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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child: The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild— With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild: So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About this time a beautiful white bird, Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size And plumage (probably it might have err'd Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard The men within the boat, and in this guise It came and went, and flutter'd round them till Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd: He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast), And, like a wither'd lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Young Juan slept all dreamless:—but the maid, Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), He had pronounced her name—but she forgot That at this moment Juan knew it not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, A wanderer from the British world of fashion, Where I, like other 'dogs, have had my day,' Like other men, too, may have had my passion— But that, like other things, has pass'd away, And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on: Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk (For they must talk), and he had learnt to say So much as to propose to take a walk,— For little had he wander'd since the day On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,— And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, And saw the sun set opposite the moon.

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

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low, And saw each other's dark eyes darting light Into each other—and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, And beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,—for a kiss's strength, I think, it must be reckon'd by its length.

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

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

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, They felt no terrors from the night, they were All in all to each other: though their speech Was broken words, they thought a language there,— And all the burning tongues the passions teach Found in one sigh the best interpreter Of nature's oracle—first love,—that all Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.

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

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

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

Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were So loving and so lovely—till then never, Excepting our first parents, such a pair Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, And hell and purgatory—but forgot Just in the very crisis she should not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Stop!' so I stopp'd.—But to return: that which Men call inconstancy is nothing more Than admiration due where nature's rich Profusion with young beauty covers o'er Some favour'd object; and as in the niche A lovely statue we almost adore, This sort of adoration of the real Is but a heightening of the 'beau ideal.'

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

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

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

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

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



CANTO THE THIRD.

Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping, Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

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

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

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs; But one thing 's pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne'er end with only one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some persons say that Dante meant theology By Beatrice, and not a mistress—I, Although my opinion may require apology, Deem this a commentator's fantasy, Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he Decided thus, and show'd good reason why; I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics Meant to personify the mathematics.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom They thus address'd—and Lambro's visage fell— And o'er his eye a momentary gloom Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell The expression, and endeavouring to resume His smile, requested one of them to tell The name and quality of his new patron, Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, A genius who has drunk himself to death, A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic (For that 's the name they like to pray beneath)— But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, Are things that really take away the breath,— And show that late hours, wine, and love are able To do not much less damage than the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He praised the present, and abused the past, Reversing the good custom of old days, An Eastern anti-jacobin at last He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise— For some few years his lot had been o'ercast By his seeming independent in his lays, But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.

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

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

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

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

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