GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824), who best WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO personified the proud, agonized, solitary figure of the Romantic ABYDOS artist during his lifetime, was born near Aberdeen Scotland. He inherited the hereditary title and estate of an uncle at age ten. If, in the month of dark December, Born with a clubfoot, he compensated by becoming an excellent Leander, who was nightly wont swimmer. He was educated at Cambridge. Even in the (What maid will not the tale remember?) decadent Regency Society of the 1800s and 1810s, Byron To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! managed to court infamy. He conducted affairs with a number of women, including Lady Oxford and Lady Caroline Lamb; he If, when the wintry tempest roared, is also rumored to have had homosexual affairs as well as an He sped to Hero, nothing loath, incestuous relationship with a half-sister Augusta Leigh (whom And thus of old thy current poured, he met as an adult). In 1815 he married the conventional Anne Fair Venus! how I pity both! Milbanke with whom he had a daughter Ada; however, they separated the following year. Byron's literary persona played For me, degenerate modern wretch, up the role of persecuted outsider haunted by unspeakable sins. Though in the genial month of May, Though his early works were dismissed, the appearance of the My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, first two cantos of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage in 1812 made And think I've done a feat today. him an overnight sensation. Despite, or perhaps because of, the literary device of the persona “Childe” or “Knight” Harold, But since he crossed the rapid tide, Byron became inextricably associated with the pose of world- According to the doubtful story, weary Nietzchean anti-hero. Later Byron would toy with the To woo -and -Lord knows what beside, anti-hero character in the mock-epic masterpiece Don Juan. And swam for Love, as I for Glory; Though a close friend and poetic peer of Percy Shelley and an admirer of Coleridge, Byron was never fully at home with the 'Twere hard to say who fared the best: Romantic method or theory as articulated by Wordsworth and Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! Coleridge. Byron relied upon complex stanzaic patterns with He lost his labour, I my jest; intricate rhyme schemes such as Rhyme Royale (used in Don For he was drowned, and I've the ague. Juan). He adopted a literary tone less filled with Romantic awe of the universal spirit than the biting neoclassic satire of a Swift or Pope that is quicker to see the flaws of human nature rather THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB its potential. A defender of human rights and national liberty, Byron died—rather unheroically, of a fever—in a failed 1 campaign for Greek independence from Turkish rule. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

1 2 She walks in Beauty, like the night Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, Of cloudless climes and starry skies; That host with their banners at sunset were seen: And all that’s best of dark and bright Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, Meet in her aspect and her eyes: That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. 3 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 2 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d, One shade the more, one ray the less, And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill, Had half impair’d the nameless grace And their hearts but once heav’d—and for ever grew still! Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; 4 Where thoughts serenely sweet express And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 3 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 5 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, And there lay the rider distorted and pale, But tell of days in goodness spent, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: A mind at peace with all below, And the tents were all silent—the banners alone— A heart whose love is innocent! The lances unlifted—the trumpets unblown.

49 6 And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! And twin’d themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 1 Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; So, we’ll go no more a-roving All earth was but one thought—and that was death So late into the night, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Though the heart be still as loving, Of famine fed upon all entrails—men And the moon be still as bright. Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour’d, 2 Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one, For the sword outwears its sheath, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept And the soul wears out the breast, The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay, And the heart must pause to breathe, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead And Love itself have rest. Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 3 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Though the night was made for loving, Which answer’d not with a caress—he died. And the day returns too soon, The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two Yet we’ll go no more a-roving Of an enormous city did survive, By the light of the moon. And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things DARKNESS For an unholy usage; they rak’d up, And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars Blew for a little life, and made a flame Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died— Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, Even of their mutual hideousness they died, And men forgot their passions in the dread Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Of this their desolation; and all hearts Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light: The populous and the powerful was a lump, And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The habitations of all things which dwell, The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d, And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths; And men were gather’d round their blazing homes Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, To look once more into each other’s face; And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d Happy were those who dwelt within the eye They slept on the abyss without a surge— Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, A fearful hope was all the world contain’d; The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air, They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black. Of aid from them—She was the Universe. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d; 1 And others hurried to and fro, and fed ’Tis time the heart should be unmoved, Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up Since others it hath ceased to move: With mad disquietude on the dull sky, Yet, though I cannot be beloved, The pall of a past world; and then again Still let me love! With curses cast them down upon the dust,

50 2 When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, My days are in the yellow leaf; And then we parted,--not as now we part, The flowers and fruits of Love are gone; But with a hope. - The worm, the canker, and the grief Awaking with a start, Are mine alone! The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 3 Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, The fire that on my bosom preys When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Is lone as some Volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze— II. A funeral pile. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 4 That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! The exalted portion of the pain Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And power of love, I cannot share, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, But wear the chain. Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 5 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. But ’tis not thus—and ’tis not here— Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now, V. Where Glory decks the hero’s bier, He who, grown aged in this world of woe, Or binds his brow. In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below 6 Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, The Sword, the Banner, and the Field, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Glory and Greece, around me see! Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife Was not more free. With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 7 Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!) VI. Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 'Tis to create, and in creating live Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, A being more intense, that we endow And then strike home! With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. 8 What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Tread those reviving passions down, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Unworthy manhood!—unto thee Invisible but gazing, as I glow Indifferent should the smile or frown Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, Of Beauty be. And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth.

9 VII. If thou regret’st thy youth, why live? Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought The land of honourable death Too long and darkly, till my brain became, Is here:—up to the Field, and give In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, Away thy breath! A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 10 My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late! Seek out—less often sought than found— Yet am I changed; though still enough the same A soldier’s grave, for thee the best; In strength to bear what time cannot abate, Then look around, and choose thy ground, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. And take thy Rest. VIII. Something too much of this: but now 'tis past, CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE And the spell closes with its silent seal. CANTO THE THIRD. Long-absent Harold reappears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, I. Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? In soul and aspect as in age: years steal

51 Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, IX. As the ground was before, thus let it be; - His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, And is this all the world has gained by thee, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain! Still round him clung invisibly a chain XVIII. Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, How in an hour the power which gave annuls Entering with every step he took through many a scene. Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew, X. Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through: Again in fancied safety with his kind, Ambition's life and labours all were vain; And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain. And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind; XIX. And he, as one, might midst the many stand Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? Fit speculation; such as in strange land Did nations combat to make ONE submit; He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving thraldom again be XI. The patched-up idol of enlightened days? But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we To wear it? who can curiously behold Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise! Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold * * * * The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? Harold, once more within the vortex rolled XXXIV. On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, There is a very life in our despair, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. Vitality of poison,--a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were XII. As nothing did we die; but life will suit But soon he knew himself the most unfit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore, Little in common; untaught to submit All ashes to the taste: Did man compute His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name He would not yield dominion of his mind threescore? To spirits against whom his own rebelled; Proud though in desolation; which could find XXXV. A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE, XVI. Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span, Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom; Millions of tongues record thee, and anew The very knowledge that he lived in vain, Their children's lips shall echo them, and say, That all was over on this side the tomb, 'Here, where the sword united nations drew, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Our countrymen were warring on that day!' Which, though 'twere wild--as on the plundered wreck And this is much, and all which will not pass away. When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck - XXXVI. Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit anithetically mixed XVII. One moment of the mightiest, and again Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust! On little objects with like firmness fixed;

52 Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, XLII. Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire Even now to reassume the imperial mien, And motion of the soul, which will not dwell And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; XXXVII. And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became XLIII. The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert This makes the madmen who have made men mad A god unto thyself; nor less the same By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, XXXVIII. And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Oh, more or less than man--in high or low, Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Battling with nations, flying from the field; Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield: An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, XLIV. But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, Their breath is agitation, and their life However deeply in men's spirits skilled, A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast XXXIX. With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With that untaught innate philosophy, With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, XLV. To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find With a sedate and all-enduring eye; The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, He who surpasses or subdues mankind, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow, XL. And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread, Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Ambition steeled thee on to far too show Contending tempests on his naked head, That just habitual scorn, which could contemn And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, XLVI. And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Away with these; true Wisdom's world will be Till they were turned unto thine overthrow: Within its own creation, or in thine, 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? There Harold gazes on a work divine, XLI. A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, If, like a tower upon a headland rock, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock; From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone; XLVII. The part of Philip's son was thine, not then And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. Or holding dark communion with the cloud. There was a day when they were young and proud,

53 Banners on high, and battles passed below; LIX. But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, The stranger fain would linger on his way; And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; XLVIII. And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey Beneath these battlements, within those walls, On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay, Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have LX. But History's purchased page to call them great? Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! A wider space, an ornamented grave? There can be no farewell to scene like thine; Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. The mind is coloured by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign XLIX. Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! In their baronial feuds and single fields, 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! More mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine, And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, But none unite in one attaching maze With emblems well devised by amorous pride, The brilliant, fair, and soft;--the glories of old days. Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on LXI. Keen contest and destruction near allied, The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run. The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, L. The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been But thou, exulting and abounding river! In mockery of man's art; and these withal Making thy waves a blessing as they flow A race of faces happy as the scene, Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall. Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see LXII. Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know But these recede. Above me are the Alps, Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be. Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls LI. Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! But these and half their fame have passed away, All that expands the spirit, yet appals, And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: Gathers around these summits, as to show Their very graves are gone, and what are they? How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream LXVII. Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray; But these are deeds which should not pass away, But o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream And names that must not wither, though the earth Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; LII. The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, Thus Harold inly said, and passed along, Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, Yet not insensible to all which here And from its immortality look forth Awoke the jocund birds to early song In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, In glens which might have made e'en exile dear: Imperishably pure beyond all things below. Though on his brow were graven lines austere, And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place LXVIII. Of feelings fierier far but less severe, Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, Joy was not always absent from his face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: There is too much of man here, to look through

54 With a fit mind the might which I behold; LXXIV. But soon in me shall Loneliness renew And when, at length, the mind shall be all free Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, From what it hates in this degraded form, Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold. Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm, - LXIX. When elements to elements conform, To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; And dust is as it should be, shall I not All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? Nor is it discontent to keep the mind The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? In one hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long LXXV. We may deplore and struggle with the coil, Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn LXX. All objects, if compared with these? and stem There, in a moment, we may plunge our years A tide of suffering, rather than forego In fatal penitence, and in the blight Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, Of those whose eyes are only turned below, And colour things to come with hues of Night; Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, LXXVI. The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But this is not my theme; and I return But there are wanderers o'er Eternity To that which is immediate, and require Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be. Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One whose dust was once all fire, LXXI. A native of the land where I respire Is it not better, then, to be alone, The clear air for awhile--a passing guest, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? Where he became a being,--whose desire By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest. Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, LXXVII. Kissing its cries away as these awake; - Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, Is it not better thus our lives to wear, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear? Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew LXXII. The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew I live not in myself, but I become How to make madness beautiful, and cast Portion of that around me; and to me, O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past Of human cities torture: I can see The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, LXXVIII. Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, His love was passion's essence--as a tree And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. LXXIII. But his was not the love of living dame, And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, I look upon the peopled desert Past, But of Ideal beauty, which became As on a place of agony and strife, In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, Along his burning page, distempered though it seems. To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring, LXXIX. Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet:

55 But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat; Though I have found them not, that there may be In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the falling: I would also deem LXXX. O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; His life was one long war with self-sought foes, That two, or one, are almost what they seem, - Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, CXV. 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. My daughter! with thy name this song begun - But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know? My daughter! with thy name this much shall end - Since cause might be which skill could never find; I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none But he was frenzied by disease or woe Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, LXXXI. My voice shall with thy future visions blend, For then he was inspired, and from him came, And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, - As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: CXVI. Did he not this for France, which lay before To aid thy mind's development,--to watch Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch Till by the voice of him and his compeers Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears? To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, - LXXXII. This, it should seem, was not reserved for me They made themselves a fearful monument! Yet this was in my nature: --As it is, The wreck of old opinions--things which grew, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. CXVII. But good with ill they also overthrew, Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Upon the same foundation, and renew Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, With desolation, and a broken claim: As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed. Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain LXXXIII. MY blood from out thy being were an aim, But this will not endure, nor be endured! And an attainment,--all would be in vain, - Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt CXVIII. On one another; Pity ceased to melt The child of love,--though born in bitterness, With her once natural charities. But they, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, These were the elements, and thine no less. They were not eagles, nourished with the day; As yet such are around thee; but thy fire What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. CXIII. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, I have not loved the world, nor the world me; And from the mountains where I now respire, I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, To its idolatries a patient knee, - As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me! Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd CANTO THE FOURTH. They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud I. Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise CXIV. As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: I have not loved the world, nor the world me, - A thousand years their cloudy wings expand

56 Around me, and a dying glory smiles VII. O'er the far times when many a subject land I saw or dreamed of such,--but let them go - Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so; I could replace them if I would: still teems II. My mind with many a form which aptly seems She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Rising with her tiara of proud towers Let these too go--for waking reason deems At airy distance, with majestic motion, Such overweening phantasies unsound, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And other voices speak, and other sights surround. And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East XIV. Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In youth she was all glory,--a new Tyre, - In purple was she robed, and of her feast Her very byword sprung from victory, Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. The 'Planter of the Lion,' which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; III. Though making many slaves, herself still free In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: And silent rows the songless gondolier; Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! And music meets not always now the ear: For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. Those days are gone--but beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, XV. Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file The pleasant place of all festivity, Of her dead doges are declined to dust; The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; IV. Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, But unto us she hath a spell beyond Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Her name in story, and her long array Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, XVI. And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away - When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar: V. See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car The beings of the mind are not of clay; Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins Essentially immortal, they create Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar And multiply in us a brighter ray Starts from its belt--he rends his captive's chains, And more beloved existence: that which Fate And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, XVII. First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot VI. Is shameful to the nations,--most of all, Such is the refuge of our youth and age, Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall And this worn feeling peoples many a page, Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: Yet there are things whose strong reality XVIII. Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues I loved her from my boyhood: she to me More beautiful than our fantastic sky, Was as a fairy city of the heart, And the strange constellations which the Muse Rising like water-columns from the sea, O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,

57 Had stamped her image in me, and e'en so, And how and why we know not, nor can trace Although I found her thus, we did not part, Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, Perchance e'en dearer in her day of woe, But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigned, XIX. When least we deem of such, calls up to view I can repeople with the past--and of The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, - The present there is still for eye and thought, The cold--the changed--perchance the dead--anew, And meditation chastened down, enough; The mourned, the loved, the lost--too many!--yet how few! And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; And of the happiest moments which were wrought XXV. Within the web of my existence, some But my soul wanders; I demand it back From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: To meditate amongst decay, and stand There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, A ruin amidst ruins; there to track Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which WAS the mightiest in its old command, XX. And IS the loveliest, and must ever be But from their nature will the tannen grow The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below The beautiful, the brave--the lords of earth and sea. Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame DON JUAN Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, FRAGMENT ON THE BACK OF THE MS. OF And grew a giant tree;--the mind may grow the same. CANTO I.

XXI. I WOULD to Heaven that I were so much clay, Existence may be borne, and the deep root As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling-- Of life and sufferance make its firm abode Because at least the past were passed away, In bare and desolate bosoms: mute And for the future--(but I write this reeling, The camel labours with the heaviest load, Having got drunk exceedingly to-day, And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) In vain should such examples be; if they, I say--the future is a serious matter-- Things of ignoble or of savage mood, And so--for God's sake--hock and soda-water! Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear,--it is but for a day. DEDICATION

XXII. I. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, BOB SOUTHEY! You're a poet--Poet-laureate, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, And representative of all the race; Ends: --Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, Although 't is true that you turned out a Tory at Return to whence they came--with like intent, Last,--yours has lately been a common case; And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, With all the Lakers, in and out of place? And perish with the reed on which they leant; A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye; According as their souls were formed to sink or climb. II. XXIII. "Which pye being opened they began to sing," But ever and anon of griefs subdued (This old song and new simile holds good), There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, "A dainty dish to set before the King," Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;-- And slight withal may be the things which bring And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, Back on the heart the weight which it would fling But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,-- Aside for ever: it may be a sound - Explaining Metaphysics to the nation-- A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring - I wish he would explain his Explanation. A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. III. You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know, XXIV. At being disappointed in your wish

58 To supersede all warblers here below, So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. And be the only Blackbird in the dish; And then you overstrain yourself, or so, VI. And tumble downward like the flying fish Most epic poets plunge _"in medias res"_ Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob! And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, What went before--by way of episode, IV. While seated after dinner at his ease, And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion," Beside his mistress in some soft abode, (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Has given a sample from the vasty version Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. Of his new system to perplex the sages; 'T is poetry-at least by his assertion, VII. And may appear so when the dog-star rages-- That is the usual method, but not mine-- And he who understands it would be able My way is to begin with the beginning; To add a story to the Tower of Babel. The regularity of my design Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, V. And therefore I shall open with a line You--Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning), From better company, have kept your own Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion And also of his mother, if you'd rather. Of one another's minds, at last have grown To deem as a most logical conclusion, VIII. That Poesy has wreaths for you alone: In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, There is a narrowness in such a notion, Famous for oranges and women,--he Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for Ocean. Who has not seen it will be much to pity, So says the proverb--and I quite agree; VI. Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, I would not imitate the petty thought, Cadiz perhaps--but that you soon may see;-- Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, For all the glory your conversion brought, A noble stream, and called the Guadalquivir. Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary; was 't for that you wrought? IX. And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. His father's name was Jose-_Don_, of course,-- You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still, A true Hidalgo, free from every stain And duly seated on the Immortal Hill. 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, CANTO THE FIRST. Than Jose, who begot our hero, who Begot--but that's to come----Well, to renew: I. I WANT a hero: an uncommon want, * * * * When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, XII. The age discovers he is not the true one; Her favourite science was the mathematical, Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan-- Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, We all have seen him, in the pantomime, Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity; Sent to the Devil somewhat ere his time. 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. V. Brave men were living before Agamemnon XXII. And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 'T is pity learned virgins ever wed A good deal like him too, though quite the same none; With persons of no sort of education, But then they shone not on the poet's page, Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, And so have been forgotten:--I condemn none, Grow tired of scientific conversation: But can't find any in the present age I don't choose to say much upon this head, Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); I'm a plain man, and in a single station,

59 But--Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual, A thousand pities also with respect Inform us truly, have they not hen-pecked you all? To public feeling, which on this occasion Was manifested in a great sensation. * * * * * * * * XXIII. Don Jose and his lady quarrelled--_why_, XXXIX. Not any of the many could divine, But that which Donna Inez most desired, Though several thousand people chose to try, And saw into herself each day before all 'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine; The learned tutors whom for him she hired, I loathe that low vice--curiosity; Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral: But if there's anything in which I shine, Much into all his studies she inquired, 'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs, And so they were submitted first to her, all, Not having, of my own, domestic cares. Arts, sciences--no branch was made a mystery To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. XXIV. And so I interfered, and with the best XL. Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; The languages, especially the dead, I think the foolish people were possessed, The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, For neither of them could I ever find, The arts, at least all such as could be said Although their porter afterwards confessed-- To be the most remote from common use, But that's no matter, and the worst's behind, In all these he was much and deeply read: For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, But not a page of anything that's loose, A pail of housemaid's water unawares. Or hints continuation of the species, Was ever suffered, lest he should grow vicious. XXV. A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, XLI. And mischief-making monkey from his birth; His classic studies made a little puzzle, His parents ne'er agreed except in doting Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Upon the most unquiet imp on earth; Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in But never put on pantaloons or bodices; Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, To school, or had him soundly whipped at home, And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, To teach him manners for the time to come. Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. XXVI. Don Jose and the Donna Inez led * * * * For some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; L. They lived respectably as man and wife, At six, I said, he was a charming child, Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy; And gave no outward signs of inward strife, Although in infancy a little wild, Until at length the smothered fire broke out, They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy And put the business past all kind of doubt. His natural spirit not in vain they toiled, At least it seemed so; and his mother's joy XXXII. Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, Their friends had tried at reconciliation, Her young philosopher was grown already. Then their relations, who made matters worse. ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion LI. To whom it may be best to have recourse-- I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, I can't say much for friend or yet relation) But what I say is neither here nor there: The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, I knew his father well, and have some skill But scarce a fee was paid on either side In character--but it would not be fair Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. From sire to son to augur good or ill: He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair-- XXXIII. But scandal's my aversion--I protest He died: and most unluckily, because, Against all evil speaking, even in jest. According to all hints I could collect From Counsel learned in those kinds of laws, LII. (Although their talk's obscure and circumspect) For my part I say nothing--nothing--but His death contrived to spoil a charming cause; _This_ I will say--my reasons are my own--

60 That if I had an only son to put Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh; To school (as God be praised that I have none), The sons no more were short, the daughters plain: 'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut But there's a rumour which I fain would hush, Him up to learn his catechism alone, 'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma No--no--I'd send him out betimes to college, Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. For there it was I picked up my own knowledge. LIX. LIII. However this might be, the race went on For there one learns--'t is not for me to boast, Improving still through every generation, Though I acquired--but I pass over _that_, Until it centred in an only son, As well as all the Greek I since have lost: Who left an only daughter; my narration I say that there's the place--but "_Verbum sat_," May have suggested that this single one I think I picked up too, as well as most, Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion Knowledge of matters--but no matter _what_-- I shall have much to speak about), and she I never married--but, I think, I know Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. That sons should not be educated so. LX. LIV. Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seemed Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; Flashed an expression more of pride than ire, And everybody but his mother deemed And love than either; and there would arise Him almost man; but she flew in a rage A something in them which was not desire, And bit her lips (for else she might have screamed) But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul If any said so--for to be precocious Which struggled through and chastened down the whole. Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. LXI. LV. Her glossy hair was clustered o'er a brow Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth; Selected for discretion and devotion, Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, There was the Donna Julia, whom to call Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Pretty were but to give a feeble notion Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, Of many charms in her as natural As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, As sweetness to the flower, or salt to Ocean, Possessed an air and grace by no means common: Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, Her stature tall--I hate a dumpy woman. (But this last simile is trite and stupid.) LXII. LVI. Wedded she was some years, and to a man The darkness of her Oriental eye Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; Accorded with her Moorish origin; And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE (Her blood was not all Spanish; by the by, 'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty, In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin;) Especially in countries near the sun: When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, And now I think on 't, "_mi vien in mente_", Boabdil wept: of Donna Julia's kin Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue Some went to Africa, some stayed in Spain-- Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. LXIII. LVII. 'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, She married (I forget the pedigree) And all the fault of that indecent sun, With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, His blood less noble than such blood should be; But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, At such alliances his sires would frown, That howsoever people fast and pray, In that point so precise in each degree The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: That they bred _in and in_, as might be shown, What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Marrying their cousins--nay, their aunts, and nieces, Is much more common where the climate's sultry, Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. LXIV. LVIII. Happy the nations of the moral North! This heathenish cross restored the breed again, Where all is virtue, and the winter season Ruined its blood, but much improved its flesh; Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);

61 Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, That Donna Julia knew the reason why, By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on But as for Juan, he had no more notion The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Than he who never saw the sea of Ocean. Because it is a marketable vice. LXXI. LXV. Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, And tremulously gentle her small hand A man well looking for his years, and who Withdrew itself from his, but left behind Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorred: A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland They lived together as most people do, And slight, so very slight, that to the mind Suffering each other's foibles by accord, 'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand And not exactly either _one_ or _two_; Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. For Jealousy dislikes the world to know it. LXXII. LXVI. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, Julia was--yet I never could see why-- She looked a sadness sweeter than her smile, With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store Between their tastes there was small sympathy, She must not own, but cherished more the while For not a line had Julia ever penned: For that compression in its burning core; Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie, Even Innocence itself has many a wile, For Malice still imputes some private end) And will not dare to trust itself with truth, That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, And Love is taught hypocrisy from youth. Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; LXXIII. LXVII. But Passion most dissembles, yet betrays And that still keeping up the old connection, Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky Which Time had lately rendered much more chaste, Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays She took his lady also in affection, Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, And certainly this course was much the best: And in whatever aspect it arrays She flattered Julia with her sage protection, Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy; And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; Coldness or Anger, even Disdain or Hate, And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal, Are masks it often wears, and still too late. At least she left it a more slender handle. LXXIV. LXVIII. Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, With other people's eyes, or if her own And burning blushes, though for no transgression, Discoveries made, but none could be aware Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; All these are little preludes to possession, Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, Of which young Passion cannot be bereft, Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: And merely tend to show how greatly Love is I'm really puzzled what to think or say, Embarrassed at first starting with a novice. She kept her counsel in so close a way. LXXV. LXIX. Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, She felt it going, and resolved to make Caressed him often--such a thing might be The noblest efforts for herself and mate, Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, For Honour's, Pride's, Religion's, Virtue's sake: When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; Her resolutions were most truly great, But I am not so sure I should have smiled And almost might have made a Tarquin quake: When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three; She prayed the Virgin Mary for her grace, These few short years make wondrous alterations, As being the best judge of a lady's case. Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. LXXVI. LXX. She vowed she never would see Juan more, Whate'er the cause might be, they had become And next day paid a visit to his mother, Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, And looked extremely at the opening door, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; And much embarrassment in either eye; Grateful she was, and yet a little sore-- There surely will be little doubt with some Again it opens, it can be no other,

62 'T is surely Juan now--No! I'm afraid And every now and then we read them through, That night the Virgin was no further prayed. So that their plan and prosody are eligible, Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. LXXVII. She now determined that a virtuous woman XCI. Should rather face and overcome temptation, He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued That flight was base and dastardly, and no man His self-communion with his own high soul, Should ever give her heart the least sensation, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, That is to say, a thought beyond the common Had mitigated part, though not the whole Preference, that we must feel, upon occasion, Of its disease; he did the best he could For people who are pleasanter than others, With things not very subject to control, But then they only seem so many brothers. And turned, without perceiving his condition, Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. LXXVIII. And even if by chance--and who can tell? XCII. The Devil's so very sly--she should discover He thought about himself, and the whole earth, That all within was not so very well, Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, And, if still free, that such or such a lover And how the deuce they ever could have birth: Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, Such thoughts, and be the better when they're over; How many miles the moon might have in girth, And if the man should ask, 't is but denial: Of air-balloons, and of the many bars I recommend young ladies to make trial. To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;-- And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. LXXIX. And, then, there are such things as Love divine, * * * * Bright and immaculate, unmixed and pure, Such as the angels think so very fine, CV. And matrons, who would be no less secure, She sate, but not alone; I know not well Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine;" How this same interview had taken place, Thus Julia said--and thought so, to be sure; And even if I knew, I should not tell-- And so I'd have her think, were _I_ the man People should hold their tongues in any case; On whom her reveries celestial ran. No matter how or why the thing befell, But there were she and Juan, face to face-- LXXX. When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, Such love is innocent, and may exist But very difficult, to shut their eyes. Between young persons without any danger. A hand may first, and then a lip be kissed; CVI. For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, How beautiful she looked! her conscious heart But _hear_ these freedoms form the utmost list Glowed in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong: Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong! But not my fault--I tell them all in time. How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along!-- LXXXI. The precipice she stood on was immense, Love, then, but Love within its proper limits, So was her creed in her own innocence. Was Julia's innocent determination In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its CVII. Exertion might be useful on occasion; She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its And of the folly of all prudish fears, Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion Victorious Virtue, and domestic Truth, He might be taught, by Love and her together-- And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: I really don't know what, nor Julia either. I wish these last had not occurred, 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. XC. Young Juan wandered by the glassy brooks, CVIII. Thinking unutterable things; he threw When people say, "I've told you _fifty_ times," Himself at length within the leafy nooks They mean to scold, and very often do; Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; When poets say, "I've written _fifty_ rhymes," There poets find materials for their books, They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;

63 In gangs of _fifty_, thieves commit their crimes; Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, At _fifty_ love for love is rare, 't is true, Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A loving languor, which is not repose. A good deal may be bought for _fifty_ Louis. CXV. CIX. And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love And half retiring from the glowing arm, For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed; By all the vows below to Powers above, Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist; Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; But then the situation had its charm, And while she pondered this, besides much more, And then--God knows what next--I can't go on; One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. Quite by mistake--she thought it was her own; CXVI. CX. Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, Unconsciously she leaned upon the other, With your confounded fantasies, to more Which played within the tangles of her hair; Immoral conduct by the fancied sway And to contend with thoughts she could not smother Your system feigns o'er the controlless core She seemed by the distraction of her air. Of human hearts, than all the long array 'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother Of poets and romancers:--You're a bore, To leave together this imprudent pair, A charlatan, a coxcomb--and have been, She who for many years had watched her son so-- At best, no better than a go-between. I'm very certain _mine_ would not have done so. CXVII. CXI. And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees Until too late for useful conversation; Gently, but palpably confirmed its grasp, The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, As if it said, "Detain me, if you please;" I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion; Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze; Not that Remorse did not oppose Temptation; She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, A little still she strove, and much repented, Had she imagined such a thing could rouse And whispering "I will ne'er consent"--consented. A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. * * * * CXII. I cannot know what Juan thought of this, CXXXIII. But what he did, is much what you would do; Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, His young lip thanked it with a grateful kiss, And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; And then, abashed at its own joy, withdrew 'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,-- Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes Sin's a pleasure; Love is so very timid when 't is new: Few mortals know what end they would be at, She blushed, and frowned not, but she strove to speak, But whether Glory, Power, or Love, or Treasure, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gained, we die, you know--and then---- CXIII. The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: CXXXIV. The Devil's in the moon for mischief; they What then?--I do not know, no more do you-- Who called her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon And so good night.--Return we to our story: Their nomenclature; there is not a day, 'T was in November, when fine days are few, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, And the far mountains wax a little hoary, Sees half the business in a wicked way, And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; On which three single hours of moonshine smile-- And the sea dashes round the promontory, And then she looks so modest all the while! And the loud breaker boils against the rock, And sober suns must set at five o'clock. CXIV. There is a dangerous silence in that hour, CXXXV. A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul 'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; To open all itself, without the power No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud Of calling wholly back its self-control; By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;

64 There's something cheerful in that sort of light, And therefore side by side were gently laid, Even as a summer sky's without a cloud: Until the hours of absence should run through, I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, And truant husband should return, and say, A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. "My dear,--I was the first who came away."

CXXXVI. CXLII. 'T was midnight--Donna Julia was in bed, Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, Sleeping, most probably,--when at her door "In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? Arose a clatter might awake the dead, Has madness seized you? would that I had died If they had never been awoke before, Ere such a monster's victim I had been! And that they have been so we all have read, What may this midnight violence betide, And are to be so, at the least, once more;-- A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? The door was fastened, but with voice and fist Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? First knocks were heard, then "Madam--Madam--hist! Search, then, the room!"--Alfonso said, "I will."

CXXXVII. CXLIII. "For God's sake, Madam--Madam--here's my master, _He_ searched, _they_ searched, and rummaged everywhere, With more than half the city at his back--Was Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat, ever heard of such a curst disaster! And found much linen, lace, and several pair 'T is not my fault--I kept good watch--Alack! Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, Do pray undo the bolt a little faster-- With other articles of ladies fair, They're on the stair just now, and in a crack To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly-- Arras they pricked and curtains with their swords, Surely the window's not so _very_ high!" And wounded several shutters, and some boards.

CXXXVIII. CXLIV. By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, Under the bed they searched, and there they found-- With torches, friends, and servants in great number; No matter what--it was not that they sought; The major part of them had long been wived, They opened windows, gazing if the ground And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; Of any wicked woman, who contrived And then they stared each others' faces round: By stealth her husband's temples to encumber: 'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, Examples of this kind are so contagious, And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, Were _one_ not punished, _all_ would be outrageous. Of looking _in_ the bed as well as under.

CXXXIX. CXLV. I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion During this inquisition Julia's tongue Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; Was not asleep--"Yes, search and search," she cried, But for a cavalier of his condition "Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, It was for this that I became a bride! Without a word of previous admonition, For this in silence I have suffered long To hold a levee round his lady's bed, A husband like Alfonso at my side; And summon lackeys, armed with fire and sword, But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, To prove himself the thing he most abhorred. If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.

CXL. * * * * Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep, (Mind--that I do not say--she had not slept), CLXI. Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, Her maid, Antonia, who was an adept, And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, When, after searching in five hundred nooks, As if she had just now from out them crept: And treating a young wife with so much rigour, I can't tell why she should take all this trouble He gained no point, except some self-rebukes, To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. Added to those his lady with such vigour Had poured upon him for the last half-hour, Quick, thick, and heavy--as a thunder-shower. CXLI. But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, CLXII. Appeared like two poor harmless women, who At first he tried to hammer an excuse, Of goblins, but still more of men afraid, To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs, Had thought one man might be deterred by two, And indications of hysterics, whose

65 Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: And that the medicine answered very well; Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, He saw too, in perspective, her relations, For David lived, but Juan nearly died. And then he tried to muster all his patience. CLXIX. CLXIII. What's to be done? Alfonso will be back He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, The moment he has sent his fools away. But sage Antonia cut him short before Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, The anvil of his speech received the hammer, But no device could be brought into play-- With "Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, And how to parry the renewed attack? Or madam dies."--Alfonso muttered, "D--n her," Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, He cast a rueful look or two, and did, But pressed her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. CLXX. CLXIV. He turned his lip to hers, and with his hand With him retired his _"posse comitatus,"_ Called back the tangles of her wandering hair; The attorney last, who lingered near the door Even then their love they could not all command, Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as And half forgot their danger and despair: Antonia let him--not a little sore Antonia's patience now was at a stand-- At this most strange and unexplained "_hiatus_" "Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore She whispered, in great wrath--"I must deposit An awkward look; as he revolved the case, This pretty gentleman within the closet: The door was fastened in his legal face. * * * * CLXV. No sooner was it bolted, than--Oh Shame! CLXXX. Oh Sin! Oh Sorrow! and Oh Womankind! Alfonso closed his speech, and begged her pardon, How can you do such things and keep your fame, Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind? And laid conditions he thought very hard on, Nothing so dear as an unfilched good name! Denying several little things he wanted: But to proceed--for there is more behind: He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, With useless penitence perplexed and haunted; Young Juan slipped, half-smothered, from the bed. Beseeching she no further would refuse, When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. CLXVI. He had been hid--I don't pretend to say CLXXXI. How, nor can I indeed describe the where-- A pair of shoes!--what then? not much, if they Young, slender, and packed easily, he lay, Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these No doubt, in little compass, round or square; (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) But pity him I neither must nor may Were masculine; to see them, and to seize, His suffocation by that pretty pair; Was but a moment's act.--Ah! well-a-day! 'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze! With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt Alfonso first examined well their fashion, And then flew out into another passion. CLXVII. And, secondly, I pity not, because CLXXXII. He had no business to commit a sin, He left the room for his relinquished sword, Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws;-- And Julia instant to the closet flew. At least 't was rather early to begin, "Fly, Juan, fly! for Heaven's sake--not a word-- But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws The door is open--you may yet slip through So much as when we call our old debts in The passage you so often have explored-- At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil, Here is the garden-key--Fly--fly--Adieu! And find a deuced balance with the Devil. Haste--haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet-- Day has not broke--there's no one in the street." CLXVIII. Of his position I can give no notion: CLXXXIII. 'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, None can say that this was not good advice, How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, The only mischief was, it came too late; Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, Of all experience 't is the usual price,

66 A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings Juan had reached the room-door in a trice, Of Counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, And might have done so by the garden-gate, There's more than one edition, and the readings But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, Are various, but they none of them are dull: Who threatened death--so Juan knocked him down. The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. CLXXXIV. Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; CXC. Antonia cried out "Rape!" and Julia "Fire!" But Donna Inez, to divert the train But not a servant stirred to aid the fight. Of one of the most circulating scandals Alfonso, pommelled to his heart's desire, That had for centuries been known in Spain, Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night; At least since the retirement of the Vandals, And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; First vowed (and never had she vowed in vain) His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar, To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. And then, by the advice of some old ladies, She sent her son to be shipped off from Cadiz. CLXXXV. Alfonso's sword had dropped ere he could draw it, CXCI. And they continued battling hand to hand, She had resolved that he should travel through For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it; All European climes, by land or sea, His temper not being under great command, To mend his former morals, and get new, If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, Especially in France and Italy-- Alfonso's days had not been in the land (At least this is the thing most people do.) Much longer.--Think of husbands', lovers' lives! Julia was sent into a convent--she And how ye may be doubly widows--wives! Grieved--but, perhaps, her feelings may be better Shown in the following copy of her Letter:--

CXCII. CLXXXVI. "They tell me 't is decided you depart: Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain; And Juan throttled him to get away, I have no further claim on your young heart, And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow; Mine is the victim, and would be again: At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, To love too much has been the only art Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain And then his only garment quite gave way; Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears; He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. CXCIII. CLXXXVII. "I loved, I love you, for this love have lost Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found State, station, Heaven, Mankind's, my own esteem, An awkward spectacle their eyes before; And yet can not regret what it hath cost, Antonia in hysterics, Julia swooned, So dear is still the memory of that dream; Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast, Some half-torn drapery scattered on the ground, None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-- Juan the gate gained, turned the key about, I've nothing to reproach, or to request. And liking not the inside, locked the out. CXCIV. CLXXXVIII. "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, Here ends this canto.--Need I sing, or say, 'T is a Woman's whole existence; Man may range How Juan, naked, favoured by the night, The Court, Camp, Church, the Vessel, and the Mart; Who favours what she should not, found his way, Sword, Gown, Gain, Glory, offer in exchange And reached his home in an unseemly plight? Pride, Fame, Ambition, to fill up his heart, The pleasant scandal which arose next day, And few there are whom these can not estrange; The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, Men have all these resources, We but one, And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, To love again, and be again undone." Were in the English newspapers, of course. CXCV. CLXXXIX. "You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, If you would like to see the whole proceedings, Beloved and loving many; all is o'er The depositions, and the Cause at full, For me on earth, except some years to hide

67 My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core: Prose poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of rhyme, These I could bear, but cannot cast aside Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; The passion which still rages as before,-- I've got new mythological machinery, And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No, And very handsome supernatural scenery. That word is idle now--but let it go. CCII. CXCVI. There's only one slight difference between "My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; Me and my epic brethren gone before, But still I think I can collect my mind; And here the advantage is my own, I ween My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, (Not that I have not several merits more, As roll the waves before the settled wind; But this will more peculiarly be seen); My heart is feminine, nor can forget-- They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore To all, except one image, madly blind; Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, Whereas this story's actually true. As vibrates my fond heart to my fixed soul. * * * * CXCVII. "I have no more to say, but linger still, CCXIII. And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, But now at thirty years my hair is grey-- And yet I may as well the task fulfil, (I wonder what it will be like at forty? My misery can scarce be more complete; I thought of a peruke the other day--) I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, Have squandered my whole summer while 't was May, And I must even survive this last adieu, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I And bear with life, to love and pray for you!" Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deemed--my soul invincible. CXCVIII. This note was written upon gilt-edged paper CCXIV. With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new; No more--no more--Oh! never more on me Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, It trembled as magnetic needles do, Which out of all the lovely things we see And yet she did not let one tear escape her; Extracts emotions beautiful and new, The seal a sun-flower; _"Elle vous suit partout,"_ Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee. The motto cut upon a white cornelian; Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew? The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power To double even the sweetness of a flower. CXCIX. This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether CCXV. I shall proceed with his adventures is No more--no more--Oh! never more, my heart, Dependent on the public altogether; Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! We'll see, however, what they say to this: Once all in all, but now a thing apart, Their favour in an author's cap's a feather, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: And no great mischief's done by their caprice; The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art And if their approbation we experience, Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence. And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. CC. My poem's epic, and is meant to be CCXVI. Divided in twelve books; each book containing, My days of love are over; me no more With Love, and War, a heavy gale at sea, The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, Can make the fool of which they made before,-- New characters; the episodes are three: In short, I must not lead the life I did do; A panoramic view of Hell's in training, The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So that my name of Epic's no misnomer. So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. CCI. All these things will be specified in time, CCXVII. With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, Ambition was my idol, which was broken The _Vade Mecum_ of the true sublime, Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure; Which makes so many poets, and some fools: And the two last have left me many a token

68 O'er which reflection may be made at leisure: A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, Now, like Friar Bacon's Brazen Head, I've spoken, As I, who've crossed it oft, know well enough; "Time is, Time was, Time's past:"--a chymic treasure And, standing on the deck, the dashing spray Is glittering Youth, which I have spent betimes-- Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough: My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. And there he stood to take, and take again, His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain. CCXVIII. What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill XII. A certain portion of uncertain paper: I can't but say it is an awkward sight Some liken it to climbing up a hill, To see one's native land receding through Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; The growing waters; it unmans one quite, For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, Especially when life is rather new: And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, To have, when the original is dust, But almost every other country's blue, A name, a wretched picture and worse bust. When gazing on them, mystified by distance, We enter on our nautical existence. CCXIX. What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King XIII. Cheops erected the first Pyramid So Juan stood, bewildered on the deck: And largest, thinking it was just the thing The wind sung, cordage strained, and sailors swore, To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; And the ship creaked, the town became a speck, But somebody or other rummaging, From which away so fair and fast they bore. Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: The best of remedies is a beef-steak Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Against sea-sickness: try it, Sir, before Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer--so may you. CCXX. But I, being fond of true philosophy, XIV. Say very often to myself, "Alas! Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, All things that have been born were born to die, Beheld his native Spain receding far: And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; First partings form a lesson hard to learn, You've passed your youth not so unpleasantly, Even nations feel this when they go to war; And if you had it o'er again--'t would pass-- There is a sort of unexpressed concern, So thank your stars that matters are no worse, A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places--one keeps looking at the steeple. CCXXI. But for the present, gentle reader! and XV. Still gentler purchaser! the Bard--that's I-- But Juan had got many things to leave, Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, And so--"your humble servant, and Good-bye!" So that he had much better cause to grieve We meet again, if we should understand Than many persons more advanced in life: Each other; and if not, I shall not try And if we now and then a sigh must heave Your patience further than by this short sample-- At quitting even those we quit in strife, 'T were well if others followed my example. No doubt we weep for those the heart endears-- That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. CCXXII. "Go, little Book, from this my solitude! XVI. I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways! So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion: The World will find thee after many days." I'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse, When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, And such light griefs are not a thing to die on; I can't help putting in my claim to praise-- Young men should travel, if but to amuse The four first rhymes are Southey's every line: Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine. Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. from CANTO THE SECOND XVII. XI. And Juan wept, and much he sighed and thought, Juan embarked--the ship got under way, While his salt tears dropped into the salt sea, The wind was fair, the water passing rough; "Sweets to the sweet;" (I like so much to quote;

69 You must excuse this extract,--'t is where she, As eager to anticipate their grave; The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought And the sea yawned around her like a hell, Flowers to the grave;) and, sobbing often, he And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Reflected on his present situation, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And seriously resolved on reformation. And strives to strangle him before he die. XVIII. "Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!" he cried, LIII. "Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, And first one universal shriek there rushed, But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Louder than the loud Ocean, like a crash Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, Of billows; but at intervals there gushed, Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(here he drew Accompanied by a convulsive splash, Her letter out again, and read it through.) A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. XIX. "And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear-- LIV. But that's impossible, and cannot be-- The boats, as stated, had got off before, Sooner shall this blue Ocean melt to air, And in them crowded several of the crew; Sooner shall Earth resolve itself to sea, And yet their present hope was hardly more Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! Than what it had been, for so strong it blew Or think of anything, excepting thee; There was slight chance of reaching any shore; A mind diseased no remedy can physic-- And then they were too many, though so few-- (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick.) Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat. XX. "Sooner shall Heaven kiss earth--(here he fell sicker) LV. Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?-- All the rest perished; near two hundred souls (For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor; Had left their bodies; and what's worse, alas! Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) When over Catholics the Ocean rolls, Julia, my love!--(you rascal, Pedro, quicker)-- They must wait several weeks before a mass Oh, Julia!--(this curst vessel pitches so)-- Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!" Because, till people know what's come to pass, (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) They won't lay out their money on the dead-- It costs three francs for every mass that's said. * * * * LVI. L. Juan got into the long-boat, and there Some trial had been making at a raft, Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; With little hope in such a rolling sea, It seemed as if they had exchanged their care, A sort of thing at which one would have laughed, For Juan wore the magisterial face If any laughter at such times could be, Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair Unless with people who too much have quaffed, Of eyes were crying for their owner's case: And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Battista, though, (a name called shortly Tita), Half epileptical, and half hysterical:-- Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. Their preservation would have been a miracle. LVII. LI. Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, But the same cause, conducive to his loss, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, Left him so drunk, he jumped into the wave, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, For yet they strove, although of no great use: And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; There was no light in heaven but a few stars, They could not rescue him although so close, The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; Because the sea ran higher every minute, She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it. And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short. LVIII. LII. A small old spaniel,--which had been Don Jose's, Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell-- His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave,-- For on such things the memory reposes Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, With tenderness--stood howling on the brink,

70 Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; Although his anatomical construction And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepped Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Off threw him in, then after him he leaped. Your labouring people think, beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. LIX. He also stuffed his money where he could LXVIII. About his person, and Pedrillo's too, And thus it was with this our hapless crew; Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, For on the third day there came on a calm, Not knowing what himself to say, or do, And though at first their strength it might renew, As every rising wave his dread renewed; And lying on their weariness like balm, But Juan, trusting they might still get through, Lulled them like turtles sleeping on the blue And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Of Ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, Thus re-embarked his tutor and his spaniel. And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision. LX. 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, LXIX. That the sail was becalmed between the seas, The consequence was easily foreseen-- Though on the wave's high top too much to set, They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, They dared not take it in for all the breeze: In spite of all remonstrances, and then Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them wet, On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? And made them bale without a moment's ease, They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! So that themselves as well as hopes were damped, And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, And the poor little cutter quickly swamped. But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual. LXI. Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still LXX. Kept above water, with an oar for mast, The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, Two blankets stitched together, answering ill And Ocean slumbered like an unweaned child: Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, Though every wave rolled menacing to fill, The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild-- And present peril all before surpassed, With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) They grieved for those who perished with the cutter, What could they do? and Hunger's rage grew wild: And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, Was killed, and portioned out for present eating. LXII. The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign LXXI. Of the continuance of the gale: to run On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, Before the sea until it should grow fine, And Juan, who had still refused, because Was all that for the present could be done: The creature was his father's dog that died, A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, Were served out to the people, who begun With some remorse received (though first denied) To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, As a great favour one of the fore-paws, And most of them had little clothes but rags. Which he divided with Pedrillo, who Devoured it, longing for the other too. * * * * LXXII. LXVI. The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun 'T is thus with people in an open boat, Blistered and scorched, and, stagnant on the sea, They live upon the love of Life, and bear They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, More than can be believed, or even thought, Save in the breeze that came not: savagely And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear; They glared upon each other--all was done, And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there; The longings of the cannibal arise She had a curious crew as well as cargo, (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. LXXIII. LXVII. At length one whispered his companion, who But man is a carnivorous production, Whispered another, and thus it went round, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; And then into a hoarser murmur grew, He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;

71 And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream, 'T was but his own, suppressed till now, he found: Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. And who should die to be his fellow's food.

LXXIV. Study Questions: But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remained of shoes; 1. Byron's short lyrics in this seem to have more in common And then they looked around them, and despaired, with neo-classic literary style than romantic. What themes or And none to be the sacrifice would choose; subjects make them romantic? At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, But of materials that must shock the Muse-- 2. What historical sites or figures draw the speaker's scorn and Having no paper, for the want of better, admiration in Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage? The poem is at They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. once a travel memoir, a meditation upon history and a personal question for meaning—how do these differing motives shape LXXV. the poem? The lots were made, and marked, and mixed, and handed, In silent horror, and their distribution 3. How does the speaker in Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage differ Lulled even the savage hunger which demanded, from the character Don Juan? Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or planned it, 4. What is the role of the narrator in Don Juan? Does he 'T was Nature gnawed them to this resolution, transcend the role of ordinary narrator? What is his relationship By which none were permitted to be neuter-- with his subject Don Juan? And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 5. Byron has been called a “romantic nihilist.” Do works such LXXVI. as “Darkness” and Don Juan ultimately reflect a belief that He but requested to be bled to death: “nothing matters” or that there are no absolute values? The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebbed his breath, 6. Byron seems to enjoy poking fun at Wordsworth, Southey You hardly could perceive when he was dead. and the Lake Poets in Don Juan. Do you think Byron would He died as born, a Catholic in faith, consider himself to belong to the same literary tradition as the Like most in the belief in which they're bred, first generation romantics such as Wordsworth? Is his ridicule And first a little crucifix he kissed, of Wordsworth fair? And then held out his jugular and wrist. 7. How does the figure of the pariah/social outcast/genius LXXVII. appear in Byron's poetry and his own poetic persona? How The surgeon, as there was no other fee, does that persona embody key notions of the romantic tradition? Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; Who is “Byron”? But being thirstiest at the moment, he Preferred 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 followed o'er the billow-- The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.

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

LXXIX. 'T was better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme; For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad--Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions racked,

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