LXXIV.

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

LXXV.

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

LXXVI.

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

LXXVII.

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

LXXVIII.

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

LXXIX.

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

LXXX.

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

LXXXI.

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

LXXXII.

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

LXXXIII.

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

LXXXIV.

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

LXXXV.

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

LXXXVI.

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

LXXXVII.

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

LXXXVIII.

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

LXXXIX.

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

XC.

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

XCI.

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

XCII.

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

XCIII.

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

XCIV.

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

XCV.

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

XCVI.

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

XCVII.

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

XCVIII.

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

XCIX.

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

C.

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

CI.

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

CII.

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

CII.

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

CIV.

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

CV.

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

CVI.

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

CVII.

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

CVIII.

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

CIX.

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

CX.

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

CXI.

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

CXII.

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

CXIII.

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

CXIV.

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

CXV.

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

CXVI.

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

CXVII.

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

CXVIII.

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

CXIX.

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

CXX.

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

CXXI.

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

CXXII.

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

CXXIII.

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

CXXIV.

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

CXXV.

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

CXXVI.

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

CXXVII.

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

CXXVIII.

He had an only daughter, called 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.

CXXIX.

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

CXXX.

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

CXXXI.

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

CXXXII.

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

CXXXIII.

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,[bj] For 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.

CXXXIV.

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

CXXXV.

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

CXXXVI.

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

CXXXVII.

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

CXXXVIII.

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

CXXXIX.

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

CXL.

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

CXLI.

And 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 curbed into a blush, Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; Or the Red Sea—but the sea is not red.[154]

CXLII.

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

CXLIII.

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

CXLIV.

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

CXLV.

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

CXLVI.

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

CXLVII.

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

CXLVIII.

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

CXLIX.

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

CL.

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

CLI.

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

CLII.

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke By a distant organ, doubting if he be Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke By the watchman, or some such reality, Or by one's early valet's 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.

CLIII.

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

CLIV.

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

CLV.

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

CLVI.

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

CLVII.

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

CLVIII.

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

CLIX.

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

CLX.

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

CLXI.

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

CLXII.

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

CLXIII.

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

CLXIV.

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

CLXV.

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

CLXVI.

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

CLXVII.

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

CLXVIII.

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

CLXIX.

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

CLXX.

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

CLXXI.

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

CLXXII.

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

CLXXIII.

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

CLXXIV.

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

CLXXV.

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

CLXXVI.

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

CLXXVII.

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

CLXXVIII.

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

CLXXIX.

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

CLXXX.

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

CLXXXI.

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

CLXXXII.

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

CLXXXIII.

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

CLXXXIV.

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

CLXXXV.

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

CLXXXVI.

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

CLXXXVII.

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

CLXXXVIII.

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

CLXXXIX.

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

CXC.

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

CXCI.

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

CXCII.

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

CXCIII.

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

CXCIV.

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

CXCV.

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

CXCVI.

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

CXCVII.

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

CXCVIII.

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

CXCIX.

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

CC.

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

CCI.

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

CCII.

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 nought to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond,—her heart beat here.

CCIII.

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

CCIV.

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

CCV.

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

CCVI.

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

CCVII.

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

CCVIII.

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

CCIX.

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

CCX.

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

CCXI.

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

CCXII.

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

CCXIII.

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

CCXIV.

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

CCXV.

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

CCXVI.

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

{81}[ay] Lost that most precious stone of stones—his modesty.—[MS.]

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

[az] But d——n me if I ever saw the like.—[MS.]

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

["I fazzioli, or kerchiefs (a white kind of veil which the lower orders wear upon their heads)."—Letter to Rogers, March 3, 1818, Letters, 1900, iv. 208.]

[ba] Their manners mending, and their morals curing. She taught them to suppress their vice—and urine.—[MS.]

{84}[99] [Compare—

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

Childe Harold, Canto I. stanza xii. lines 3-6, Poetical Works, 1898, i. 24.]

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

"Rosalind. Is the fool sick? Biron. Sick at heart. Ros. Alack, let it blood." Love's Labour's Lost, act ii. sc. I, line 185.]

[bb] Sea-sickness death; then pardon Juan—how else Keep down his stomach ne'er at sea before?—[MS. M.]

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

[102] ["Night came on worse than the day had been; and a sudden shift of wind, about midnight, threw the ship into the trough of the sea, which struck her aft, tore away the rudder, started the stern-post, and shattered the whole of her stern-frame. The pumps were immediately sounded, and in the course of a few minutes the water had increased to four feet....

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

"Notwithstanding the pumps discharged fifty tons of water an hour, the ship certainly must have gone down, had not our expedients been attended with some success. The pumps, to the excellent construction of which I owe the preservation of my life, were made by Mr. Mann of London. As the next day advanced, the weather appeared to moderate, the men continued incessantly at the pumps, and every exertion was made to keep the ship afloat."—See "Loss of the American ship Hercules, Captain Benjamin Stout, June 16, 1796," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 316, 317.]

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

"The ship lay motionless, and, to all appearance, irrevocably overset.... The water forsook the hold, and appeared between decks....

"Immediate directions were given to cut away the main and mizen masts, trusting when the ship righted, to be able to wear her. On cutting one or two lanyards, the mizen-mast went first over, but without producing the smallest effect on the ship, and, on cutting the lanyard of one shroud, the main-mast followed. I had next the mortification to see the foremast and bowsprit also go over. On this, the ship immediately righted with great violence."—"Loss of the Centaur Man-of-War, 1782, by Captain Inglefield," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 41.]

[bc] Perhaps the whole would have got drunk, but for.—[MS.]

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

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

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

"The Centaur laboured so much, that I could scarce hope she would swim till morning: ... our sufferings for want of water were very great....

"The weather again threatened, and by noon it blew a storm. The ship laboured greatly; the water appeared in the fore and after-hold. I was informed by the carpenter also that the leathers were nearly consumed, and the chains of the pumps, by constant exertion, and friction of the coils, were rendered almost useless....

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

"I perceived the ship settling by the head."—"Loss of the Centaur," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. pp. 45-49.]

{92}[bd] 'T is ugly dying in the Gulf of Lyons.—[MS.]

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

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

{94}[108] ["Some appeared perfectly resigned, went to their hammocks, and desired their messmates to lash them in; others were securing themselves to gratings and small rafts; but the most predominant idea was that of putting on their best and cleanest clothes. The boats ... were got over the side."—"Loss of the Centaur," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 49, 50.]

[be] Men will prove hungry, even when next perdition.—[MS.]

{95}[109] ["Eight bags of rice, six casks of water, and a small quantity of salted beef and pork, were put into the long-boat, as provisions for the whole."—"Wreck of the Sidney, 1806," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 434.]

[110] ["The yawl was stove alongside and sunk."—"Loss of the Centaur," ibid., iii. 50.]

[111] ["One oar was erected for a main-mast, and the other broke to the breadth of the blankets for a yard."—"Loss of the Duke William Transport, 1758," ibid., ii. 387.]

[bf] Which being withdrawn, discloses but the frown.—[MS. erased.]

[bg] Of one who hates us, so the night was shown And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale, And hopeless eyes, which o'er the deep alone Gazed dim and desolate——.—[MS.]

{96}[112] ["As rafts had been mentioned by the carpenter, I thought it right to make the attempt.... It was impossible for any man to deceive himself with the hopes of being saved on a raft in such a sea."—"Loss of the Centaur," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 50. 51.]

[113] ["Spars, booms, hencoops, and every thing buoyant, was therefore cast loose, that the men might have some chance to save themselves."—"Loss of the Pandora," ibid., iii. 197.]

[114] ["We had scarce quitted the ship, when she gave a heavy lurch to port, and then went down, head foremost."—"Loss of the Lady Hobart," ibid., iii. 378.]

[115] ["At this moment, one of the officers told the captain that she was going down.... and bidding him farewell, leapt overboard: ... the crew had just time to leap overboard, which they did, uttering a most dreadful yell."—"Loss of the Pandora," ibid., iii. 198.]

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

[117] [Qy. "My good Sir! when the sea runs very high this is the case, as I know, but if my authority is not enough, see Bligh's account of his run to Timor, after being cut adrift by the mutineers headed by Christian."—Ḅ

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

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

[119] ["Before it was dark, a blanket was discovered in the boat. This was immediately bent to one of the stretchers, and under it, as a sail, we scudded all night, in expectation of being swallowed up by every wave."—"Loss of the Centaur," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 52.]

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

{100}[121] ["[As] our lodgings were very miserable and confined, I had only in my power to remedy the latter defect, by putting ourselves at watch and watch; so that one half always sat up, while the other half lay down on the boat's bottom, with nothing to cover us but the heavens."—A Narrative of the Mutiny of the Bounty, by William Bligh, 1790, p. 28.]

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

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

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

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

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

[127] ["He requested to be bled to death, the surgeon being with them, and having his case of instruments in his pocket when he quitted the vessel."—"Sufferings of the Crew of the Thomas," Shipwrecks, etc., 1812, iii. 357.]

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

[129] ["Those who indulged their cannibal appetite to excess speedily perished in raging madness," etc.—Ibid.]

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

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

[132]

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

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

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

[134] [Compare—

"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked."

Ancient Mariner, Part III. line 157.]

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

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

[137] ["Whenever the boy was seized with a fit of retching, the father lifted him up and wiped away the foam from his lips; and if a shower came, he made him open his mouth to receive the drops, or gently squeezed them into it from a rag."—Ibid.]

{108}[138] ["In this affecting situation both remained four or five days, till the boy expired. The unfortunate parent, as if unwilling to believe the fact, raised the body, looked wistfully at it, and when he could no longer entertain any doubt, watched it in silence until it was carried off by sea; then wrapping himself in a piece of canvas, sunk down, and rose no more; though he must have lived two days longer, as we judged from the quivering of his limbs when a wave broke over him."—"Narrative of the Shipwreck of the Juno, 1795," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, p. 274.]

{109}[139] ["About this time a beautiful white bird, web-footed, and not unlike a dove in size and plumage, hovered over the mast-head of the cutter, and, notwithstanding the pitching of the boat, frequently attempted to perch on it, and continued fluttering there till dark. Trifling as such an incident may appear, we all considered it a propitious omen."—"Loss of the Lady Hobart, 1803," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 389.]

[140] ["I found it necessary to caution the people against being deceived by the appearance of land, or calling out till we were quite convinced of its reality, more especially as fog-banks are often mistaken for land: several of the poor fellows nevertheless repeatedly exclaimed they heard breakers, and some the firing of guns."—"Loss of the Lady Hobart," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii. 391.]

{110}[141] ["At length one of them broke out into a most immoderate swearing fit of joy, which I could not restrain, and declared, that he had never seen land in his life, if what he now saw was not so."—"Loss of the Centaur," ibid., p. 55.]

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

[143] [After having suffered the horrors of hunger and thirst for many days, "they accidentally descried a small turtle floating on the surface of the water asleep."—"Sufferings of the Crew of the Thomas," ibid., p. 356.]

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

{112}[145] ["They discovered land right ahead, and steered for it. There being a very heavy surf, they endeavoured to turn the boat's head to it, which, from weakness, they were unable to accomplish, and soon afterwards the boat upset."—"Sufferings of Six Deserters from St. Helena, 1799," Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, 1812, iii, 371.]

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

{114}[147] [Compare—

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

The Ancient Mariner, Part V. lines 393, 394.]

{115}[bh] —— in short she's one.—[MS.]

{116}[bi] A set of humbug rascals, when all's done— I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their d——d ideal.—[MS.]

[148] [Compare Childe Harold, Canto IV. stanza 1. lines 6-9, Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 366, note 1.]

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

[150] ["The saya or basquina ... the outer petticoat ... is always black, and is put over the indoor dress on going out." Compare [Greek: Melanei/mones a(/pantes t ople/on e)n sa/gois,] Strabo, lib. iii. ed. 1807, i. 210. Ford's Handbook for Spain, 1855, i. 111.]

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

{119}[bj] And such a bed of furs, and a pelisse.—[MS.]

{120}[bk] —— which often spread, And come like opening Hell upon the mind, No "baseless fabric" but "a wrack behind."—[MS.]

{121}[bl] Had e'er escaped more dangers on the deep;— And those who are not drowned, at least may sleep.—[MS.]

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

[bm] Wore for a husband—or some such like brute.—[MS.]

[bn] —— although of late I've changed, for some few years, the day to night.—[MS.]

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

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

[bo] —— just the same As at this moment I should like to do;— But I have done with kisses—having kissed All those that would—regretting those I missed.—[MS.]

{124}[bp] Fair as the rose just plucked to crown the wreath, Soft as the unfledged birdling when at rest.—[MS.]

[155] [Compare Mazeppa, lines 829, sq., Poetical Works, 1901, iv. 232.]

{125}[bq] That finer melody was never heard, The kind of sound whose echo is a tear, Whose accents are the steps of Music's throne.[*]—[MS.]

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

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

[br] Pressure of hands, et cetera—or a kiss.—[MS. Alternative reading.]

[bs] Italian rather more, having more teachers.—[MS. erased.]

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

[bt] foes, friends, sex, kind, are nothing more to me Than a mere dream of something o'er the sea.—[MS.]

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

[159] [Compare The Prisoner of Chillon, line 78, ibid., p. 16.]

[bu] Holding her sweet breath o'er his cheek and mouth, As o'er a bed of roses, etc.—[MS.]

[160] [Vide post, Canto XVI. stanza lxxxvi. line 6, p. 598, note 1.]

{130}[bv] For without heart Love is not quite so good; Ceres is commissary to our bellies, And Love, which also much depends on food: While Bacchus will provide with wine and jellies— Oysters and eggs are also living food.—[MS.]

[bw] He was her own, her Ocean lover, cast To be her soul's first idol, and its last.—[MS.]

{131}[bx] And saw the sunset and the rising moon.—[MS.]

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

[162] [Compare stanza prefixed to Dedication, vide ante, p. 2.]

[163] [Compare—

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

Corsair, Canto I. lines 427, 428, Poetical Works, 1900, iii. 242.]

[by] A pleasure naught but drunkenness can bring: For not the blest sherbet all chilled with snow. Nor the full sparkle of the desert-spring, Nor wine in all the purple of its glow.—[MS.]

{134}[bz] Spread like an Ocean, varied, vast, and bright.—[MS.]

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

or,

And one was innocent, but both too young, Their hearts the flowers, etc.—[MS.]

{135}[cb] In all the burning tongues the Passions teach They had no further feeling, hope, nor care Save one, and that was Love.—[MS. erased.]

{136}[cc] Pillowed upon her beating heart—which panted With the sweet memory of all it granted.—[MS.]

{138}[cd] Some drown themselves, some in the vices grovel.—[MS.]

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

{139}[ce] In their sweet feelings holily united, By Solitude (soft parson) they were wed.—[MS.]

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

[166] [Caesar's third wife, Pompeia, was suspected of infidelity with Clodius (see Langhorne's Plutarch, 1838, p. 498); Pompey's third wife, Mucia, intrigued with Caesar (vide ibid., p. 447); Mahomet's favourite wife, Ayesha, on one occasion incurred suspicion; Antonina, the wife of Belisarius, was notoriously profligate (see Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 1825, iii. 432, 102).]

{140}[167] [Compare Sardanapalus, act i. sc. 2, line 252, Poetical Works, 1901, v. 23, note 1.]

{141}[cf] —of ticklish dust.—[MS. Alternative reading.]

{142}[168] ["Mr. Hobhouse is at it again about indelicacy. There is no indelicacy. If he wants that, let him read Swift, his great idol; but his imagination must be a dunghill, with a viper's nest in the middle, to engender such a supposition about this poem."—Letter to Murray, May 15, 1819, Letters, 1900, iv. 295.]

[cg] Two hundred stanzas reckoned as before.—[MS.]



CANTO THE THIRD.[169]

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs; But one thing's pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)— After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne'er end with only one.[170]

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

VIII.

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

IX.

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

X.

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

XI.

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

XII.

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.

XIII.

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.

XIV.

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

XV.

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

XVI.

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

XVII.

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

XVIII.

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