Arcita, false traitor wick'*, *wicked
Now art thou hent*, that lov'st my lady so, *caught
For whom that I have all this pain and woe,
And art my blood, and to my counsel sworn,
As I full oft have told thee herebeforn,
And hast bejaped* here Duke Theseus, *deceived, imposed upon
And falsely changed hast thy name thus;
I will be dead, or elles thou shalt die.
Thou shalt not love my lady Emily,
But I will love her only and no mo';
For I am Palamon thy mortal foe.
And though I have no weapon in this place,
But out of prison am astart* by grace, *escaped
I dreade* not that either thou shalt die, *doubt
Or else thou shalt not loven Emily.
Choose which thou wilt, for thou shalt not astart."

This Arcite then, with full dispiteous* heart, *wrathful
When he him knew, and had his tale heard,
As fierce as lion pulled out a swerd,
And saide thus; "By God that sitt'th above,
*N'ere it* that thou art sick, and wood for love, *were it not*
And eke that thou no weap'n hast in this place,
Thou should'st never out of this grove pace,
That thou ne shouldest dien of mine hand.
For I defy the surety and the band,
Which that thou sayest I have made to thee.
What? very fool, think well that love is free;
And I will love her maugre* all thy might. *despite
But, for thou art a worthy gentle knight,
And *wilnest to darraine her by bataille*, *will reclaim her
Have here my troth, to-morrow I will not fail, by combat*
Without weeting* of any other wight, *knowledge
That here I will be founden as a knight,
And bringe harness* right enough for thee; *armour and arms
And choose the best, and leave the worst for me.
And meat and drinke this night will I bring
Enough for thee, and clothes for thy bedding.
And if so be that thou my lady win,
And slay me in this wood that I am in,
Thou may'st well have thy lady as for me."
This Palamon answer'd, "I grant it thee."
And thus they be departed till the morrow,
When each of them hath *laid his faith to borrow*. *pledged his faith*

O Cupid, out of alle charity!
O Regne* that wilt no fellow have with thee! *queen <32>
Full sooth is said, that love nor lordeship
Will not, *his thanks*, have any fellowship. *thanks to him*
Well finden that Arcite and Palamon.
Arcite is ridd anon unto the town,
And on the morrow, ere it were daylight,
Full privily two harness hath he dight*, *prepared
Both suffisant and meete to darraine* *contest
The battle in the field betwixt them twain.
And on his horse, alone as he was born,
He carrieth all this harness him beforn;
And in the grove, at time and place y-set,
This Arcite and this Palamon be met.
Then change gan the colour of their face;
Right as the hunter in the regne* of Thrace *kingdom
That standeth at a gappe with a spear
When hunted is the lion or the bear,
And heareth him come rushing in the greves*, *groves
And breaking both the boughes and the leaves,
Thinketh, "Here comes my mortal enemy,
Withoute fail, he must be dead or I;
For either I must slay him at the gap;
Or he must slay me, if that me mishap:"
So fared they, in changing of their hue
*As far as either of them other knew*. *When they recognised each
There was no good day, and no saluting, other afar off*
But straight, withoute wordes rehearsing,
Evereach of them holp to arm the other,
As friendly, as he were his owen brother.
And after that, with sharpe speares strong
They foined* each at other wonder long. *thrust
Thou mightest weene*, that this Palamon *think
In fighting were as a wood* lion, *mad
And as a cruel tiger was Arcite:
As wilde boars gan they together smite,
That froth as white as foam, *for ire wood*. *mad with anger*
Up to the ancle fought they in their blood.
And in this wise I let them fighting dwell,
And forth I will of Theseus you tell.

The Destiny, minister general,
That executeth in the world o'er all
The purveyance*, that God hath seen beforn; *foreordination
So strong it is, that though the world had sworn
The contrary of a thing by yea or nay,
Yet some time it shall fallen on a day
That falleth not eft* in a thousand year. *again
For certainly our appetites here,
Be it of war, or peace, or hate, or love,
All is this ruled by the sight* above. *eye, intelligence, power
This mean I now by mighty Theseus,
That for to hunten is so desirous --
And namely* the greate hart in May -- *especially
That in his bed there dawneth him no day
That he n'is clad, and ready for to ride
With hunt and horn, and houndes him beside.
For in his hunting hath he such delight,
That it is all his joy and appetite
To be himself the greate harte's bane* *destruction
For after Mars he serveth now Diane.
Clear was the day, as I have told ere this,
And Theseus, with alle joy and bliss,
With his Hippolyta, the faire queen,
And Emily, y-clothed all in green,
On hunting be they ridden royally.
And to the grove, that stood there faste by,
In which there was an hart, as men him told,
Duke Theseus the straighte way doth hold,
And to the laund* he rideth him full right, *plain <33>
There was the hart y-wont to have his flight,
And over a brook, and so forth on his way.
This Duke will have a course at him or tway
With houndes, such as him lust* to command. *pleased
And when this Duke was come to the laund,
Under the sun he looked, and anon
He was ware of Arcite and Palamon,
That foughte breme*, as it were bulles two. *fiercely
The brighte swordes wente to and fro
So hideously, that with the leaste stroke
It seemed that it woulde fell an oak,
But what they were, nothing yet he wote*. *knew
This Duke his courser with his spurres smote,
*And at a start* he was betwixt them two, *suddenly*
And pulled out a sword and cried, "Ho!
No more, on pain of losing of your head.
By mighty Mars, he shall anon be dead
That smiteth any stroke, that I may see!
But tell to me what mister* men ye be, *manner, kind <34>
That be so hardy for to fighte here
Withoute judge or other officer,
As though it were in listes royally. <35>
This Palamon answered hastily,
And saide: "Sir, what needeth wordes mo'?
We have the death deserved bothe two,
Two woful wretches be we, and caitives,
That be accumbered* of our own lives, *burdened
And as thou art a rightful lord and judge,
So give us neither mercy nor refuge.
And slay me first, for sainte charity,
But slay my fellow eke as well as me.
Or slay him first; for, though thou know it lite*, *little
This is thy mortal foe, this is Arcite
That from thy land is banisht on his head,
For which he hath deserved to be dead.
For this is he that came unto thy gate
And saide, that he highte Philostrate.
Thus hath he japed* thee full many year, *deceived
And thou hast made of him thy chief esquier;
And this is he, that loveth Emily.
For since the day is come that I shall die
I make pleinly* my confession, *fully, unreservedly
That I am thilke* woful Palamon, *that same <36>
That hath thy prison broken wickedly.
I am thy mortal foe, and it am I
That so hot loveth Emily the bright,
That I would die here present in her sight.
Therefore I aske death and my jewise*. *judgement
But slay my fellow eke in the same wise,
For both we have deserved to be slain."

This worthy Duke answer'd anon again,
And said, "This is a short conclusion.
Your own mouth, by your own confession
Hath damned you, and I will it record;
It needeth not to pain you with the cord;
Ye shall be dead, by mighty Mars the Red.<37>

The queen anon for very womanhead
Began to weep, and so did Emily,
And all the ladies in the company.
Great pity was it as it thought them all,
That ever such a chance should befall,
For gentle men they were, of great estate,
And nothing but for love was this debate
They saw their bloody woundes wide and sore,
And cried all at once, both less and more,
"Have mercy, Lord, upon us women all."
And on their bare knees adown they fall
And would have kissed his feet there as he stood,
Till at the last *aslaked was his mood* *his anger was
(For pity runneth soon in gentle heart); appeased*
And though at first for ire he quoke and start
He hath consider'd shortly in a clause
The trespass of them both, and eke the cause:
And although that his ire their guilt accused
Yet in his reason he them both excused;
As thus; he thoughte well that every man
Will help himself in love if that he can,
And eke deliver himself out of prison.
Of women, for they wepten ever-in-one:* *continually
And eke his hearte had compassion
And in his gentle heart he thought anon,
And soft unto himself he saide: "Fie
Upon a lord that will have no mercy,
But be a lion both in word and deed,
To them that be in repentance and dread,
As well as-to a proud dispiteous* man *unpitying
That will maintaine what he first began.
That lord hath little of discretion,
That in such case *can no division*: *can make no distinction*
But weigheth pride and humbless *after one*." *alike*
And shortly, when his ire is thus agone,
He gan to look on them with eyen light*, *gentle, lenient*
And spake these same wordes *all on height.* *aloud*

"The god of love, ah! benedicite*, *bless ye him
How mighty and how great a lord is he!
Against his might there gaine* none obstacles, *avail, conquer
He may be called a god for his miracles
For he can maken at his owen guise
Of every heart, as that him list devise.
Lo here this Arcite, and this Palamon,
That quietly were out of my prison,
And might have lived in Thebes royally,
And weet* I am their mortal enemy, *knew
And that their death li'th in my might also,
And yet hath love, *maugre their eyen two*, *in spite of their eyes*
Y-brought them hither bothe for to die.
Now look ye, is not this an high folly?
Who may not be a fool, if but he love?
Behold, for Godde's sake that sits above,
See how they bleed! be they not well array'd?
Thus hath their lord, the god of love, them paid
Their wages and their fees for their service;
And yet they weene for to be full wise,
That serve love, for aught that may befall.
But this is yet the beste game* of all, *joke
That she, for whom they have this jealousy,
Can them therefor as muchel thank as me.
She wot no more of all this *hote fare*, *hot behaviour*
By God, than wot a cuckoo or an hare.
But all must be assayed hot or cold;
A man must be a fool, or young or old;
I wot it by myself *full yore agone*: *long years ago*
For in my time a servant was I one.
And therefore since I know of love's pain,
And wot how sore it can a man distrain*, *distress
As he that oft hath been caught in his last*, *snare <38>
I you forgive wholly this trespass,
At request of the queen that kneeleth here,
And eke of Emily, my sister dear.
And ye shall both anon unto me swear,
That never more ye shall my country dere* *injure
Nor make war upon me night nor day,
But be my friends in alle that ye may.
I you forgive this trespass *every deal*. *completely*
And they him sware *his asking* fair and well, *what he asked*
And him of lordship and of mercy pray'd,
And he them granted grace, and thus he said:

"To speak of royal lineage and richess,
Though that she were a queen or a princess,
Each of you both is worthy doubteless
To wedde when time is; but natheless
I speak as for my sister Emily,
For whom ye have this strife and jealousy,
Ye wot* yourselves, she may not wed the two *know
At once, although ye fight for evermo:
But one of you, *all be him loth or lief,* *whether or not he wishes*
He must *go pipe into an ivy leaf*: *"go whistle"*
This is to say, she may not have you both,
All be ye never so jealous, nor so wroth.
And therefore I you put in this degree,
That each of you shall have his destiny
As *him is shape*; and hearken in what wise *as is decreed for him*
Lo hear your end of that I shall devise.
My will is this, for plain conclusion
Withouten any replication*, *reply
If that you liketh, take it for the best,
That evereach of you shall go where *him lest*, *he pleases
Freely without ransom or danger;
And this day fifty weekes, *farre ne nerre*, *neither more nor less*
Evereach of you shall bring an hundred knights,

Armed for listes up at alle rights
All ready to darraine* her by bataille, *contend for
And this behete* I you withoute fail *promise
Upon my troth, and as I am a knight,
That whether of you bothe that hath might,
That is to say, that whether he or thou
May with his hundred, as I spake of now,
Slay his contrary, or out of listes drive,
Him shall I given Emily to wive,
To whom that fortune gives so fair a grace.
The listes shall I make here in this place.
*And God so wisly on my soule rue*, *may God as surely have
As I shall even judge be and true. mercy on my soul*
Ye shall none other ende with me maken
Than one of you shalle be dead or taken.
And if you thinketh this is well y-said,
Say your advice*, and hold yourselves apaid**. *opinion **satisfied
This is your end, and your conclusion."
Who looketh lightly now but Palamon?
Who springeth up for joye but Arcite?
Who could it tell, or who could it indite,
The joye that is maked in the place
When Theseus hath done so fair a grace?
But down on knees went every *manner wight*, *kind of person*
And thanked him with all their heartes' might,
And namely* these Thebans *ofte sithe*. *especially *oftentimes*
And thus with good hope and with hearte blithe
They take their leave, and homeward gan they ride
To Thebes-ward, with his old walles wide.

I trow men woulde deem it negligence,
If I forgot to telle the dispence* *expenditure
Of Theseus, that went so busily
To maken up the listes royally,
That such a noble theatre as it was,
I dare well say, in all this world there n'as*. *was not
The circuit a mile was about,
Walled of stone, and ditched all without.
*Round was the shape, in manner of compass,
Full of degrees, the height of sixty pas* *see note <39>*
That when a man was set on one degree
He letted* not his fellow for to see. *hindered
Eastward there stood a gate of marble white,
Westward right such another opposite.
And, shortly to conclude, such a place
Was never on earth made in so little space,
For in the land there was no craftes-man,
That geometry or arsmetrike* can**, *arithmetic **knew
Nor pourtrayor*, nor carver of images, *portrait painter
That Theseus ne gave him meat and wages
The theatre to make and to devise.
And for to do his rite and sacrifice
He eastward hath upon the gate above,
In worship of Venus, goddess of love,
*Done make* an altar and an oratory; *caused to be made*
And westward, in the mind and in memory
Of Mars, he maked hath right such another,
That coste largely of gold a fother*. *a great amount
And northward, in a turret on the wall,
Of alabaster white and red coral
An oratory riche for to see,
In worship of Diane of chastity,
Hath Theseus done work in noble wise.
But yet had I forgotten to devise* *describe
The noble carving, and the portraitures,
The shape, the countenance of the figures
That weren in there oratories three.

First in the temple of Venus may'st thou see
Wrought on the wall, full piteous to behold,
The broken sleepes, and the sikes* cold, *sighes
The sacred teares, and the waimentings*, *lamentings
The fiery strokes of the desirings,
That Love's servants in this life endure;
The oathes, that their covenants assure.
Pleasance and Hope, Desire, Foolhardiness,
Beauty and Youth, and Bawdry and Richess,
Charms and Sorc'ry, Leasings* and Flattery, *falsehoods
Dispence, Business, and Jealousy,
That wore of yellow goldes* a garland, *sunflowers <40>
And had a cuckoo sitting on her hand,
Feasts, instruments, and caroles and dances,
Lust and array, and all the circumstances
Of Love, which I reckon'd and reckon shall
In order, were painted on the wall,
And more than I can make of mention.
For soothly all the mount of Citheron,<41>
Where Venus hath her principal dwelling,
Was showed on the wall in pourtraying,
With all the garden, and the lustiness*. *pleasantness
Nor was forgot the porter Idleness,
Nor Narcissus the fair of *yore agone*, *olden times*
Nor yet the folly of King Solomon,
Nor yet the greate strength of Hercules,
Th' enchantments of Medea and Circes,
Nor of Turnus the hardy fierce courage,
The rich Croesus *caitif in servage.* <42> *abased into slavery*
Thus may ye see, that wisdom nor richess,
Beauty, nor sleight, nor strength, nor hardiness
Ne may with Venus holde champartie*, *divided possession <43>
For as her liste the world may she gie*. *guide
Lo, all these folk so caught were in her las* *snare
Till they for woe full often said, Alas!
Suffice these ensamples one or two,
Although I could reckon a thousand mo'.

The statue of Venus, glorious to see
Was naked floating in the large sea,
And from the navel down all cover'd was
With waves green, and bright as any glass.
A citole <44> in her right hand hadde she,
And on her head, full seemly for to see,
A rose garland fresh, and well smelling,
Above her head her doves flickering
Before her stood her sone Cupido,
Upon his shoulders winges had he two;
And blind he was, as it is often seen;
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen.

Why should I not as well eke tell you all
The portraiture, that was upon the wall
Within the temple of mighty Mars the Red?
All painted was the wall in length and brede* *breadth
Like to the estres* of the grisly place *interior chambers
That hight the great temple of Mars in Thrace,
In thilke* cold and frosty region, *that
There as Mars hath his sovereign mansion.
In which there dwelled neither man nor beast,
With knotty gnarry* barren trees old *gnarled
Of stubbes sharp and hideous to behold;
In which there ran a rumble and a sough*, *groaning noise
As though a storm should bursten every bough:
And downward from an hill under a bent* *slope
There stood the temple of Mars Armipotent,
Wrought all of burnish'd steel, of which th' entry
Was long and strait, and ghastly for to see.
And thereout came *a rage and such a vise*, *such a furious voice*
That it made all the gates for to rise.
The northern light in at the doore shone,
For window on the walle was there none
Through which men mighten any light discern.
The doors were all of adamant etern,
Y-clenched *overthwart and ende-long* *crossways and lengthways*
With iron tough, and, for to make it strong,
Every pillar the temple to sustain
Was tunne-great*, of iron bright and sheen. *thick as a tun (barrel)
There saw I first the dark imagining
Of felony, and all the compassing;
The cruel ire, as red as any glede*, *live coal
The picke-purse<45>, and eke the pale dread;
The smiler with the knife under the cloak,
The shepen* burning with the blacke smoke *stable <46>
The treason of the murd'ring in the bed,
The open war, with woundes all be-bled;
Conteke* with bloody knife, and sharp menace. *contention, discord
All full of chirking* was that sorry place. *creaking, jarring noise
The slayer of himself eke saw I there,
His hearte-blood had bathed all his hair:
The nail y-driven in the shode* at night, *hair of the head <47>
The colde death, with mouth gaping upright.
Amiddes of the temple sat Mischance,
With discomfort and sorry countenance;
Eke saw I Woodness* laughing in his rage, *Madness
Armed Complaint, Outhees*, and fierce Outrage; *Outcry
The carrain* in the bush, with throat y-corve**, *corpse **slashed
A thousand slain, and not *of qualm y-storve*; *dead of sickness*
The tyrant, with the prey by force y-reft;
The town destroy'd, that there was nothing left.
Yet saw I brent* the shippes hoppesteres, <48> *burnt
The hunter strangled with the wilde bears:
The sow freting* the child right in the cradle; *devouring <49>
The cook scalded, for all his longe ladle.
Nor was forgot, *by th'infortune of Mart* *through the misfortune
The carter overridden with his cart; of war*
Under the wheel full low he lay adown.
There were also of Mars' division,
The armourer, the bowyer*, and the smith, *maker of bows
That forgeth sharp swordes on his stith*. *anvil
And all above depainted in a tower
Saw I Conquest, sitting in great honour,
With thilke* sharpe sword over his head *that
Hanging by a subtle y-twined thread.
Painted the slaughter was of Julius<50>,
Of cruel Nero, and Antonius:
Although at that time they were yet unborn,
Yet was their death depainted there beforn,
By menacing of Mars, right by figure,
So was it showed in that portraiture,
As is depainted in the stars above,
Who shall be slain, or elles dead for love.
Sufficeth one ensample in stories old,
I may not reckon them all, though I wo'ld.

The statue of Mars upon a carte* stood *chariot
Armed, and looked grim as he were wood*, *mad
And over his head there shone two figures
Of starres, that be cleped in scriptures,
That one Puella, that other Rubeus. <51>
This god of armes was arrayed thus:
A wolf there stood before him at his feet
With eyen red, and of a man he eat:
With subtle pencil painted was this story,
In redouting* of Mars and of his glory. *reverance, fear

Now to the temple of Dian the chaste
As shortly as I can I will me haste,
To telle you all the descriptioun.
Depainted be the walles up and down
Of hunting and of shamefast chastity.
There saw I how woful Calistope,<52>
When that Dian aggrieved was with her,
Was turned from a woman to a bear,
And after was she made the lodestar*: *pole star
Thus was it painted, I can say no far*; *farther
Her son is eke a star as men may see.
There saw I Dane <53> turn'd into a tree,
I meane not the goddess Diane,
But Peneus' daughter, which that hight Dane.
There saw I Actaeon an hart y-maked*, *made
For vengeance that he saw Dian all naked:
I saw how that his houndes have him caught,
And freten* him, for that they knew him not. *devour
Yet painted was, a little farthermore
How Atalanta hunted the wild boar;
And Meleager, and many other mo',
For which Diana wrought them care and woe.
There saw I many another wondrous story,
The which me list not drawen to memory.
This goddess on an hart full high was set*, *seated
With smalle houndes all about her feet,
And underneath her feet she had a moon,
Waxing it was, and shoulde wane soon.
In gaudy green her statue clothed was,
With bow in hand, and arrows in a case*. *quiver
Her eyen caste she full low adown,
Where Pluto hath his darke regioun.
A woman travailing was her beforn,
But, for her child so longe was unborn,
Full piteously Lucina <54> gan she call,
And saide; "Help, for thou may'st best of all."
Well could he painte lifelike that it wrought;
With many a florin he the hues had bought.
Now be these listes made, and Theseus,
That at his greate cost arrayed thus
The temples, and the theatre every deal*, *part <55>
When it was done, him liked wonder well.

But stint* I will of Theseus a lite**, *cease speaking **little
And speak of Palamon and of Arcite.
The day approacheth of their returning,
That evereach an hundred knights should bring,
The battle to darraine* as I you told; *contest
And to Athens, their covenant to hold,
Hath ev'reach of them brought an hundred knights,
Well-armed for the war at alle rights.
And sickerly* there trowed** many a man, *surely <56> **believed
That never, sithen* that the world began, *since
For to speaken of knighthood of their hand,
As far as God hath maked sea and land,
Was, of so few, so noble a company.
For every wight that loved chivalry,
And would, *his thankes, have a passant name*, *thanks to his own
Had prayed, that he might be of that game, efforts, have a
And well was him, that thereto chosen was. surpassing name*
For if there fell to-morrow such a case,
Ye knowe well, that every lusty knight,
That loveth par amour, and hath his might
Were it in Engleland, or elleswhere,
They would, their thankes, willen to be there,
T' fight for a lady; Benedicite,
It were a lusty* sighte for to see. *pleasing
And right so fared they with Palamon;
With him there wente knightes many one.
Some will be armed in an habergeon,
And in a breast-plate, and in a gipon*; *short doublet.
And some will have *a pair of plates* large; *back and front armour*
And some will have a Prusse* shield, or targe; *Prussian
Some will be armed on their legges weel;
Some have an axe, and some a mace of steel.
There is no newe guise*, but it was old. *fashion
Armed they weren, as I have you told,
Evereach after his opinion.
There may'st thou see coming with Palamon
Licurgus himself, the great king of Thrace:
Black was his beard, and manly was his face.
The circles of his eyen in his head
They glowed betwixte yellow and red,
And like a griffin looked he about,
With kemped* haires on his browes stout; *combed<57>
His limbs were great, his brawns were hard and strong,
His shoulders broad, his armes round and long.
And as the guise* was in his country, *fashion
Full high upon a car of gold stood he,
With foure white bulles in the trace.
Instead of coat-armour on his harness,
With yellow nails, and bright as any gold,
He had a beare's skin, coal-black for old*. *age
His long hair was y-kempt behind his back,
As any raven's feather it shone for black.
A wreath of gold *arm-great*, of huge weight, *thick as a man's arm*
Upon his head sate, full of stones bright,
Of fine rubies and clear diamants.
About his car there wente white alauns*, *greyhounds <58>
Twenty and more, as great as any steer,
To hunt the lion or the wilde bear,
And follow'd him, with muzzle fast y-bound,
Collars of gold, and torettes* filed round. *rings
An hundred lordes had he in his rout* *retinue
Armed full well, with heartes stern and stout.

With Arcita, in stories as men find,
The great Emetrius the king of Ind,
Upon a *steede bay* trapped in steel, *bay horse*
Cover'd with cloth of gold diapred* well, *decorated
Came riding like the god of armes, Mars.
His coat-armour was of *a cloth of Tars*, *a kind of silk*
Couched* with pearls white and round and great *trimmed
His saddle was of burnish'd gold new beat;
A mantelet on his shoulders hanging,
Bretful* of rubies red, as fire sparkling. *brimful
His crispe hair like ringes was y-run,
And that was yellow, glittering as the sun.
His nose was high, his eyen bright citrine*, *pale yellow
His lips were round, his colour was sanguine,
A fewe fracknes* in his face y-sprent**, *freckles **sprinkled
Betwixte yellow and black somedeal y-ment* *mixed <59>
And as a lion he *his looking cast* *cast about his eyes*
Of five and twenty year his age I cast* *reckon
His beard was well begunnen for to spring;
His voice was as a trumpet thundering.
Upon his head he wore of laurel green
A garland fresh and lusty to be seen;
Upon his hand he bare, for his delight,
An eagle tame, as any lily white.
An hundred lordes had he with him there,
All armed, save their heads, in all their gear,
Full richely in alle manner things.
For trust ye well, that earles, dukes, and kings
Were gather'd in this noble company,
For love, and for increase of chivalry.
About this king there ran on every part
Full many a tame lion and leopart.
And in this wise these lordes *all and some* *all and sundry*
Be on the Sunday to the city come
Aboute prime<60>, and in the town alight.

This Theseus, this Duke, this worthy knight
When he had brought them into his city,
And inned* them, ev'reach at his degree, *lodged
He feasteth them, and doth so great labour
To *easen them*, and do them all honour,