i^^K 
 
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 DON JUAN. 
 
 \y 
 
PRINTED BY A. BELIN, 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 a DifHcile est proprie communia dicere. » 
 
 HoR. EpisU ad Pisort, 
 
 PARIS : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY GALIGNANI, 
 
 AT THE FRENCH, ENGLISH, ITALIAN, GERMAN AND SPANISH 
 LIBRARY, NO. 1 8, RUE YIVIENNE. 
 
 1819. 
 
^ (^^V^ 72>r(p 
 

 DON JUAN, 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 I. 
 
 1 WANT a hero : an uncommon want, 
 
 When every year and month sends forth a new 
 one, 
 
 Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 
 The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
 
 Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
 I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan, 
 
 We all have seen him in the Pantomime 
 
 Sent to the devil, somewhat ere his time. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 
 Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, 
 Howe, 
 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, 
 And fiird their sign-posts then, like Wellesley 
 now; 
 
4 DON JUAN. 
 
 Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
 Followers pf fame, « nine farrow >? of that sow : 
 France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 III. 
 
 Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
 
 Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
 
 Were French, and famous people, as we know; 
 And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
 
 Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, 
 Moreau, 
 With many of the military set, 
 
 Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 
 
 And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd | 
 
 There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
 'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 
 
 Because the army's grown more popular, 
 At which the nayal people are concern'd : 
 
 Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service, 
 
 Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and JerviSc 
 
DON JUAN. O 
 
 V. 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon * 
 And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
 
 A good deal like liim too, though quite the same 
 none ; 
 But then they shone not on the poet's page, 
 
 And so have been forgotten : — I condemn none, 
 But can't find any in the present age 
 
 Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one ;) 
 
 So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Most epic poets plunge in « medias res, » 
 
 (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road) 
 
 And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
 What went before — by way of episode, 
 
 While seated after dinner at his ease. 
 Beside his mistress in some soft abode. 
 
 Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. 
 
 Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 
 
 YII. 
 
 That is the usual method, but not mine — 
 My way is to begin with the beginning; 
 
b DON JUAN. 
 
 The regularity of ray design 
 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 
 And therefore I shall open with a line 
 
 (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 
 Narrating someiyhat of Don Juan's father, 
 And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 
 
 YIII. 
 
 In Seville was he born, a pleasant city. 
 Famous for oranges and women — he 
 
 Who has not seen it will be much to pit}**. 
 So says the proverb— and I quite agree ; 
 
 Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
 Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see : — 
 
 Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
 
 A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 His father's name was Jose-^Don, of course, 
 A true Hiclalgo, free from every stain 
 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain ^ 
 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
 
tiON JUAN. ^ 
 
 Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
 
 Begot— but that's to come Well, to renew : 
 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 
 For every branch of every science known — 
 
 In every christian language ever named. 
 With virtues equall'd by her wit alone. 
 
 She made the cleverest people quite ashamed. 
 And even the good with inward envy groan, 
 
 Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 
 In their own way by all the things that she did. 
 
 XL 
 
 Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
 All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 
 
 So that if any actor miss'd his part 
 
 She could have served him for the prompter's 
 copy 5 
 
 For her Feinagle's were an useless art^ 
 
 And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 
 
 Could never make a memory so fine as 
 
 That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 
 
8 DON JUAN. 
 
 XIL 
 
 Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
 Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 
 
 Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all; 
 Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity ; x 
 
 In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
 A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 
 
 Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin. 
 
 And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 
 
 xnr. 
 
 She knew the Latin — that is, « the Lord's prayer, » 
 And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly sure ; 
 
 She read some French romances here and there, 
 Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 
 
 For native Spanish she had no great care, 
 At least her conversation was obscure; 
 
 Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem. 
 
 As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue. 
 And said there was analogy between 'em; 
 
DON JUAN. 9 
 
 She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
 
 But I must leave the proofs to those who've 
 seen 'em, 
 But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong, 
 And all may think which way their judgments 
 lean 'em, 
 « 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means 
 
 Mam,' 
 « The English always use to govern d — n. w 
 
 XV. 
 * ^t ^ M ¥ 
 
 ¥ ■¥ * ¥ ^ 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In short, she was a walking calculation, 
 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their 
 covers, 
 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education. 
 
 Or K Coelebs' Wife » set out in quest of lovers, 
 
 Morality's prim personification, 
 
 In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers. 
 
 To others' share let « female errors fall, » 
 
 For she had not even one — the worst of all. 
 
 I. 
 
to DON JUA]>r. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Oil ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
 Of any modern female saint's comparison ^ 
 
 So far above the cunning powers of hell, 
 
 Her guardian angel had given up his garrison; 
 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 
 As those of the best time-piece made by Har- 
 rison : 
 
 In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
 
 Save thine « incomparable oil, » Macassar ! ^ 
 
 XYIIL 
 Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
 
 Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
 Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 
 
 Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers. 
 Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 
 
 (I wonder how they got through the twelve 
 hours) 
 Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
 Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He was a mortal of the careless kind. 
 
 With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, 
 
DON JUAN. II 
 
 Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
 And never dream'd his lady was concern'd : 
 
 The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
 To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 
 
 Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two. 
 
 But for domestic quarrels one will do. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
 A great opinion of her own good qualities; 
 
 Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
 And such, indeed, she was in her moralities ; 
 
 But then she had a devil of a spirit, 
 
 And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities. 
 
 And let few opportunities escape 
 
 Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 This was an easy matter with a man 
 
 Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 
 
 And even the wisest, do the best they can. 
 
 Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared. 
 
 That you might « brain them with their lady's 
 fan ; » 
 And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 
 
I^ DON JUAN. 
 
 And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 
 And why and wherefore no one understands. 
 
 XXII. 
 'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed 
 
 With persons of no sort of education, 
 Or gentlemen, who, though well-horn and hred, 
 
 Grow tired of scientific conversation : 
 I don't choose to say much upon this head, 
 
 Tm a plain man, and in a single station. 
 But — Oh ! ve lords of ladies intellectual, 
 Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? 
 
 XXIII. 
 Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why, 
 
 Not any of the many could divine, 
 Though several thousand people chose to try, 
 
 'Tw«is surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
 I loathe that low vice curiosity. 
 
 But if there's any thing in which I shine 
 'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs. 
 Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And so I interfered, and with the best 
 
 Intentions, but their treatment was not kind j 
 
DON JUAPr. 1 3 
 
 I think the foolish people were possess'^, 
 For neither of them could I ever find, 
 
 Although their porter afterwards confessed — 
 But that's no matter, and the worst 's behind, 
 
 For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
 
 A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 
 
 And mischief-making monkey from his birth j 
 
 His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
 Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
 
 Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
 Their senses, they'd haye sent young master 
 forth 
 
 To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home. 
 
 To teach him manners for the time to come. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 
 For some time an unhappy sort of life, 
 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; 
 They lived respectably as man and wife, 
 
 Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
 And gave no outward signs of inward strife. 
 
l4 DON JUAN. 
 
 Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 XXYII. 
 
 For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
 And tried to prove her loving lord was mad^ 
 
 But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
 She next decided he was only had ; 
 
 Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
 No sort of explanation could be had, 
 
 Save that her duty towards man and God 
 
 Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 
 
 XXYIII. 
 
 She kept a journal, where his faults were noted. 
 And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 
 
 All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors. 
 
 Besides her good old grandmother (who doted j ) 
 The hearers of her case became repeaters. 
 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 
 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And then this best and meekest woman bore 
 With such serenity her husband's woes, 
 
DON JUAN. rS 
 
 Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 
 
 Who saw their spouses kilFd, and nobly chose 
 Never to say a word about them more — 
 
 Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 
 And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 
 That all the world exclaim'd, « What magnani- 
 mity ! » 
 
 XXX. 
 No doubt, this patience, when the world is 
 damning us. 
 
 Is philosophic in our former friends; 
 'Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous. 
 
 The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
 And what the lawyers call a mnalus animus^ » 
 
 Conduct like this by no means comprehends : 
 Revenge in person's certainly no virtue, 
 But then 'tis not my fault, if others hurt you. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And if our quarrels should rip up old stories. 
 And help them with a lie or two additional, 
 
 Vm not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
 Any one else — they were become traditional ; 
 
l6 DOST JUAISr. 
 
 Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
 
 By contrast, which is what we just were wish- 
 ing all : 
 And science profits by this resurrection — 
 Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 
 
 Then their relations, who made matters worse; 
 
 ('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to have recourse — 
 
 I can't say much for friend or yet relation : ) 
 The lawyers did their utmost for divorce^ 
 
 But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
 
 Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He died : and most unluckily, because, 
 According to all hints I could collect 
 
 From counsel learned in those kinds of laws, 
 (Although their talk's obscure and circumspect) 
 
 His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ', 
 A thousand pities also with respect 
 
 To public feeling, which on this occasion 
 
 Was manifested in a great sensation. 
 
DON JUAN. 17 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But ah ! he died^ and buried with him lay 
 The public feeling and the lawyers' fees^ 
 
 His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
 A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
 
 A priest the other — at least so they say : 
 I ask'd the doctors after his disease. 
 
 He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian. 
 
 And left his widow to her own aversion. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Yet Jose was an honourable man, 
 That I must say, who knew him very well; 
 
 Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan. 
 Indeed there were not many more to tell } 
 
 And if his passions now and then outran 
 Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
 
 As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius,) 
 
 He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, • 
 Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him. 
 Let's own, since it can do no good on earth; 
 It was a trying moment that which found him 
 
l8 DON JUAN. 
 
 Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 
 
 Where all his household gods lay shiyer'd round 
 him^ 
 
 
 
 No choice was left his feelings or his pride 
 Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 
 
 XXXVIL 
 
 Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
 
 To a chancery suit, and messuages, and land»y 
 Which, with a long minority and care, 
 
 Promised to turn out well in proper hands? 
 Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
 
 And answer'd but to nature's just demands^ 
 An only son left with an only mother 
 Is brought up much more wisely than another. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
 
 Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 
 
 And worthy of the noblest pedigree : 
 
 (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon.) 
 
 Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 
 
 In case our lord the king should go to war again , 
 
 He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
 
 And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 
 
DON JUAN. r^ 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But that which Donna Inez most desired, 
 And saw into herself each day before all 
 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
 Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral ^ 
 
 Much into all his studies she inquired. 
 
 And so they were submitted first to her, all, 
 
 Arts, sciences, no branch was rnade a mystery 
 
 To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history, 
 
 XL. 
 
 The languages, esjiecially the dead, 
 
 The sciences, and most of all the aibstrusey 
 
 The arts, at least all such as could be said 
 To be the most remote from common use. 
 
 In all these he was much and deeply read 5 
 But not a page of any thing that's loose, 
 
 Or hints continuation of the species, 
 
 Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 
 
 XLL 
 
 His classic studies made a little puzzle. 
 
 Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
 
 Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle. 
 But never put on pantaloons or boddicesj 
 
20 DON JUAN. 
 
 His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 
 
 And for their JEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 
 Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 
 For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
 Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 
 
 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 
 
 I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
 
 Although ^ Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 Where the sublime soars forth on wings more 
 ample; 
 
 But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
 
 Beginning with « Forniosum Pastor Cory don. » 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 
 
 For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food^ 
 I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 
 
 Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
 For speaking out so plainly in his song, 
 
 So much indeed as to be downright rude; 
 And then what proper person can be partial 
 To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? 
 
DON JUAN. ^I 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
 I Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
 
 Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
 
 The grosser parts j but fearful to deface 
 Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
 
 And pitying sore his mutilated case, 
 They only add them all in an appendix, ^ 
 Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For there we have them all « at one fell swoop, » 
 Instead of being scattered through the pages; 
 
 They stand forth marshalFd in a handsome 
 troop. 
 To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 
 
 Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 
 
 To call them back into their separate cages, 
 
 Instead of standing staring altogether, 
 
 Like garden gods-— and not so decent either, 
 
 XLYI. 
 
 The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 
 Was ornamented in a sort of way 
 
^!i DON JUAN. 
 
 Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 
 Kinds of grotesques illumined^ and how they, 
 
 Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 
 Could turn their optics to the text and pray 
 
 Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
 
 Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 
 
 XLYII. 
 
 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
 And homilies, and lives of all the saints; 
 
 To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 
 
 He did not take such studies for restraints ; 
 
 But how faith is acquired, and then insured, 
 So well not on^ of the aforesaid paints 
 
 As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 
 
 Which make the reader envy his transgressions. 
 
 XLYIII. 
 
 This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
 I can't but say that his mamma was right, 
 
 If such an education was the true one. 
 
 She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 
 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 
 You might be sure she was a perfect fright, 
 
DON JUAN. 3k3 
 
 She did this during even her husband's life--* 
 I recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Young Juanwax*d in goodliness and grace; 
 
 At six a charming child, and at eleven 
 With all the promise of as fine a face 
 
 As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
 He studied steadily, and grew apace, 
 
 And seem'd, at least, in the right road to 
 
 heaven, 
 
 For half his days were pass'd at church, the 
 
 other 
 
 « 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 L. 
 
 At six, I said, he was a charming child. 
 
 At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 
 Although in infancy a little wild. 
 
 They tamed him down amongst them; to 
 destroy 
 His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, 
 
 At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 
 Her young philosopher was grown already. 
 
24 1^0^ JUAN. 
 
 LI. 
 
 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
 But what I say is neither here nor there : 
 I knew his father well, and have some skill 
 
 In character — but it would not be fair 
 From sire to son to augur good or ill ; 
 
 He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair- 
 But scandal's my aversion — I protest 
 Against all evil speaking, even in jest, 
 
 LII. 
 •For my part I say nothing— nothings — but 
 
 This I will say — my reasons are my own — 
 That if I had an only son to put 
 
 To school (as God be praised that I have none) 
 'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
 
 Him up to learn his catechism alone, 
 No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college, 
 For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast, * 
 Though I acquired — but I pass over thal^ 
 
 As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
 I say that there's the place — but ^F'erbum saf^^ 
 
I think, I pick'<l up too, as well as most, 
 
 Knowledge of matters — but no matter what-^ 
 I never married — but, I think, I know 
 That sons should not be educated so. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
 
 TalJ, handsome, slender, but well knit; he 
 seem'd 
 
 Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
 And every body but his mother deem'd 
 
 Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage, 
 
 And bit her lips (for else she' might have 
 scream'd,) 
 
 If any said so, for to be precocious 
 
 Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
 Selected for discretion and devotion, 
 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 
 Of many charms in her as natural 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
 
 2 
 
26 hON JUAN. 
 
 Her zone to Venus, or liis bow to Cupid, 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 
 
 LYI, 
 
 The darkness of her oriental eye 
 
 Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
 (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
 
 In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
 When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 
 
 Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
 Some went to Africa, some staid in Spain, 
 Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. 
 
 LYH. 
 She married (I forget the pedigree) 
 
 With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
 His blood less noble than such blood should be ; 
 
 At such alliances his sires would frown. 
 In that point so precise in each degree 
 
 That they bred in and in, as might be shown. 
 Marrying their cousins— nay, their aunts and 
 
 nieces, • 
 
 Which atlvvays spoils the breed, if it increases. 
 
 LVHI. 
 This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
 
 Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 
 
DON J LAX. 27 
 
 For, from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
 Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh | 
 
 The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
 But there's a rumour which I fain would hush, 
 
 'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
 
 Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 However this might be, the race went on 
 Improving still through every generation, 
 
 Until it centr'ed in an only son, 
 Who left an only daughter ; my narration 
 
 May have suggested that this single one 
 
 Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 
 
 I shall have much to speak about,) and she 
 
 Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty- 
 three. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
 
 Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
 
 And love than either^ and there would arise 
 A something in them which was not desire, 
 
S8 DON JUA^r. 
 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
 
 Which struggled through and chasten'd down the 
 
 whole. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
 
 Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
 Pier cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, 
 As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, 
 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: 
 
 Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
 
 Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 
 And yet, I think, instead of such a one 
 
 'Twere better to have two of five and twenty, 
 Especially in countries near the sun : 
 
 And now I think on't, « mi vien in mente, » 
 Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 
 Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 
 
 LXIII. 
 'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
 
 And all the fault of that indecent sun, 
 
DON JUAN. 29 
 
 < 
 
 Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
 But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 
 
 That howsoever people fast and pray 
 
 The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
 
 What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 
 
 Is much more common where the climate's sultry. 
 
 LXIY. 
 
 Happy the nations of the moral north I 
 Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
 
 Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth; 
 ('Twas snow that brought Saint Anthony to 
 reason ; ) 
 
 Where juries cast up what a wife is worth 
 
 By laying whatever sum, in mulct, they please on 
 
 The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
 
 Because it is a marketable vice. 
 
 Lxy. 
 
 Alfonso was the name of Julians lord, 
 
 A man well looking for his years, and who 
 
 Was neither much beloved, nor yet abhorr'd ^ 
 They lived together as most people do. 
 
 Suffering each other's foibles by accord, 
 And not exactly either one or £wo ; 
 
3o DON JUAN. 
 
 Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 
 For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 
 
 LXYI. 
 
 Julia was — yeX I never could see why — • 
 
 With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend^ 
 Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
 
 For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
 Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie, 
 
 For malice still imputes some private end) 
 That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage. 
 Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And that still keeping up the old connexion, 
 Which time had lately rendered much more 
 chaste. 
 
 She took his lady also in affection. 
 
 And certainly this course was much the best : 
 
 She flattered Julia with her sage protection. 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; 
 
 And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal. 
 
 At least she left it a more slender handle. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 With other people's eyes, or if her own 
 
DON JUAN. 3l 
 
 Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
 Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown j 
 
 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
 IndifTerent from the first, or callous grown : 
 
 Via really puzzled what to think or say. 
 
 She kept her counsel in so close a way. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
 
 Caress'd him often, such a thing might be 
 
 Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, - 
 When she had twenty years, and thirteen hej 
 
 But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
 When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three. 
 
 These few short years make wondrous alterations, 
 
 Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
 Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth 
 
 Their looks cast down, their greetings almost 
 dumb. 
 
 And much embarrassment in either eye ; 
 There surely will be little doubt with some 
 
 That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 
 
32 DON JUAN. 
 
 But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
 Than he who never saw the sea of oceanr. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
 
 And tremulously gentle her small hand 
 Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
 
 A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
 
 'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand 
 Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art 
 Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
 
 LXXIL 
 
 And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
 She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
 
 As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
 She must not own, but cherish'd more the 
 while, 
 
 For that compression in its burning core; 
 Even innocence itself has many a wile. 
 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth. 
 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 
 Lxxiir. 
 
 But passion most dissembles yet betrays 
 Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 
 
DON JllAJf. 33 
 
 Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
 
 Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, 
 
 And in whatever aspect it arrays 
 Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy; 
 
 Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 
 
 Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
 
 And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
 Tremblings when met, and restlessness when 
 left; 
 
 All these are little preludes to possession. 
 Of which young Passion cannot be bereft, 
 
 And merely tend to show how greatly Love is 
 
 Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; 
 
 She felt it going, and resolved to make 
 The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 
 
 For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake ; 
 
 Her resolutions were most truly great, 
 
 And almost might have made a Tarquin quake; 
 
 2. • 
 
34 DON JUAX. 
 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
 As being the best judge of a lady's case 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
 And next day paid a visit to his mother, 
 
 And looVd extremely at the opening door. 
 Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; 
 
 Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
 Again it opens, it can be no other, 
 
 'Tis surely Juan now — No I I'm afraid 
 
 That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 
 
 » 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 
 Should rather face and overcome temptation. 
 That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
 Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 
 That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
 
 Preference, that we must feel upon occasion,, 
 For people who are pleasanter than others, 
 But then they only seem so many brothers. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 And even if by chance — and who can tell? 
 The devil's so very sly — she should discover 
 
DON JUAN. 35 
 
 That all within was not so very well, 
 
 And, if still free, that such or such a loyer 
 
 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 
 Such thoughts, and be the better when they're 
 over; 
 
 And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial: 
 
 I recommend young ladies to make trial. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And then there are such things as love divine, 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 
 
 Such as the angels think so very fine, 
 
 And matrons, who would be no less secure, 
 
 Platonic, perfect, « just such love as mine : » 
 Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure, 
 
 And so I'd have her think, were I the man 
 
 On whom her reveries celestial ran. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 
 Between young persons without any danger, 
 
 A haijd may first, and then a lip be kist; 
 For ray part, to such doings I'm a stranger, 
 
 But hear these freedoms form the utmost list 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: 
 
36 DON JUAN. 
 
 If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 
 But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 
 Was Julia's innocent determination 
 
 In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 
 Exertion might be useful on occasion 3 
 
 And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
 Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
 
 He might be taught, by love and her together — 
 
 I reallv don't know what, nor Julia either; 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
 In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 
 
 She, for the future of her strength convinced, 
 And that her honour was a rock, or mole. 
 
 Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
 With any kind of troublesome control 3 
 
 But whether Julia to the task was equal 
 
 Is that which must be mention 'd in the sequel. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
 And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
 
DON JUAN". ^ 37 
 
 Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's 
 seizable, 
 Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast was 
 peaceable — 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene I 
 Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded 
 That all the Apostles would have done as they did. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And if in the mean time her husband died^ 
 
 But heaven forbid that such a thought should 
 cross 
 Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she 
 sigh'd) 
 Never could she survive that common loss ; 
 But just suppose that moment should betide, 
 
 I only say suppose it — inter nos, 
 (This should be enire nous^ for Julia thought 
 In French, but then the rhyme would go for 
 nought.) 
 
 LXXXV. ^ 
 
 I only say suppose this supposition : 
 
 Juan being then grown up to man's estate 
 
3ft DON JUAN. 
 
 Would fully suit a widow of condition, 
 
 Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 
 
 And in the intei'im (to pursue this vision) 
 The mischief, after all, could not be great, 
 
 For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
 
 I mean the seraph way of those above. 
 
 Lxxxyi. 
 
 So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan, 
 
 Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
 Of his own case, and never hit the true one; 
 
 In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
 He puzzled over what he found a new one, 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow charm- 
 ing. 
 
 LXXXYII. 
 
 Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
 His home deserted for the lonely wood, 
 
 Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: 
 
 I'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
 
 But then, I beg it may be understood j 
 
DON JUAN. 39 
 
 By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
 A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 
 
 LXXXYIII. 
 
 «c Oh Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 « Where transport and security entwine, 
 
 « Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
 « And here thou art a god indeed divine. » 
 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, ^ 
 With the exception of the second line. 
 
 For that same twining « transport and security » 
 
 Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
 To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
 
 The very thing which every body feels, 
 As all have found on trial, or may find. 
 
 That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 
 
 Or love. — I won't say more about « entwined » 
 
 Or « transport, » as we knew all that before. 
 
 But he§ « Security » will bolt ^the door. 
 
 XC. 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks 
 Thinking unutterable things j he threw 
 
40 DON JLAN. 
 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 
 Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew. 
 
 There poets find materials for their books, 
 
 And every now and then we read them through, 
 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 He, Juan (and not Wordsworth) so pursued 
 His self-communion with his own high soul^ 
 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
 Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
 
 Of its disease; he did the best he could 
 With things not very subject to control. 
 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his condition^ 
 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
 xcn. 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
 Of man the wonderful, and of the stars. 
 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
 And then he thought of earthquakes, and of 
 wars. 
 
 How many miles the moon might have in girth. 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 
DON JUAN. 4^ 
 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies; 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 In thoughts like those true wisdom may discern 
 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high. 
 Which some are born with, but the most part 
 learn 
 To plague themselves withal, they know not 
 why : 
 'Twas strange that one so young should thus 
 concern 
 His brain about the action of the sky; 
 If j'OM think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 xciy. 
 
 He pored upon the leaves^ and on the flowers, 
 And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
 
 He thought of wood nymphs and immortal bow ers, 
 And how the goddesses came down to men : 
 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 
 And when he look'd upon his watch again, 
 
 He found how much old Time had been a winner — 
 
 He also found that he had lost his dinner. 
 
42 150N JUAN. 
 
 XC¥. 
 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his boot, 
 Boscan, or Garcilasso 5 — by the wind 
 
 Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
 So by the poesy of his own mind 
 
 Over the mvstic leaf his soul was shook, 
 As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
 
 Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
 
 According to some good old woman's tale. 
 
 XCYT. 
 
 Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
 Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; 
 
 Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 
 
 Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 
 
 A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 
 
 And hear the heart beat with the love it granted. 
 
 With several other things, which I forget. 
 
 Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 
 
 xcvir. 
 
 Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries. 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; 
 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease; 
 
 But that which chiefly may, and must surprise, 
 
DON JUAN. 4^ 
 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 
 Her only son with question or surmise ; 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
 Or, like all very clever people, could not. 
 
 XCYIII. 
 
 This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very commoJi ; 
 
 For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
 Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 
 
 And break the Which commandnient is't 
 
 they break ? 
 (I have forgot the number, and think no man 
 Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
 I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
 They make some blunder, which their ladies 
 tell us. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Areal husband always is suspicious. 
 
 But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 
 
 Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace 
 
 By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 
 The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 
 
44 I>ON JUAN. 
 
 And when the spouse and friend are gone off 
 
 wholly, 
 He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 
 
 Thus parents also are at times short-sighted ; 
 
 Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er dis- 
 cover, 
 The while the wicked world beholds delighted, 
 
 Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
 Till some confounded escapade has blighted 
 
 The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
 And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
 And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 
 
 CI. 
 
 But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 
 
 Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 
 
 She had some other motive much more near 
 For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 
 
 But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here j 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 
 
 In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 
 
DON JUAN. 45 
 
 CII. 
 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day; — 
 
 Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 
 
 And so is spring about the end ot May ; 
 
 The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason 3 
 
 But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
 
 And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 
 
 That there are months which nature grows more 
 merry in, 
 
 March has its hares, and May must have its he- 
 roine. 
 
 cm. 
 
 'Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of June ; — 
 
 I like to be particular in dates, 
 Not only of the age, and year, but moon^ 
 
 They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
 Change horses, making history change its tune, 
 
 Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
 Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
 Excepting the post-obits of theology, 
 
 CIV. 
 
 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
 Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven, 
 
\ 
 
 /^6 DON JtA?f. 
 
 When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
 
 As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven ! 
 
 Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore^ I 
 To whom the lyre and laurels have been given j 
 
 With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
 
 He won them well, and mav he wear them lon£^ I 
 
 cv. 
 
 She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
 How this same interview had taken place, 
 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
 
 People should hold their tongues in any case 
 
 No matter how or why the thing befel, 
 
 But there were she and Juan, face to face — 
 
 When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 
 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
 CYI. 
 
 How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
 Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wron( 
 
 Oh Love I how perfect is thy mystic art. 
 
 Strengthening the weak, and trampling on tli( 
 . strong, 
 
 Bow self-deceitful is the sagest part 
 
 Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 
 
DOX JUAX. 47 
 
 The precipice she stood on was immense, 
 So was her creed in her own innocence. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan's 
 youth, 
 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 
 
 And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
 I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, 
 
 Because that number rarely much endears. 
 And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
 Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 When people say, "I've told you fifty times, » 
 They mean to scold, and very often do; 
 
 When poets say, « I've wrMen fifty rhymes, 
 They make you dread that they'll recite them 
 too ; 
 
 In gangs o^ fifty thieves commit their crimes; 
 Kx. fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true. 
 
 But then, ho doubt, it equally as true isj 
 
 \ good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 
 
48 t)ON jrUAN, 
 
 CIX. 
 Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, 
 
 For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 
 By all the vows below to powers above. 
 
 She never would disgrace the ring she wore. 
 Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; 
 
 And while she ponder'd this , besides much 
 more, 
 One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
 Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own; 
 
 ex. 
 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 
 
 Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 
 
 And to contend with thoughts she could not smo- 
 ther. 
 She seem'd by the distraction of her air. 
 
 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
 To leave together this imprudent pair. 
 
 She who for many years had watched her son so — 
 
 I'm very certain mine would not have done so. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
 Gently, but palj)ably confirm'd its grasp, 
 
DON JUAN. 49 
 
 As if it said « detain me, if you please ;» 
 
 Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
 
 His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze; 
 
 She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, 
 
 Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
 
 A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
 
 cxn. 
 
 I cannot know what Juan thought of this. 
 
 But what he did, is much what you would do ; 
 
 His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
 And then, abashed at its own joy, withdrew 
 
 In deep despair, lest he had done amiss. 
 Love is so very timid when 'tis new : 
 
 She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to 
 speak. 
 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so 
 weak. 
 
 cxni. 
 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
 The devil's in the moon for mischief; they 
 
 Who caird her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
 Their nomenclature ; there is not a day, 
 
 The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
 Sjees lialf the business in a wicked way 
 
 I 
 
5o DON JUAN. 
 
 On which three single hours of moonshine smile-^ 
 And then she looks so modest all the while. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
 
 A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul 
 
 To open all itself, without the power 
 Of calling wholly back its self-contrpl; 
 
 The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 
 
 Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
 
 A loving languor, which is not repose. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
 
 And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
 Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas 
 placed ; 
 Yet still she must have thought there was no 
 harm. 
 Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist ; 
 But then the situation had its charm. 
 
 And then God knows what next — I can't go 
 
 on ; 
 I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 
 
DON JUAN'. ^J 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Oh Plato ! Plato I you have paved the way, 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 
 Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 
 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 Of poets and romancers : — You're a bore, 
 
 A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 
 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 
 CXYII. 
 
 And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 
 Until too late for useful conversation ; 
 
 The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
 I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion, 
 
 But who, alas I can love, and then be wise ? 
 Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 
 
 A little still she strove, and much repented. 
 
 And whispering « I will ne'er consent » — con- 
 sented. 
 
 cxYiir. 
 
 'Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 
 
 To those who could invent him a new pleasure; 
 
^2 DON JUAN. 
 
 Metliinks, the requisition's rather hard, 
 
 And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 
 
 For my part, Fm a moderate-minded bard, 
 Fond of a little love (which I call leisure ;) 
 
 I care not for new pleasures, as the old 
 
 Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Oh Pleasure I you're indeed a pleasant thing, 
 Although one must be damn'd for you, no 
 doubt ; 
 
 I make a resolution every spring 
 
 Of reformation, ere the year run out. 
 
 But, somehow, this my vestal voav takes wing, 
 Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 
 
 Fm very sorry, very much ashamed, 
 
 And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 
 
 Start not ! still chaster reader — she'll be nice 
 hence- 
 Forward, and there is no great cause to quake ; 
 This liberty is a poetic licence, 
 
DON JUAN. 53 
 
 Which some irregularity may make 
 
 In the design, and as I have a high sense 
 Of Aristotle and thePvules, 'tis fit 
 To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 This licence is to hope the reader will 
 
 Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 
 
 Without whose epoch my poetic skill 
 
 For want of facts would all be thrown away,) 
 
 But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
 
 In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we'll 
 say 
 
 'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 
 
 About the day— the era's more obscure. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 We'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier. 
 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
 'Tis sweet to listen as the nightwinds creep 
 
 From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 
 
54 DOx\ JUAX. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark 
 Bay deep-inouth'd welcome as we draw near 
 home; 
 
 'Tfs sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 
 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 
 Or luird by falling waters; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 
 
 CXXIY. 
 
 Sweet is the vintage , when the showering grapes 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
 
 Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 
 From civic revelry to rural mirth; 
 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 
 Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
 
 Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
 The unexpected death of some old lady 
 
DO?f JUAN. 
 
 55 
 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
 
 WhoVe made « us youth » wait too — too long 
 already 
 
 For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 
 Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 
 
 CXXYI. 
 
 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
 By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
 
 To strife^ 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quar- 
 rels, 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend; 
 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
 Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
 
 Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 CXXVIL 
 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 
 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all's 
 known-— 
 
56 l>ON JUAN. 
 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown y 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiyen 
 Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 
 CXXYIII. 
 
 Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
 Of his own nature, and the various arts, 
 
 And likes particularly to produce 
 
 Some new experiment to show his parts ; 
 
 This is the age of oddities let loose. 
 
 Where different talents find their different 
 marts ; 
 
 You'd best begin with truth, and when you've 
 lost your 
 
 Labour, there's a sure market for imposture. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 What opposite discoveries we have seen I 
 
 (vSigns of true genius, and of empty pockets.) 
 
 One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 
 
 One breaks your bones, one sets them in their 
 sockets ; 
 
 But vaccination certainly has been 
 
 A kind antithesis to Congreye's rockets^ 
 
DON JUA^^ 57 
 
 ^ M ' ¥ ¥ ¥ ■¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ f^ 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes ; 
 
 And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 
 But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
 
 Of the Humane Society's beginning, 
 By which men are unsuffocated gratis : 
 What wondrous new machines have late been 
 spinning! 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 ¥¥¥¥¥¥ 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ * ¥ ¥ 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 This is the patent age of new inventions 
 For killing bodies, and for saving souls, 
 
 fAU propagated with the best intentions j 
 
 Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals 
 
 [Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
 Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 
 
 3. 
 
58 DON JUAiV. 
 
 Are ways to benefit mankind^ as true, 
 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
 
 And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; 
 
 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 
 Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure; 
 
 Few mortals know what end they would be at. 
 But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 
 
 The path is through perplexing ways, and when 
 
 The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and 
 
 then — 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 What then? — I do not know, no more do you — 
 And so good night. — Return we to our story : 
 
 'Twas in November, when fine days are few. 
 And the far mountains wax a little hoary. 
 
 And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; 
 And the sea dashes round the promontory, 
 
 And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 
 
 And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; 
 No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
 
DON JUAN. §9 
 
 By gusts, aad many a sparkling hearth was 
 bright 
 With the piled wood, round which the family 
 crowd ; 
 There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 
 
 Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud : 
 I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
 A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 
 
 cxxxvi. 
 
 'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 
 Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
 
 Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 
 If they had never been awoke before, 
 
 And that they have been so we all have read, 
 And are to be so, at the least, once more — 
 
 The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist 
 
 First knocks were heard, then « Madam — Madam 
 —hist I 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 « For God's sake. Madam — Madam — here's my 
 < master, 
 « With more than half the citv at his back — 
 
Go DOJV JUAN. 
 
 « Was ever heard of such a curst disaster ! 
 
 « 'Tis not ray fault — I kept good watch — Alack ! 
 tt Do, pray undo the bolt a little faster — 
 
 M They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
 « Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly — 
 « Surely the window's not so i^ery high ! « 
 
 CXXXYIIL 
 
 By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 
 
 With torches, friends, and servants in great 
 number; 
 
 The major part of them had long been wived, 
 And therefore paused not to disturb the slum- 
 ber 
 
 Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
 
 By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
 
 Examples of this kind are so contagious. 
 
 Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 I can't tell how, or why^ or what suspicion 
 Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; 
 
 But for a cavalier of his condition 
 It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
 
DOI^r JUAN. 6i 
 
 Without a word of previous aclnionition, 
 
 To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
 And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, 
 To prove himself the thing he most abhor r'd. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 Poor Donna Julia I starting as from sleep, 
 
 (Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept) 
 
 Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
 Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 
 
 Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap. 
 As if she had just now from out them crept: 
 
 I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 
 
 To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 
 
 CXLL 
 
 But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
 
 Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 
 
 Of goblins, but still more of men afraid, 
 
 Had thought one man might be deterred by 
 two, 
 
 And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
 Until the hours of absence should run through. 
 
 And truant husband should return, and say, 
 
 u My dear, I v/as the first who came away. » 
 
62 DON JUAN. 
 
 CXLIT. 
 
 Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 
 M In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye 
 « mean? 
 « Has madness seized you? would that I had died 
 
 « Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 
 a What may this midnight violence betide, 
 « A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 
 « Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would 
 
 « kill? 
 « Search, then, the room ! » — Alfonso said, « I 
 « will. » 
 
 CXLIII. 
 He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged every 
 where, 
 
 Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window- 
 seat, 
 And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
 Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, com- 
 plete, I 
 With other articles of ladies fair, 
 
 To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: 
 Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 
 And wounded several shutters, and some boards. | 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 63 
 
 cxLiy. 
 
 Under the bed they search'd, and there they 
 found — 
 
 No matter what — it was not that they sought; 
 They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
 
 Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said 
 nought; 
 And then they stared each others' faces round : 
 
 'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 
 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 
 Of looking in the bed as well as under. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 During this inquisition Julia's tongue 
 
 Was not asleep — « Yes, search and search, » 
 she cried, 
 a Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 
 
 « It was for this that I became a bride I 
 " For this in silence I have suffer'd long 
 « A husband like Alfonso at my side; 
 '« But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
 « If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 
 
 CXLYI. 
 
 « Yes, Don Alfonso ! husband now no more, 
 M If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
 
64 DON 3 VAN, 
 
 « Is't worthy of your years? — you have threescore, 
 « Fifty, or sixty — it is all the same — 
 
 « Is't wise or fitting causeless to explore 
 
 « For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
 
 « Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
 
 « How dare you think your lady would go 
 « on so? 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 u Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
 « The common privileges of my sex ? 
 
 « That I have chosen a confessor so old 
 « And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
 
 « And never once he has had cause to scold, 
 « But found my very innocence perplex 
 
 « So much, he always doubted I was married — 
 
 « How sorry you will be when I've miscarried! 
 
 CXLYin. 
 
 « Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 
 
 « I yet have chosen from out the youtli of Se« 
 u ville ? 
 « Is it for this I scarce went any where, 
 
 « Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and 
 « revel? 
 
DON JUAlV. 65 
 
 a Is it for this, wliate'er my suitors were, 
 
 « I favoured none — nay, was almost uncivil? 
 « Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 « Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?^ 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 « Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
 
 « Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? 
 
 « Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 
 « Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 
 
 « Were there not also Russians, English, many? 
 « The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 
 
 « And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 
 
 « Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last 
 « year. 
 
 CL. . 
 
 « Have I not had two bishops at my feet? 
 
 « The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez, 
 <( And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 
 
 u I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: 
 u I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
 
 « Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
 « Oh, valiant man I with sword drawn and cock'd 
 
 u trigger, 
 « Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? 
 
66 DON JUAN. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 « Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
 
 « Under pretence of business indispensible 
 M With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 
 « Whom I see standing there, and looking sen- 
 « sible 
 « Of having play'd the fool ? though both I 
 « spurn, he 
 « Deserves the worst, his conduct's less defen- 
 « sible, 
 « Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee, 
 « And not from any love to you nor me. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 « If he comes here to take a deposition, 
 
 « By all means let the gentleman proceed; 
 « You've made the apartment in a fit condi- 
 « tion : — 
 « There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you • 
 « need — 
 »( Let every thing be noted with precision, 
 
 tt I Avould not you for nothing should be feed — 
 « But, as my maid's undrest, pray turn your spies 
 
 « out. » 
 « Oh I » sobb'd Autonia, « I could tear their eyes 
 « out. » 
 
DON JUAN. 67 
 
 CLIII. 
 « There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
 
 « The anti-chamber — search them under, over : 
 « There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
 « The chimney — which would really hold a 
 « lover. 
 « I Avish to sleep, and Leg you will take care 
 
 « And make no further noise, till you discover 
 «< The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 
 « And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that 
 « pleasure. • 
 
 CLIV. 
 « And now, Hidalgo I now that you have thrown 
 
 K Doubt upon me, confusion over all, 
 « Pray have the courtesy to make it known 
 « Who is the man you search for? how d*ye 
 « call 
 « Him? what's his lineage? let him but be shown — 
 M I hope he's young and handsome — is he tall? 
 « Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
 « My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 
 
 CLY, 
 « At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years, 
 
 u At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
 
68 DON JUAN. 
 
 « Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
 « (Antonia! let me have a glass of water.) 
 
 « I am ashamed of haying shed these tears, 
 
 « They are unworthy of my father's daughter; 
 
 « My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
 
 <t That I should fall into a monster's power. 
 
 CLYI. 
 
 « Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous, 
 « You saw that she was sleeping by my side 
 
 « When you broke in upon us with your fellows: 
 « Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, * 
 « to hide; 
 
 « Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us, 
 « Or for the sake of decency abide 
 
 u A moment at the door, that we may be 
 
 « Drest to receive so much good company. 
 
 CLYII. 
 
 « And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 
 
 « The little I have said may serve to show 
 i\ The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 
 
 « The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
 « I leave you to your conscience as before, 
 
 w 'Twill one day ask you why you used me so.^ 
 
DON JUAiV. 6g 
 
 «» God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief I 
 « Antonial where's my pocket-handkerchief ? » 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 She ceased, and tiirn'd upon her pillow j pale 
 
 She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their 
 tears, 
 Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil. 
 
 Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
 Her streaming hair^ the black curls strive, but fail, 
 
 To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears 
 Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart. 
 And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ^ 
 
 Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
 And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 
 
 Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
 Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 
 
 He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
 Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 
 
 CLX. 
 With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
 
 Following Antonia's motions here and there, 
 
70 DON' JUAN. 
 
 Willi much suspicion in his attitucle ; 
 
 For reputations he had little care ; 
 So that a suit or action were made good, 
 
 Small pity had he for the young and fair, 
 And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 
 Were proved by competent false witnesses. 
 
 CLXL 
 
 But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks. 
 And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; 
 
 When, after searching in live hundred nooks. 
 And treating a young wife with so much rigour, 
 
 He gain'd no pointy except some self-rebukes, 
 Added to those his lady with such vigour 
 
 Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour, 
 
 Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 
 
 To which the sole reply were tears, and sobs. 
 
 And indications of hysterics, whose 
 
 Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, 
 
 Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: — 
 Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 
 
 He saw too, in perspective, her relations, 
 
 And then he tried to muster all his patience. 
 
 I 
 
DON' JUAN. 71 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 
 But sage Antonfa cut him short before 
 
 The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 
 With « Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no 
 « more, 
 
 '.I Or madam dies. « — Alfonso mutter'd « D a 
 
 « her, » 
 But nothing else, the time of words waiS o'er; 
 
 He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
 
 He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 With him retired his « posse comiialus, » 
 
 The attorney last, who lingered near the door, 
 
 Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
 Antonia let him — not a little sore 
 
 At this most strange and unexplain'd « hiatus » 
 In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
 
 An awkward look ; as he revolved the case 
 
 The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame I 
 Oh sin I Oh sorrow I ,and Oh womankind ! 
 
7^ DON JUAN, 
 
 How can you do such things and keep your fame, 
 
 Unless this world, and t'other too, be blind? 
 Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 
 
 But to proceed — for there is more behind: 
 With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
 Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd^ from the bed. 
 
 CLXYI. 
 He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
 
 How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 
 Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 
 
 No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 
 But pity him I neither must nor may 
 
 His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 
 'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
 With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. 
 
 CLXYH. 
 And, secondly, I pity not, because 
 
 He had no business to commit a sin. 
 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws. 
 
 It least 'twas rather early to begin ; 
 But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
 
 So much as when we call our old debts in 
 At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
 And find a deuced balance with the devil. 
 
CLXYIIL 
 
 'Of his position I can give no notion : 
 'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
 
 How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
 Prescrihed, hj way of blister, a young belle, 
 
 When old King David^s blood grew dull in motion, 
 And that the medicine answer'd very well; 
 
 Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied, 
 
 For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 What's to be done? Alfonso will be back 
 The moment h^ has sent his fools away. 
 
 Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 
 
 But no device could be brought into play — 
 
 And how to parry the renew'd attack? 
 Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 
 
 Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak. 
 
 But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
 Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; 
 
 Even then their love* they could not all command, 
 And half forgot their danger and despair : 
 
 4 
 
^4 DON JUAN. 
 
 Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 
 
 « Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling 
 « there, » 
 She.whisper'd, in great wrath — « I, must deposit 
 « This pretty gentleman within the closet: 
 
 CLXXI. 
 M Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier 
 u night — 
 « TVho can have put my master in this mood? 
 « What will become on't? — I'm in such a fright, 
 
 « The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 
 w Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? 
 
 « Why, don't you know that it may end in 
 « blood? 
 u You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
 u My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 w Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
 
 « Of twenty - five or thirty — (Come, make 
 u haste) 
 « But for a child, what piece of work is here I 
 
 « I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
 « (Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 
 « There, for the present, at the least he's fast. 
 
DON JUAN. rj 
 
 « And, if we can but till the morning keep 
 
 « Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not 
 
 sleep.) » 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 
 Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
 
 She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 
 An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ) 
 
 However, present remedy was none. 
 
 And no great good seem'd answer'd if she staid : 
 
 Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 
 
 She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 
 
 cLxxiy. 
 
 Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
 
 Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 
 
 He would not justify what he had done, 
 To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding- 
 
 But there were ample reasons for it, none 
 Of which he specified in this his pleading : 
 
 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 
 
 Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call « rigmarole. >» 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 Julia said nought; though all the while there rose 
 A ready answer, which at once enabJes 
 
76 DON JUAN. 
 
 A matron, who her husband's foible knows. 
 By a few timely words to turn the tables, 
 
 Which if it does not silence still must pose, 
 Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 
 
 'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he 
 
 Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 
 
 CLXXYI. 
 
 Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 
 
 Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 
 
 But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds. 
 But that can't be, as has been often shown, 
 
 A lady with apologies abounds; 
 
 It might be that her silence sprang alone 
 
 From delicacy to Don Juan^s ear, 
 
 To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 
 
 CLXXYII. I 
 
 There might be one more motive, which makes ] 
 two, 
 Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
 Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
 
 Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
 ConceaFd amongst his premises } 'tis true. 
 
 His mind the more o'er this its mystery 
 brooded j 
 
DON JUAlY. 77 
 
 To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
 Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 
 
 CLXXYIIT. 
 
 A hint, in tender cases, is enough; 
 
 Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
 (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 
 But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
 Which keeps, when pushed by questions rather 
 rough, 
 A lady always distant from the fact — 
 The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
 There's nothing so becoming to the face. 
 
 CLXXTX. 
 
 They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
 Have always done so ; 'tis of no great use, 
 
 In any case, attempting a reply, 
 
 For then their eloquence grows quite profuse j 
 
 And when at length they're out of breath, they 
 sigh. 
 And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
 
 A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
 
 And then — and then — and then- — sit down and 
 sup. 
 
73 DO.V JUAX. 
 
 CLi^A.y!k.. 
 
 Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
 Which Julia half withheld, and tlien half 
 granted, 
 
 And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
 Denying several little things he wanted : 
 
 He stood like Adam lingering near his garden. 
 With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 
 
 Beseeching she no further would refuse, 
 
 When lo I he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 A pair of shoes ! — what then ? not much, if tliey 
 Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 
 
 (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
 Were masculine ; to see them, and to seize, 
 
 Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! Well-a-day I 
 My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 
 
 Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 
 
 And then flew out into another passion. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 He left the room for his relinquished sword, 
 And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
 
DON JUAN. 79 
 
 « Fly, Juaii, % I for heaven's sake — not a word — 
 « The door is open — you may yet slip through 
 « The passage you so often have explored — 
 
 « Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — Adieu ! 
 « Haste—haste I— I hear Alfonso's hurrying 
 
 « feet — 
 « Day has not broke — there's no one in the 
 street. » 
 
 cLxxxm. 
 
 None can say that this was not good advice, 
 The only mischief was, it came too late 5 
 
 Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
 A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 
 
 Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice. 
 And might have done so hj the garden-gate. 
 
 But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown. 
 
 Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him 
 down. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 Dire was the scufHe, and out went the light, 
 Antonia cried out « Rape I » and Julia « Fire!>' 
 
 But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
 Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
 
8o DON JUAiy. 
 
 Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night y 
 
 And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher^ 
 His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tar- 
 tar,. 
 And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 Alfonso's sword had dropped ere he could draw it„ 
 And they continued battling hand to hand, 
 
 For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 
 
 His temper not being under great command, 
 
 If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
 Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
 
 Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives t 
 
 And how ye may be doubly widows — wives I 
 
 CLXXXYI. 
 
 Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
 And Juan throttled him to get away, 
 
 And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow y 
 At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 
 
 Juan contrived to give an awkward blow. 
 And then his only garment quite gave way; 
 
 He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, 
 
 I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.. 
 
DON JUAN. 8 I 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who 
 found 
 
 An awkward spectacle their eyes before } 
 Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
 
 Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; 
 Some htilf-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground. 
 
 Some blood, and several footsteps^ but no more ; 
 Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 
 And liking not the inside, lock'd the out* 
 
 CLXXXYIII. 
 Here ends this canto. — Need I sing, or say, 
 
 How Juan, naked, favour'd by the night. 
 Who favours what she should not, found his way^ 
 
 And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? 
 The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 
 
 The nine day's wonder which was brought ta 
 light. 
 And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 
 Were in the English newspapers, of course. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 If you would like to see the whole proceedings,. 
 The depositions, and the cause at full, 
 
 4> 
 
8-2 DO-V JUAN. 
 
 The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
 
 Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul, 
 There's more than one edition, and the readings 
 
 Are various, but they none of them are dull, 
 The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney, 
 Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 
 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 
 Of one of the most circulating scandals 
 
 That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
 At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
 
 First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
 To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles j 
 
 And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 
 
 She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 She had resolved that he should travel through 
 
 All European climes, by land or sea^ 
 To mend his former morals, and get new, 
 
 Especially in France and Italy, 
 (At least this is the thing most people do.) 
 
 Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
 Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better \ 
 Shown in the following copy of her letter : i 
 
DON JUAN. 83 
 
 CXCII 
 
 « Thej tell me 'tis decided; you depart : 
 
 « 'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain ; 
 
 « I have no further claim on your young heart, 
 »t Mine is the victim, and would be again j 
 
 « To love too much has been the only art 
 « I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
 
 « Be on this sheet, 'tis not v/hat it appears, 
 
 « My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 « I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 
 u State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own 
 « esteem, 
 
 « And yet can not regret what it hath cost, 
 « So dear is still the memory of that dream; 
 
 « Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, 
 « None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
 
 « I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
 
 u I've nothing to reproach, or to request. 
 
 CXCIV. 
 
 « Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 « 'Tis woman's whole existence; man may 
 « range 
 
84 DON JUAN. 
 
 « The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the 
 « mart, 
 « Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
 tt Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
 « And few there are whom these can not 
 « estrange; 
 u Men have all these resources, we but one, 
 « To love again, and be again undone. 
 
 cxcv. 
 
 « You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 
 « Beloved and loving many; all is a'er 
 
 « For me on earth, except some years to hide 
 « My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's 
 
 u core; 
 
 « These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
 « The passion which still rages as before, 
 « And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
 « That word is idle now — but let it go. 
 
 cxcvr. 
 
 « My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 
 
 M But still I think I can collect my mind ; 
 « My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 
 
 tt As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
 
^ 
 
 DON JUAiy. 8 
 
 « My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
 
 « To all, except one image, madly blind; 
 « So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
 « As vibrates my fond heart to my fix.'d soul. 
 
 CXCYII. 
 
 « I have no more to say, but linger still, 
 
 « And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
 
 « And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 
 
 « My misery can scarce be more complete : 
 
 « I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; 
 <« Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow 
 « would meet, 
 
 « And I must even survive this last adieu, 
 
 « And bear with life, to love and pray for you ! » 
 
 CXCYIII. 
 This note was written upon gilt-edged paper 
 
 With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new ; 
 Her small white hand could hardly reach the 
 ta per. 
 It trembled as magnetic needles do, 
 And yet she did not let one tear escape her; 
 The seal a sunflower ; «i JSlle vous suit par-* 
 touty » 
 
86 DON JUAN. 
 
 The motto, cut upon a white cornelian; 
 The wax was superfine, its hue vermillion. 
 
 CXCIX. 
 This was Don Juan's earliest scrape } but w^hether 
 
 I shall proceed with his adventures is 
 Dependant on the public altogether; 
 
 We'll see, however, what they say to this, 
 Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, 
 
 And no great mischief's done by their caprice ; 
 And if, their approbation we experience 
 Perhaps they'll have some more about a year 
 hence. 
 
 CC. ; 
 
 My poem's epic, and is meant to be 
 
 Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, I 
 With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, j 
 New characters ; the episodes are three : 
 
 A panorama view of hell 's in training, 
 After the style of Yirgil and of homer. 
 So that my name of Epic's no misnomer, 
 
 CCI. 
 
 All these things will be specified in j'me, 
 With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, 
 
DON JUAN. by 
 
 The vade meciim of the true siibhine, 
 
 Which makes so many poets, and some fools ; 
 
 Prose poets like blank-verse, Fm fond of rhyme, 
 Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 
 
 I've got new mythological machinery, 
 
 And very handsome supernatural scenery. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 There's only one slight difference between 
 Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
 P7 And here the advantage is my own, I ween ; 
 (iN^ot that I have not several merits more, 
 
 But this will more peculiarly be seen) 
 They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 
 
 Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
 
 Whereas this story's actually true. 
 
 CCIII. 
 If any person doubt it, I appeal 
 
 To history, tradition, and to facts, 
 To 'newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 
 [ To plays in five, and operas in three acts; 
 All these confirm my statement a good deal, 
 
 But that which more completely faith exacts 
 Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
 Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
88 DON' JUA.X. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 
 I'll write poetical commandments, wKich 
 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
 That went before ; in these I shall enrich 
 
 My text with many things that no one knows. 
 And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
 
 I'll call the work uLonginus o'er a Bottle^ 
 
 Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle. » 
 
 ccv. 
 
 Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Popej 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridg.e, 
 Southey ; 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and 
 mo u they : 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, \ 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drou- ] 
 thy: I 
 
 Thou shalt not steak from Samuel Rogers, nor 
 Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 
 
 CCA^I. 
 
 Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
 
 His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his; 
 
DON JUAN. 89 
 
 Thou shalt not bear false witness like « the 
 « Blues ^ » 
 
 (There's one, at least, is very fond of this;) 
 Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
 Exactly as you please, or not, the rod, 
 But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 
 
 CCYII. 
 
 If any person shouM presume to assert 
 This story is not moral, first, I pray, 
 
 That they will not cry out before they're hurt, 
 Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say, 
 
 (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 
 That this is not a moral tale, though gayj 
 
 Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
 
 The very place where wicked people go, 
 
 CGVIII. 
 
 If, after all, there should be some so blind 
 To their own good this warning to despise. 
 
 Led by some tortuosity of mind, 
 
 Not to believe my verse and their own eyes. 
 
 And cry that they « the moral cannot find, >x 
 I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies| 
 
9<5 DON JUAN'. 
 
 Should captains the remark or critics niake^ 
 They also lie too — under a mistake. 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 The pubh'c approbation I expect, 
 
 And beg they'll take my word about the moral, 
 Which I with their amusement will connect, 
 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral) 5 
 Meantime, they'll doubtless please to recollect 
 
 My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
 For fear some prudish readers should grow skit- 
 tish, 
 I've bribed my grandmother's review — the British, 
 
 ccx. 
 
 I sent it in a letter to the editor. 
 
 Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 
 
 Fm for a handsome article his creditor; 
 Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast. 
 
 And break a promise after having made it her, 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost. 
 
 And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 
 
 All I can say is — that he had the money. 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 I think that with this holy new alliance 
 I may ensure the public, and defy 
 
Ail other magazines af art or science, 
 Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I 
 
 Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 
 Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try, 
 
 And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
 
 Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 (I IVon ego hoc f err em calida javentd 
 
 « Consule Planco,^^ Horace said, and so 
 Say I ; hy which quotation there is meant a 
 
 Hint that some six or seven good years ago 
 (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) 
 
 I was most ready to return a hlow, 
 And w^ould not brook at all this sort of thing 
 In my hot youth — when George the Third was 
 King. 
 
 ccxni. 
 
 ; But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty? 
 I thought of a peruke the other day) 
 
 My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I 
 Have squandered my whole summer while 'tAvas 
 May, 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 
9^ DON JUAN. 
 
 Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 
 
 CCXIY. 
 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o'the bee: 
 Think'st thou the honey with those objects 
 grew ? 
 
 Alas I 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 CCXY. 
 
 No more — no more — Oh I never more, my heart, 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 
 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
 
 The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse. 
 
 And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, 
 
 Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodge- 
 ments 
 
DON JUAN. 93 
 
 ccxvi. 
 
 My days of love are over, me no more 7 
 
 The charms of maid^ wife, and still less of wi** 
 dow, 
 
 Can make the fool of which they made before, 
 In short, I must not lead the life I did do ^ 
 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er. 
 The copious use of claret is forbid too. 
 
 So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
 
 I think I must take up with avarice. 
 
 ccxvii. 
 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure ; 
 
 And the two last have left me many a token 
 O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
 
 Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
 « Time is. Time was. Time's past, » a chymic 
 treasure 
 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 
 
 My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 What is the end of fame ? 'tis but to fill 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper z 
 
94 I^t>.\ JtAN. 
 
 Some liken it lo climbing up a hill, 
 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, 
 And bards burn what they call their « midnight 
 taper, » 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 
 
 CCXIX. 
 What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's King 
 
 Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
 And largest, thinking it was just the thing 
 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; 
 But somebody or other rummaging, 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid : 
 Let not a monument give you or me hopes. 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 But I, being fond of true philosophy, 
 
 Say very often to myself, « Alas I 
 « All things that have been born were born to die, 
 
 « And liesh (which Death mows down to hay) 
 « is grass ; 
 « You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 
 
 u And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass— 
 
DON JLAN". 95 
 
 So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
 « And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse. » 
 
 CCXXL 
 
 But for the present, gentle reader! and 
 
 Still gentler purchaser I the bard — that's I — 
 
 Must, with permission, shake you by the hand. 
 And so your humble servant, and good bye! 
 
 We meet again, if we should understand 
 Each other; and if not, I shall not try 
 
 Your patience further than by this short sample-— 
 
 'Twere well if others follow'd my example. 
 
 CCXXII. 
 
 « Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 
 
 « I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways! 
 « And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 
 
 « The world will find thee after many days. » 
 
 When Southey's read, and Wordsworth under^- 
 stood, 
 
 I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
 
 The four first rhymes are Southey's every line : 
 
 For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 
 
 END OF CANTO FIRST. 
 
NOTES TO CANTO I 
 
 Note I, page 5, stanza v. 
 
 Braise men were liuing before Agamemnon. 
 
 « Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona, « etc. — Horace. 
 
 Note 2, page lo, stanza xvii. 
 Saue thine « incomparable oil, w 3facassar! 
 
 u Description des vertus incomparables de I'huile de 
 «. Macassar. >» — See the Advertisement. 
 
 Note 3, page 20, stanza xlii. 
 
 Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 
 TV^here the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 
 
 See Longinus, Section 10, '< hot ^tj tv rt 'ss-t^i uutt-^v 
 
 Note 4? page 21, stanza xliv. 
 They only add them all in an appendix. 
 
 Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all 
 the obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by them- 
 selves at the end. 
 
 Note 5, page 39, stanza Ixxxviii. 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 
 Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming, (I think) the open- 
 ing of Canto II J but quote from memory. 
 
 5 
 
98 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 Note 6, page 65, stanza cxlvlii. 
 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 Jf^ho took Algiers, declares I used him vilely ? 
 
 Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly 
 did not take Algiei's-^-but Algiers very nearly took him : 
 he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, an(J 
 not much credit, from before that city in the year .17— « 
 
 Note 7, page gS, stanza ccxvi. 
 My days of love are over me no more. 
 Me nee femina, nee puer 
 Jam, nee spes animi credula mutui. 
 
 Nee certare juvat meroj 
 Nee vincire novis tempora floribus. 
 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 I. 
 
 Oh ye ! who leach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 
 
 I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 
 
 It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 
 
 The best of mothers and of educations 
 In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain, 
 
 Since in a way, that's rather of the oddest, he 
 
 Became divested of his native modesty. 
 
 11. 
 
 Had he but been placed at a public school, 
 In the third form, or even in the fourth, 
 
 His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
 
 At least, had he been nurtured in the north; 
 
 Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 
 But then exceptions always prove its worth— 
 
 A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
 
 Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 
 
102 DON JUAN. 
 
 III. 
 
 I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 
 
 If all things be considered : first, there was 
 
 His lady-mother, mathematical, 
 
 A never mind; his tutor, an old ass; 
 
 A pretty woman — (that's quite natural. 
 
 Or else the thing had hardly come to pass;) 
 
 A husband rather old, not much in unity 
 
 With his young wife — a time, and opportunity^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis. 
 And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 
 
 And live and die, make love and pay our taxes. 
 And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails^ 
 
 The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
 The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 
 
 A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame. 
 
 Fighting, devotion, dust,— perhaps a name. 
 
 V. 
 I said, that Juan had heen sent to Cadiz — 
 
 A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
 'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is 
 
 (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel) 
 
UON JUAl?r. loS 
 
 Afnd such sweet girls — I mean, such graceful 
 ladies, 
 Their very walk would make your bosom swell; 
 I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
 Nor liken it — I nev6r saw the like : 
 
 vi. 
 
 An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
 New broke, a camelopard, a gazelle. 
 
 No — none of these will do; — and then their garbi 
 Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
 
 tJpon such things would very near absorb 
 A canto — then their feet and ancles — well, 
 
 Thank heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready, 
 
 (And so, nly sober Muse — come, let*s be steady — 
 
 YII. 
 
 Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you must) — the 
 veil 
 Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand. 
 While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
 
 Flashes into the heart : — All sunny land 
 Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 
 
 To say my prayers — but never was there 
 
 plann'd 
 
T04 BOiV JUAX. 
 
 A dress through which the eyes give such a voile j^ 
 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 
 
 Till. 
 But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 
 
 Her son to Cadiz only to embark; 
 To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 
 
 But vrhvlr— we leave the reader in the dark — 
 ^Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant > 
 
 As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
 To wean hini from the wickedness of earth, 
 And send him like a dove of pramise forth. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Don Juan bid his valet pack his things 
 According to direction, then received 
 
 A lecture and some money : for four springs 
 He was to travel; and though Inez grieved, 
 
 (As every kind of parting has its stings) 
 
 She hoped he would improve — perhaps be- 
 lieved : 
 
 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
 
 Of good advice — and two or three of credit, 
 
 X. 
 
 h\ the mean time, to pass her hours away^ 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 
 
DON JUAN. ' IOt> 
 
 For naughty children, who would rather play 
 (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; 
 ^ Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
 Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool : 
 The great success of Juan's educatiou 
 Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 
 
 XI, 
 Juan embark'd — the ship got under way, 
 
 The wind was fair, the water passing rough; 
 A devil of a sea rolls in that Bay, 
 
 As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well enough; 
 And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weaiher-tough: 
 \ And there he stood to take, and take again. 
 His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 
 
 Xil. 
 
 I I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
 
 To see one's native land receding through 
 The growing waters; it unmans one quite. 
 Especially when life is rather new: 
 ; I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white. 
 But almost every other country's blue. 
 When gazing on them, mys'ified by distance. 
 We enter on our nautical existence. 
 
 5. 
 
I06 DON JUAX, 
 
 XIII. 
 So Juan stood, bewilder'd, on the deck: 
 
 The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors 
 swore, 
 And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 
 
 From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
 The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
 
 Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before 
 You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
 For I have found it answer — so may you. 
 
 xiy. 
 
 Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 
 Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
 
 First partings form a lesson heard to learn. 
 Even nations feel this when they go to war; 
 
 There is a sort of unexprest concern, 
 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 
 
 At leaving even the most un23leasant people 
 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
 xy. 
 
 But Juan had got many things to leave, 
 His mother, and a mistress^ and no wife^ 
 
 So that he had much better cause to grieve 
 Than many persons more advanced in life -, 
 
DON JUAN. 107 
 
 And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
 
 At quitting even those we quit in strife, 
 No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— 
 That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
 By Babel's waters^ still remembering Sion : 
 
 I'd weep, but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
 
 And such light griefs are not a thing to die Onj 
 
 Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
 
 Themselves f and the next time their servants 
 tie on 
 
 Behind their carriages their new portmanteau ^ 
 
 Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 
 
 XYIL 
 
 And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought. 
 While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 
 
 <r Sweets to the sweet; » (I like so much to quote; 
 You must excuse this extract, 'tis where she, 
 
 The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
 Flowers to the grave}) and, sobbing often, he 
 
 Hc'flected on his present situation. 
 
 And seriously resolved on reformation. 
 
*o8 DON JUAJV. 
 
 XVIIl. 
 
 « Farewell, my Spain I a long farewell !» he cried, 
 « Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
 
 tt But die, as many an exiled heart halh died, 
 « Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
 
 « Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! 
 « Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, 
 
 « Farewell, too dearest Julia ! » — (here he drew 
 
 Her letter out again, and read it through.) 
 
 XIX. 
 
 « And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
 « But that's impossible, and cannot be-^ 
 
 « Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
 « Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 
 
 « Than I resign thine image. Oh! my fair! 
 tt Or think of any thing excepting thee } 
 
 u A mind diseased no remedy can physic >> — 
 
 (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea- 
 sick.) 
 
 XX. 
 
 « Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell 
 sicker) 
 u Oh, Julia ! what is every other woe?— 
 
DON JUAN. 109 
 
 « (For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor — 
 
 « Pedro I Battista ! help me down below.) 
 « Julia, ray love ! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 
 
 « Oh Julia ! — (this curst vessel pilches so) — 
 w Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching! » 
 (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 
 
 XXI. 
 He felt that chilling heaviness o£ 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. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Love's a capricious power; I've knoAvn it hold 
 Out through a fever caused by its own heat. 
 
 But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
 And find a quinsy very hard to treaty 
 
 Against all noble maladies he's bold. 
 But vulgar illnessess don't like to meet, 
 
 Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 
 
 Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 
 
1 I O DON JUAN. 
 
 XXIII. 
 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? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The ship, call'd the most holy «Trinidada,>» 
 
 Was steering duly for the }>ort 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. 
 
 XXY. 
 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^ 
 
 J 
 
DON JUAN. in 
 
 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 birth a little damp, and him afraid. 
 
 XXYI. 
 
 'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale^ 
 
 And though 'twas 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. 
 
 XX YH. 
 
 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 rifty 
 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 : 'twas time to sound 
 
 The pumps, and there were four feet water found . 
 
IIS DOW JUAN. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 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 puz- 
 zling, 
 While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
 muslin, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Into the opening; but all such ingredients 
 
 Would have been vain, and they must have 
 gone down, 
 
 Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 
 
 Sut 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, 
 
DON JUAN. 1 I 3 
 
 XXX. 
 
 As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, 
 And then the leak they reckoned 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. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 survivons. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 [Immediately the masts were cut away. 
 
 Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, 
 
fT4' DON JUAN. 
 
 The mainmast 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, 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 It may be easily supposed, while this 
 
 Was going on, some people were un quiet, - 
 
 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, 
 
 xxxrv. 
 
 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 bass 
 
DON JUAN*. fl5^ 
 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fn'ght 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
 Oiir 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. 
 
 XXXYI. 
 
 « Give us more grog, » they cried, « for it will be' 
 « All one an hour hence. » Juan answer'd, 
 
 « No I 
 « 'Tis true that death awaits both you and me, 
 
 « But let us die like men, not sink below 
 « Like brutes : » — and thus his dangerous posfc 
 kept he. 
 And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
 
Il6 DON JUAN. 
 
 Aod even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 
 Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But now there came a flash of hope once more; 
 Day broke, and the wind luU'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. ' 
 
DON JUAN. 117 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Under the vesseFs keel*he 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 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
 'Tis never too late to be wholly wrecked : 
 
 And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
 
 'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 XL. 
 
 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 jury mast or rudder, or could say 
 The ship would swim an hour, which, by good 
 
 luck. 
 Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 
 
 XLI 
 
 The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 
 But the ship laboured so, they scarce could hope 
 
'^8 DON JUAN. 
 
 To weather out much longer; the distress 
 Was also great with wj^ich 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 appeared in sight, 
 
 Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Again the weather threatened,— 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 
 roU'd, 
 
 At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
 
 Like human beings during civil war. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 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. 
 
DON JUAN. . . liG 
 
 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 fpr dying people quite bewildering. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 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, 
 
110 DON JUAN. 
 
 XLYI. 
 
 The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 
 'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
 
 As now might render their long suffering less : 
 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; 
 
 Their slock 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. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLYIII. 
 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 
 
DON JUAN. Ill 
 
 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 }Deople then on board. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down 
 Over tjie waste of waters ; like a veil, 
 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the 
 frown 
 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 ; twelve days had Fear 
 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 L. 
 
 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 quafTd, 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, 
 
122 DON JUAN. 
 
 Half epilej)tical, and half hysterical : — 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
 LI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LII. 
 
 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. 
 
Dt3N JUAN. 1^3 
 
 Liir. 
 
 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 crj 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
 
 And in them crowded several of the crew ; 
 And yet their present hope w^as 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. 
 
 LV. 
 
 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 
 
1^4 DON Jl/AN^. 
 
 Takes oflf one peck of purgatorial coals, 
 
 Because, till people know what's come to passy 
 They won't lay out their money on the dead — 
 It costs three francs for every mass that's said, 
 
 LYI. 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; 
 
 It seeni'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 a(jua^vita. 
 
 LYII. 
 
 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. 
 
DON JUAN. 125 
 
 Lviir. 
 
 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 leajj'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 He also stuif'd his money where he could 
 About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
 
 Who let him do, in fact, whatever 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. 
 
 LX. 
 
 *Twas 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; 
 
126 DON JUAX. 
 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet^ 
 And made them bale without a moment'Js ease^ 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swarap'd. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 ISine souls more went in her; the long-boat stiii 
 
 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. 
 
 LXII. 
 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. 
 
DON JUAN. 127 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 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 im- 
 mersion, 
 
 While t'other half were laid down in their place, 
 At watch and watch 5 thus, shivering like the 
 tertian 
 
 Ague in its cold fit, they fiU'd their boat. 
 
 With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 
 
 LXIV. 
 'Tis 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's miseries of alarming brevity. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 'Tis said that persons living on annuities 
 
 Are longer lived than others, — God knows why^ 
 
128 DON JUAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXYI. 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 LXYII. 
 
 ^ut 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, 
 
DON JUAN. 129 
 
 Your labouring people think beyond all question, 
 Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 
 
 LXYIII. 
 
 \nd 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, 
 Luird 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. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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 I 
 And carry them to shore 5 these hopes were fine, 
 
 But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 
 
 ll would have been more Avise to saye their vic- 
 tual. 
 
l3o DON JUAN. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
 And Ocean sluniber'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. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXIl. 
 
 The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
 Blister'd and scorch'd, andj stagnant on the sea, 
 
DON JUAN. l3l 
 
 They lay like carcases ; 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. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 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, 
 'Twas but his own, suppressed till now, he 
 found : 
 
 And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 
 
 jS.nd who should die to be his fellow's food- 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 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; 
 
i3% DON J LAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and 
 handed, 
 
 In silent horror, and their distribution 
 Luird even the savage hunger which demanded, 
 
 Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; 
 None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 
 
 'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
 By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
 And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 
 
 LXXYI. 
 
 He but requested to be bled to death : 
 
 Th^ 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. 
 
DON JUAX. l33 
 
 LXXYIL 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXYIII. 
 
 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 j 
 'Twas not to be expected that he should. 
 
 Even in extremity of their disaster. 
 
 Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 'Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, 
 The consequence was awful in the extreme : 
 
 For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 
 VYent raging mad — Lord I how they did blas- 
 pheme I 
 
l34 OON JUAiV. 
 
 And foam and roll, with strange convulsions 
 
 rack'd, 
 Drinking salt-water like a niountain-streani, 
 Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching^ 
 
 swearing, 
 And, with hyaena laughter, died despairing. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Their numbers were much thinn'd hy this inflic- 
 tion, 
 
 And all the rest were thin enough^ heaven j 
 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 y 
 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^ 
 
DON JUAN. 1 35 
 
 He had been rallier 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. 
 
 Lxxxir. 
 
 Of poor Pedrillo something still remained, 
 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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking b«, 
 
 Remember IJgolino condescends 
 To eat the head of his arch-enemy 
 
 The moment after he politely ends 
 His tale 3 if foes be food in hell, at sea 
 
 'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends. 
 When shipwreck's short allowance grows too 
 
 scanty, 
 Without being much more horrible than Dante. 
 
I 36 DON JUAIV. 
 
 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 famish'd boatVcrew had your birth, 
 
 Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 
 
 You'd wish yourself where Truth is — ^in a well. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 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 com- 
 plete. 
 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 drink- 
 ing. 
 
DON JUAJSr. i3^ 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
 Suck'd 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 screani'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. 
 
 LXXXYII. 
 
 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 on 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. 
 
l38 . DON JUAX". 
 
 LXXXYIII. 
 
 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 oJfF the weight 
 
 lie 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 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. 
 
I. 
 
 DON J LAX. iSC) 
 
 xc. 
 
 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 
 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas 
 cast ; 
 
 Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shiver- 
 ing) 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 XCII. 
 It changed, of coursej a heavenly caraeleon,. 
 
 The airy child of vapour and the sun^ 
 
l4o DON JUXN. 
 
 Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilliori, 
 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 eve in a recent scuffle, 
 
 (For sometimes we must box without the muifle.) 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Our shipwrecked seamen thought it a good omen — 
 It is as well to think so, now and then>; 
 
 'Twas 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. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 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 
 
DON 3UAN. l/jf 
 
 it came and went, and flulter'd round tlieni til! 
 Night fell : — this seem'd a belter omen still. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 But in this case I also naust remark, 
 
 'Twas well this bird of promise did not perchj 
 
 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. 
 
 XCYI. 
 
 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 I » 
 The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to 
 jk doubt — 
 
 Some swore that thev heard breakers, others 
 
 guns. 
 And all mistook about the latter once. 
 
l42 DON JUA?r. 
 
 XCVII. 
 As morning broke the light wind died away, 
 When he who had the watch sung out, and 
 swore 
 If Hwas 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. 
 
 XCYIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCIX. 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 
 They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 
 
DON JUAN. 1 43 
 
 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. 
 
 C, 
 
 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 ^tna, some the high- 
 lands. 
 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 
 
 CL 
 
 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. 
 
1 44 "O^"^ JUAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 CII. 
 
 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 chilTd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
 They perish'd, until wilher'd to these few. 
 
 But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
 
 In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 
 
 cm. 
 
 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 — 
 
DON JUAN. 145 
 
 Lovely seeni'd any object that should sweep 
 Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 cv. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
 
 And having learnt to swim in that sweet riyer, 
 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. 
 
 7 
 
l46 PON JUA?f. j 
 
 CYI. 
 
 So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
 He buoy'd his boyish h'mbs, 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 j 
 
 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 w^sh'd 
 
 Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
 And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas 
 dash'd 
 
 Within his grasps he clung to it, and sore 
 The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd; 
 
 At last, with s,winiming,w;ading, scrambling, he 
 
 Roll'd on ,the,|>jBajcli^,J^alf^^ej3seless, from the sea : 
 
 CYIII. qrtb I 
 
 There, breathless, v/ith his digging nails he clung 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
 
DOS JUA^. 147 
 
 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 (jH^ i^/?^J,M^ P^i"? 
 
 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. 
 
 ex. 
 
 And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
 And down life^SuhK J isln& 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 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 form'd of clay. 
 
l48 DON JUAN. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 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 vanquished, still retired with 
 strife. 
 
 CXII. 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, ^ 
 
 For all was doubt and dizziness; methoughl 
 He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
 
 And felt again with his despair overwrought, 
 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. 
 
 cxin. 
 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the smsill mouth 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for breath; 
 
DON JUAN. 149 
 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Recali'd his answering spirits hack 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. 
 
 cxiy. 
 
 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; aM Ker attenaai^,— -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 
 
l5o BON JUAN- 
 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 She was, appear'd 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 rolTd 
 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. 
 
 cxvn. 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn; tut ^er 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; 
 
 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, 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 ; 
 
DON JUAJ^. i5i 
 
 Short upper lip — swee^ 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.) 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis 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 wrinklinglaws, 
 
 They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
 
 Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 And such was she, the lady of the cave: 
 
 Her dress was very different from the Spanisli, 
 
 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) 
 
1 52 iraN JUAif. 
 
 The basquina and the mantilla, they 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case : 
 Her dress was raany-coTour'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 shock- 
 
 Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 
 
 CXXIL 
 
 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, \n form alike, 
 
 Was coarser: and her aar* tfeough firm, less 
 free^ 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long^ her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
DO^f JUAN. l53 
 
 CXXIII. 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft atten- 
 tions, 
 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 order'd dinner for new comers. 
 
 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 cla^^-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 ; 
 
l54 ©ON JDA>'. 
 
 But other speculations were, in sooth, 
 Added to his connexion 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 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, 
 
 l3y which, iio doubt, a erood deal may be made. 
 
 CXXVIL 
 
 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 liyed 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 carying, paint, and gilding. 
 
DON JUAN. l5.5 
 
 cxxviii. 
 
 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 
 
 Ptejected 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 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. 
 
 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 ) 
 
1 56 DOxN JUAIV., 
 
 Because the good old man had so rauch w vovs-, >» 
 
 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 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 'tis 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 furnish'd twenty. 
 
DON J^UAff. I 57 
 
 cxxxiir. 
 
 He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, 
 
 For Haidee stripp'd her sables off lo 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 day- 
 break 
 
 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 luli'd head 
 
 Not even a vision of his former woes 
 
 Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which somelimes 
 spread 
 
 Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
 
 Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid^ 
 Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den 
 
1 58 DON Juan. 
 
 Look'd back upon him, and a moment staid, 
 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 kn^w it not. 
 
 cxxxvi. 
 
 And pensive to her father's house she ivent, 
 Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, whof ;r 
 
 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. 
 
 cxxxyn.jgj^'ji-^ 
 
 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 
 
DON JUAN* i5g 
 
 Had sufTer'd more — his hardships were compara- 
 tive 
 To those related in my grand-dad's Narrative, 
 
 cxxxviii!' ^^'^' 
 
 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. 
 
 C^XXIyV«^ 
 
 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 'tis, 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* 
 
l6a DON JVAN. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 dale 
 
 From day-break, and when cofhn'd 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 dy ed 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. 
 
 cxui. 
 
 And down the cliff the island virgin came. 
 
 And near the Cfi^Ve her quick light footsteps 
 drew, 
 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
 And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
 
DON JUAN. l6l 
 
 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. 
 
 CXLUI. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 
 
 Who die in righteousness, she lean'd 3 and there 
 
 All tranquilly the shipwreck'd 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 
 
162 DON JLAiy. 
 
 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 shipwreck'd youth would hungry 
 jj^^i^ oxow mtit tid no bn- 
 
 Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
 A.nd felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring 
 sea J 
 And so, she cook, d iheir breakfast to a tittle j 
 
 I can't say that she gave them any tea. 
 But there were 6ggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fisli, 
 
 honey, 
 With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 
 
 CXLYI 
 
 And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
 
 The coffee made, would fain have waken'd 
 
 - ^^i^j^in ^J* norrn odfi4 '^■ 
 Juan ; * 
 
 But Haidee stopp^A her w^ her quick small 
 
 hand. 
 
 And without word, a sign her finger drew on 
 
DON JUAN, iG-S- 
 
 Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
 And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a ne^v^ 
 one, 
 Because her mistress would not let her break 
 That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 
 
 \WU^)t ri^iU'^r-i Jc^d Sill ' 
 
 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 looked shadowy, shrunk, 
 
 and weal^^ nnrsmdYS^ ->m i 
 And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
 Which Aveigh'd upon them yet, all damp and 
 
 salt, 
 Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 
 
 CXLYIIT. 
 
 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 ; 
 
1 64 DON jvkn. 
 
 In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
 
 Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
 * But the fair face which met his eyes forhade 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
 
 Had further sleej) 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. 
 
 CL. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLI. 
 Now Juan could not understand a word^ 
 Being no Grecian; but he had an ear> 
 
DON JUAir. l65 
 
 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. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
 By a distant organ, doubling 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 help'd out from his dream, 
 Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, hy feeling 
 
 A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
 Of Zee's cookery no doubt was stealing 
 
 Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
 
 Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling. 
 
l66 DON JUATV. 
 
 To stir her viands, mad« liim quite awake 
 And long fx)r 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. tnem smiles, 
 
 A joint upon their barparous spits they put on : 
 But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 
 
 For some of these are rocks with scarce a 
 hut on, l/dJ 
 
 Others are fair and fertile, among which 
 This, though not large, was oneiot^tJie 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 shrink- \ 
 
 jng, : ^ ■ "' . ■ 
 
 _ T , . ^I'yhp.zn:^^^ "^ ? ^.r^ w norr * ' 
 
 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. 
 
DON JUAX. 1C7 
 
 CLYI. 
 
 For we all know that English people are 
 Fed upon beef-— -I won't say much of beer, 
 
 Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 
 
 Fripm this my subject, has no business here y 
 
 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 famish'd vulture gnaw^ 
 
 He fell upon whate'er was ofFerd, like 
 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 zom f? CLYIII. 
 He ate, and he was well supplied 3 and shle, 
 
 A^o watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 
 
i68 DON jtJArr. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 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 
 
 CLX. 
 
 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 mat- 
 tered. 
 Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
 
DON JUAN. 169 
 
 They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 
 With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 
 
 CLXL 
 
 And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking. 
 But not a word could Juan comprehend, 
 
 Although he listen'd so that the youug Greek ia 
 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. 
 
 CLxn. 
 
 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 exprest 
 
 A world of words, and things at which she guess'd, 
 
 CLxni. 
 
 And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 
 8 
 
I70 DON JUAX. 
 
 A lesson ia 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. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 i.JilH 3.UJ iJti^. 
 
 'Tis 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 vras 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 : 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, 
 Italian not ^tUl; h^aying rfo' teachers • 
 
 Much English, I cannot pretend to speak, 
 
 Learning that language chiefly from its preach- 
 ers. 
 
DON JUAN.. 17 r 
 
 t 
 
 Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
 
 1 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, 
 
 Where I, like, other « dogs, have had my day, » 
 Like other men too. may have had my pas- 
 
 sion — 
 
 -.i«^H 1;?^^''/^ ;-^>«^'>ltP _')?ii^:^9\:y 
 But that, like other thmgs, 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. 
 
 . CLXVII. 
 
 eturn 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$ 
 Wiih. a young benefactress — so was she, 
 Fust in the way we very often see. 
 
172 DON JUAN. 
 
 CLXYIII. 
 
 And every day by day-break — 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. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
 And every day help'd on his convalescence; 
 
 'Twas 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. 
 
 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 sustain'd like flesh anc 
 blood,— 
 
DON JUAN. ^7^ 
 
 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. 
 
 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 — 
 
 And 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 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, 
 r A something to be loved, a creature meant 
 To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 
 
1^4 ^^"^ JUAiV. 
 
 To ren(3er 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 hira, 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. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And thus a moon rolFd 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 16, 
 
 But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 
 
CLXxy. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXXYI. 
 
 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 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* 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
 
 With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 
 
176 irON JUArf. 
 
 Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an bost, 
 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. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 
 
 Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your cham- 
 pagne, 
 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, mirth and laughter^ 
 Sermons and soda water the day after. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Man, being reasonable, must get drunk, 
 The best of life is but intoxications 
 
DON JUAx\. 177 
 
 Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 
 The hopes of all men, and of every nation; 
 
 Without their sap, how branchless vrere the trunk 
 Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: 
 
 But to return, — Get very drunk; and when 
 
 You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 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 blest 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. 
 
 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 untost^ 
 
 And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry. 
 And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost 
 
 8. 
 
178 DON JUAf?. 
 
 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, 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 tnrough it like an eye. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
 
 Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 
 
DON JUAN, ifjg 
 
 Glided along the smooth and hardened 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. 
 
 CLXXXY. 
 
 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; 
 
 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, 
 
l8o DON JUAN". 
 
 Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 
 I think, it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 CLXXXYII. 
 
 
 
 By length I mean duration; theirs endured 
 
 Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
 reckon'd ; 
 And if they had, they '^6>^4 n^t have secured 
 
 The sum of their sefisations 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. 
 
 CLXxxvm. 
 
 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. 
 
DON JUAN. iSl 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 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 tliouglit a language 
 there, — 
 
 And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
 Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
 
 Of nature's oracle— fir^t jp^ye^-rthat all 
 
 Which Eve has .lejft^ligi; daughters since her fall. 
 
 CXC. 
 
 Haidee spoke not of scruj)les, ask'd no vowSy 
 Nor offer'd 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 on^ ^^^a|^4ft,sgj.5^co3^^^. 
 
 She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 
 
 And she was worshipped; after nature's fashion. 
 
I 82 DON JUAN. 
 
 Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 
 
 If souls could die, had perish'd in that pas- 
 sion, — 
 
 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 Haideel 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, 
 
DOX JUAN. l83 
 
 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 
 
 B-ound Juan's head, and his around hers 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 
 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 3 
 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. 
 
l84 DON JUAIV. 
 
 cxcvi. 
 
 An infant when it gazes on a liglit, 
 
 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. ^^ * ^^^ visvn 
 
 CXCYII; 
 
 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 'tis giving ; 
 
 All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
 Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's divings 
 
 There lies the thing we love with all its errors 
 
 And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 
 
 cxcYiir. 
 
 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 
 
DON JUAN. l85 
 
 She and her wave-worn love had made their 
 bower, 
 Where nought upon their passion could in- 
 trude, 
 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 'tis 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 be- 
 yond? 
 
I 86 DON JUAN. 
 
 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 r 
 Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 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 
 jMade 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 , 
 Hoj)e, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 And oh I that quickening of the heart, that beat I 
 How much it costs us ! yet each rising throb 
 
DON JUAN. 187 
 
 Is in its cause as its efTect 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. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 And now 'twas 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 w^as an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 ccv. 
 
 Oh Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 
 Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
 
 Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 
 
 Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
 
l88 DON JUAN. 
 
 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 preca- 
 rious, 
 
 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. 
 
 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 5 
 If only from the devil they would insure us, 
 
 How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new) 
 
DON JUAN. l8(^ 
 
 « Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail 
 
 us?)) 
 So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 
 
 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 v^henever newly a 
 
 Palpitation rises, 'tis 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 whisper'd « think of every sacred tie ! » 
 
'9^ l^ON JUAX. 
 
 « I will, my dear Philosophy! >» I said, 
 
 tc But then her teeth, and then, Oh heaven ^! 
 •< her eye I 
 « ril just inquire if she be wife or maid, 
 
 « Or neither — out of curiosity. >♦ 
 « Stop I » cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, 
 (Though she was masqued then as a fair Vene- 
 tian.) 
 
 CCXI. 
 « Stop I » 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 «t beau ideal. >» 
 
 CCXIL 
 'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 
 
 A fine extension of the faculties, 
 
 Platonic, universal, wonderful. 
 
 Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the 
 
 skies. 
 
DON JUAN. igi 
 
 WitliOLit 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. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 
 Yet 'tis 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, 
 'Twould save us many a heart-ache, many a shil- 
 
 (For we must get them any how, or grieve,) 
 Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, 
 Jiow pleasant for the heart, as well as liver! 
 
 ccxiy. 
 
 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 J>eeji 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. 
 
irp. DON JUAN. 
 
 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 dunghilFs soil. 
 
 Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunc- 
 tion. 
 So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
 Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 
 « central. » 
 
 CCXVL 
 In the mean time, without proceeding more 
 
 In this anatomy, Tve finished 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 ray bow, 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
 For them and theirs with all w4io deign to read. 
 
 END OF CINTO II. 
 
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