Part 10

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

Sweet hour of twilight!—in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna’s immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow’d o’er, To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio’s lore And Dryden’s lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

The shrill cicadas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed’s and mine, And vesper bell’s that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti’s line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn’d from this example not to fly From a true lover,—shadow’d my mind’s eye.

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

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

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

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

I feel this tediousness will never do— ’Tis being too epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two; They’ll never find it out, unless I own The fact, excepting some experienced few; And then as an improvement ’twill be shown: I’ll prove that such the opinion of the critic is From Aristotle passim.—See poietikes.

CANTO THE FOURTH.

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

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

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

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

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

To the kind reader of our sober clime This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell’d in the fancies of the time, True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic: But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Whom the gods love die young,’ was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more— The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer’s shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead— The heavens, and earth, and air, seem’d made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: Each was the other’s mirror, and but read Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They gazed upon the sunset; ’tis an hour Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, For it had made them what they were: the power Of love had first o’erwhelm’d them from such skies, When happiness had been their only dower, And twilight saw them link’d in passion’s ties; Charm’d with each other, all things charm’d that brought The past still welcome as the present thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now pillow’d cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, Haidee and Juan their siesta took, A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, For ever and anon a something shook Juan, and shuddering o’er his frame would creep; And Haidee’s sweet lips murmur’d like a brook A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirr’d with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o’er it, was she shaken by the dream, The mystical usurper of the mind— O’erpowering us to be whate’er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind; Strange state of being! (for ’tis still to be) Senseless to feel, and with seal’d eyes to see.

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

Anon—she was released, and then she stray’d O’er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And stumbled almost every step she made; And something roll’d before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue howe’er afraid: ’Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp’d to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp’d, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp’d.

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

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth’d on his dead brow, Which she essay’d in vain to clear (how sweet Were once her cares, how idle seem’d they now!), Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat Of his quench’d heart; and the sea dirges low Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid’s song, And that brief dream appear’d a life too long.

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face Faded, or alter’d into something new— Like to her father’s features, till each trace— More like and like to Lambro’s aspect grew— With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; And starting, she awoke, and what to view? O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? ’Tis—’tis her father’s—fix’d upon the pair!

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

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

And Haidee clung around him; ‘Juan, ’tis— ’Tis Lambro—’tis my father! Kneel with me— He will forgive us—yes—it must be—yes. O! dearest father, in this agony Of pleasure and of pain—even while I kiss Thy garment’s hem with transport, can it be That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.’

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

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

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

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

A minute past, and she had been all tears, And tenderness, and infancy; but now She stood as one who champion’d human fears— Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo’d the blow; And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, She drew up to her height, as if to show A fairer mark; and with a fix’d eye scann’d Her father’s face—but never stopp’d his hand.

He gazed on her, and she on him; ’twas strange How like they look’d! the expression was the same; Serenely savage, with a little change In the large dark eye’s mutual-darted flame; For she, too, was as one who could avenge, If cause should be—a lioness, though tame. Her father’s blood before her father’s face Boil’d up, and proved her truly of his race.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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