Don Juan (Byron, unsourced)/Canto the Second

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

     I
Oh ye! who teach 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.

     II
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.

     III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
     If all things be consider'd: 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 been sent to Cadiz -—
     A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
     (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And 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 never saw the like:

     VI
An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
     New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle,
No—none of these will do;—and then their garb!
     Their veil and petticoat—Alas! to dwell
Upon such things would very near absorb
     A canto—then their feet and ankles,—well,
Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready
(And so, my sober Muse—come, let's be steady -—

     VII
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
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

     VIII
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 why?—we leave the reader in the dark -—
'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,
     As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,
To wean him from the wickedness of earth,
And send him like a dove of promise forth.

     IX
Don Juan bade 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 believed:
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)
Of good advice—and two or three of credit.

     X
In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
     Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school
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 education,
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 weather-tough:
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first—perhaps his last—farewell of Spain.

     XII
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, mystified by distance,
We enter on our nautical existence.

     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.

     XIV
Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,
     Beheld his native Spain receding far:
First partings form a lesson hard 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 unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

     XV
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;
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 on;
Young men should travel, if but to amuse
     Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

     XVII
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought,
     While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea,
"Sweets to the sweet" (I like so much to quote;
     You must excuse this extract,—'t is where she,
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought
     Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he
Reflected on his present situation,
And seriously resolved on reformation.

     XVIII
"Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!" he cried,
     "Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath 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!
     Or think of any thing excepting thee;
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),
     Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor;
     Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)—
     Oh, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)—
Belovéd Julia, hear me still beseeching!"
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

     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 puzzling,
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,
     But for the pumps: I'm glad to make them known
To all the brother tars who may have need hence,
     For fifty tons of water were upthrown
By them per hour, and they had all been undone,
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

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

     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 survivors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     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,
And if he wept at length, they were not fears
     That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,—
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

     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.

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

     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.

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

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

     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 quaff'd,
     And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical 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.

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

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

     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
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
     Because, till people know what's come to pass,
They won't lay out their money on the dead—
It costs three francs for every mass that's said.

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

     LVII
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.

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

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

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

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

     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.

     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 immersion,
While t'other half were laid down in their place
     At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

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

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

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

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

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

     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!
     And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,
It would have been more wise to save their victual.

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

     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.

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

     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,
     'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
And who should die to be his fellow's food.

     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;
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
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,
     Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;
None in particular had sought or plann'd it,
     'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,
By which none were permitted to be neuter—
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.

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

     LXXVII
The surgeon, as there was no other fee,
     Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;
But being thirstiest at the moment, he
     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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     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 boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where Truth is—in a well.

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

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

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

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

     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.

     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
     'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast;
Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering,
And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.

     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 appear'd to be
Clearer than that without, and its wide hue
     Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free,
Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then
Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men.

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

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

     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
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till
Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still.

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

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

     XCVII
As morning broke, the light wind died away,
     When he who had the watch sung out and swore,
If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray,
     He 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.

     XCVIII
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,
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 Ætna, some the highlands,
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.

     CI
Meantime the current, with a rising gale,
     Still set them onwards to the welcome shore,
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale:
     Their living freight was now reduced to four,
And three dead, whom their strength could not avail
     To heave into the deep with those before,
Though the two sharks still 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 chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
     They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

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

     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 river,
     Had often turn'd the art to some account:
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever,
     He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont,
As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided)
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.

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

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

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

     CIX
With slow and staggering effort he arose,
     But sunk again upon his bleeding knee
And quivering hand; and then he 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.

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

     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 vanquish'd, still retired with strife.

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

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

     CXIV
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.

     CXV
And lifting him with care into the cave,
     The gentle girl and her attendant,—one
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave,
     And more robust of figure,—then begun
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave
     Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun
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 roll'd
     In braids behind; and though her stature were
Even of the highest for a female mould,
     They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air
There was a something which bespoke command,
As one who was a lady in the land.

     CXVII
Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes
     Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
     Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,
     Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;
'T is as the snake late 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;
Short upper lip—sweet lips! that make us sigh
     Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary
     (A race of mere impostors, when all's done—
I've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).

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

     CXX
And such was she, the lady of the cave:
     Her dress was very different from the Spanish,
Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;
     For, as you know, the Spanish women banish
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave
     Around them (what I hope will never vanish)
The basquiña 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 many-colour'd, finely spun;
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face,
     But through them gold and gems profusely shone:
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace
     Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone
Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking,
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     CXXIX
And walking out upon the beach, below
     The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found,
Insensible,—not dead, but nearly so,—
     Don Juan, almost 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;
Because the good old man had so much "nous,"
     Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
And sold him instantly when out of danger.

     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, 't is the toll which must be given).

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

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

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

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

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

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

     CXXXVIII
Not so Haidée: 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.

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

     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 date
From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore,
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.

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

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

     CXLIII
And when into the cavern Haidée 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; and there
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying,
     As o'er him the calm and stirless air:
But Zoë the meantime some eggs was frying,
     Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair
Must breakfast—and betimes, lest they should ask it,
She drew out her provision from the basket.

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

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

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

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

     CXLIX
He woke and gazed, and would have slept again,
     But the fair face which met his eyes forbade
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain
     Had further sleep a further pleasure made;
For woman's face was never 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,
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, doubting if he be
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke
     By the watchman, or some such reality,
Or by one's early valet's curséd 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 whatso'er it was, by feeling
A most prodigious appetite: the steam
     Of Zoë's cookery no doubt was stealing
Upon his senses, and the kindling beam
     Of the new fire, which Zoë kept up, kneeling
To stir her viands, made him quite awake
And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak.

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

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

     CLVI
For we all know that English people are
     Fed upon beef—I won't say much of beer,
Because 't is liquor only, and being far
     From this my subject, has no business here;
We know, too, they 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 offer'd, like
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.

     CLVIII
He ate, and he was well supplied: and she,
     Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see
     Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead;
But Zoë, being older than Haidée,
     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 scatterd,
     And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk,
Or Greek—that is, although it not much matter'd,
     Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,—
They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches,
With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches.

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

     CLXII
And then she had recourse to nods, and signs,
     And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye,
And read (the only book she could) the lines
     Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy,
The answer eloquent, where 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.

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

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

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

     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 passion—
But that, like other things, has pass'd away,
     And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on:
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

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

     CLXVIII
And every day by daybreak—rather early
     For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest—
She came into the cave, but it was merely
     To see her bird reposing in his nest;
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;
'T was well, because health in the human frame
     Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence,
For health and idleness to passion's flame
     Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons
Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus,
Without whom Venus will not long attack us.

     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 and blood,—
While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly:
     Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food;
But who is their purveyor from above
Heaven knows,—it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.

     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 Haidée.

     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,
A something to be loved, a creature meant
     To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd
To render happy; all who joy would win
Must share it,—Happiness was born a twin.

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

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

     CLXXV
Then came her freedom, for she had no mother,
     So that, her father being at sea, she was
Free as a married woman, or such other
     Female, as where she likes may freely pass,
Without even the 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     CLXXXII
And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone,
     As I have said, upon an expedition;
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none,
     Save Zoë, 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 through it like an eye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     CXCI
She loved, and was belovéd—she adored,
     And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion,
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd,
     If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,—
But by degrees their senses were restored,
     Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on;
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidée'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 Haidée! 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 Haidée, being devout as well as fair,
     Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river,
And hell and purgatory—but forgot
Just in the very crisis she should not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     CCIII
And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!
     How much it costs us! yet each rising throb
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,
     That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob
Joy of its 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 't was done—on the lone shore were plighted
     Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:
     Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed,
By their own feelings hallow'd and united,
     Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:
And they were happy, for to their young eyes
Each was an angel, and earth paradise.

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

     CCVI
Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,
     And jestest with the brows of mightiest men:
Cæsar 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;
If only from the devil they would insure us,
     How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new),
"Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?"
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.

     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
     Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon
Does these things for us, and whenever newly
     Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon,
Else how the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

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

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

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

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

     CCXIV
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
     But changes night and day, too, like the sky;
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
     And darkness and destruction as on high:
But when it hath been 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.

     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,
Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,—
     Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,—
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd "central,"

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