Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  And really if a man won’t let us know

  That he’s alive, he’s dead — or should be so.

  XXXVI.

  Besides, within the Alps, to every woman,

  (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,)

  ‘Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men;

  I can’t tell who first brought the custom in,

  But “Cavalier Serventes” are quite common,

  And no one notices or cares a pin;

  An we may call this (not to say the worst)

  A second marriage which corrupts the first.

  XXXVII.

  The word was formerly a “Cicisbeo,”

  But that is now grown vulgar and indecent;

  The Spaniards call the person a “Cortejo,”

  For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent;

  In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,

  And may perhaps at last be o’er the sea sent:

  But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses!

  Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

  XXXVIII.

  However, I still think, with all due deference

  To the fair single part of the creation,

  That married ladies should preserve the preference

  In tête à tête or general conversation —

  And this I say without peculiar reference

  To England, France, or any other nation —

  Because they know the world, and are at ease,

  And being natural, naturally please.

  XXXIX.

  ‘Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming,

  But shy and awkward at first coming out,

  So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming,

  All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout;

  And glancing at Mamma, for fear there’s harm in

  What you, she, it, or they, may be about:

  The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter —

  Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

  XL.

  But “Cavalier Servente” is the phrase

  Used in politest circles to express

  This supernumerary slave, who stays

  Close to the lady as a part of dress,

  Her word the only law which he obeys.

  His is no sinecure, as you may guess;

  Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,

  And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

  XLI.

  With all its sinful doings, I must say,

  That Italy’s a pleasant place to me,

  Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

  And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree

  Festooned, much like the back scene of a play,

  Or melodrame, which people flock to see,

  When the first act is ended by a dance

  In vineyards copied from the South of France.

  XLII.

  I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,

  Without being forced to bid my groom be sure

  My cloak is round his middle strapped about,

  Because the skies are not the most secure;

  I know too that, if stopped upon my route,

  Where the green alleys windingly allure,

  Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, —

  In England ‘twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

  XLIII.

  I also like to dine on becaficas,

  To see the Sun set, sure he’ll rise to-morrow,

  Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as

  A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow,

  But with all Heaven t’himself; the day will break as

  Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow

  That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers

  Where reeking London’s smoky cauldron simmers.

  XLIV.

  I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

  Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,

  And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,

  With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,

  And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

  That not a single accent seems uncouth,

  Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,

  Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

  XLV.

  I like the women too (forgive my folly!),

  From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,

  And large black eyes that flash on you a volley

  Of rays that say a thousand things at once,

  To the high Dama’s brow, more melancholy,

  But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,

  Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,

  Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

  XLVI.

  Eve of the land which still is Paradise!

  Italian Beauty didst thou not inspire

  Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies

  With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,

  In what he hath bequeathed us? — in what guise,

  Though flashing from the fervour of the Lyre,

  Would words describe thy past and present glow,

  While yet Canova can create below?

  XLVII.

  “England! with all thy faults I love thee still,”

  I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

  I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

  I like the government (but that is not it);

  I like the freedom of the press and quill;

  I like the Habeas Corpus (when we’ve got it);

  I like a Parliamentary debate,

  Particularly when ‘tis not too late;

  XLVIII.

  I like the taxes, when they’re not too many;

  I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;

  I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;

  Have no objection to a pot of beer;

  I like the weather, — when it is not rainy,

  That is, I like two months of every year.

  And so God save the Regent, Church, and King!

  Which means that I like all and every thing.

  XLIX.

  Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,

  Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt,

  Our little riots just to show we’re free men,

  Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,

  Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,

  All these I can forgive, and those forget,

  And greatly venerate our recent glories,

  And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

  L.

  But to my tale of Laura, — for I find

  Digression is a sin, that by degrees

  Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,

  And, therefore, may the reader too displease —

  The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,

  And caring little for the Author’s ease,

  Insist on knowing what he means — a hard

  And hapless situation for a Bard.

  LI.

  Oh! that I had the art of easy writing

  What should be easy reading! could I scale

  Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing

  Those pretty poems never known to fail,

  How quickly would I print (the world delighting)

  A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;

  And sell you, mixed with western Sentimentalism,

  Some samples of the finest Orientalism.

  LII.

  But I am but a nameless sort of person,

  (A broken Dandy lately on my travels)

  And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,

  The first that Walker’s Lexicon unravels,
>
  And when I can’t find that, I put a worse on,

  Not caring as I ought for critics’ cavils;

  I’ve half a mind to tumble down to prose,

  But verse is more in fashion — so here goes!

  LIII.

  The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,

  Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,

  For half a dozen years without estrangement;

  They had their little differences, too;

  Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant;

  In such affairs there probably are few

  Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble,

  From sinners of high station to the rabble.

  LIV.

  But, on the whole, they were a happy pair,

  As happy as unlawful love could make them;

  The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,

  Their chains so slight, ‘twas not worth while to break them:

  The World beheld them with indulgent air;

  The pious only wished “the Devil take them!”

  He took them not; he very often waits,

  And leaves old sinners to be young ones’ baits.

  LV.

  But they were young: Oh! what without our Youth

  Would Love be! What would Youth be without Love!

  Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth,

  Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above;

  But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth —

  One of few things Experience don’t improve;

  Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows

  Are always so preposterously jealous.

  LVI.

  It was the Carnival, as I have said

  Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so

  Laura the usual preparations made,

  Which you do when your mind’s made up to go

  To-night to Mrs. Boehm’s masquerade,

  Spectator, or Partaker in the show;

  The only difference known between the cases

  Is — here, we have six weeks of “varnished faces.”

  LVII.

  Laura, when dressed, was (as I sang before)

  A pretty woman as was ever seen,

  Fresh as the Angel o’er a new inn door,

  Or frontispiece of a new Magazine,

  With all the fashions which the last month wore,

  Coloured, and silver paper leaved between

  That and the title-page, for fear the Press

  Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.

  LVIII.

  They went to the Ridotto; ‘tis a hall

  Where People dance, and sup, and dance again;

  Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball,

  But that’s of no importance to my strain;

  ‘Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall,

  Excepting that it can’t be spoilt by rain;

  The company is “mixed” (the phrase I quote is

  As much as saying, they’re below your notice);

  LIX.

  For a “mixed company” implies that, save

  Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more,

  Whom you may bow to without looking grave,

  The rest are but a vulgar set, the Bore

  Of public places, where they basely brave

  The fashionable stare of twenty score

  Of well-bred persons, called “The World;” but I,

  Although I know them, really don’t know why.

  LX.

  This is the case in England; at least was

  During the dynasty of Dandies, now

  Perchance succeeded by some other class

  Of imitated Imitators: — how

  Irreparably soon decline, alas!

  The Demagogues of fashion: all below

  Is frail; how easily the world is lost

  By Love, or War, and, now and then, — by Frost!

  LXI.

  Crushed was Napoleon by the northern Thor,

  Who knocked his army down with icy hammer,

  Stopped by the Elements — like a Whaler — or

  A blundering novice in his new French grammar;

  Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war,

  And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her,

  Because, were I to ponder to Infinity,

  The more I should believe in her Divinity.

  LXII.

  She rules the present, past, and all to be yet,

  She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage;

  I cannot say that she’s done much for me yet;

  Not that I mean her bounties to disparage,

  We’ve not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet

  How much she’ll make amends for past miscarriage;

  Meantime the Goddess I’ll no more importune,

  Unless to thank her when she’s made my fortune.

  LXIII.

  To turn, — and to return; — the Devil take it!

  This story slips for ever through my fingers,

  Because, just as the stanza likes to make it,

  It needs must be — and so it rather lingers;

  This form of verse began, I can’t well break it,

  But must keep time and tune like public singers;

  But if I once get through my present measure,

  I’ll take another when I’m next at leisure.

  LXIV.

  They went to the Ridotto (‘tis a place

  To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,

  Just to divert my thoughts a little space

  Because I’m rather hippish, and may borrow

  Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face

  May lurk beneath each mask; and as my sorrow

  Slackens its pace sometimes, I’ll make, or find,

  Something shall leave it half an hour behind.)

  LXV.

  Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,

  Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;

  To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;

  To some she curtsies, and to some she dips,

  Complains of warmth, and this complaint avowed,

  Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips;

  She then surveys, condemns, but pities still

  Her dearest friends for being dressed so ill.

  LXVI.

  One has false curls, another too much paint,

  A third — where did she buy that frightful turban?

  A fourth’s so pale she fears she’s going to faint,

  A fifth’s look’s vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban,

  A sixth’s white silk has got a yellow taint,

  A seventh’s thin muslin surely will be her bane,

  And lo! an eighth appears, — ”I’ll see no more!”

  For fear, like Banquo’s kings, they reach a score.

  LXVII.

  Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing,

  Others were levelling their looks at her;

  She heard the men’s half-whispered mode of praising

  And, till ‘twas done, determined not to stir;

  The women only thought it quite amazing

  That, at her time of life, so many were

  Admirers still, — but “Men are so debased,

  Those brazen Creatures always suit their taste.”

  LXVIII.

  For my part, now, I ne’er could understand

  Why naughty women — but I won’t discuss

  A thing which is a scandal to the land,

  I only don’t see why it should be thus;

  And if I were but in a gown and band,

  Just to entitle me to make a fuss,

  I’d preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly

  Should quote in their next speeches f
rom my homily.

  LXIX.

  While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling,

  Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what,

  So that her female friends, with envy broiling,

  Beheld her airs, and triumph, and all that;

  And well-dressed males still kept before her filing,

  And passing bowed and mingled with her chat;

  More than the rest one person seemed to stare

  With pertinacity that’s rather rare.

  LXX.

  He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany;

  And Laura saw him, and at first was glad,

  Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,

  Although their usage of their wives is sad;

  ‘Tis said they use no better than a dog any

  Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad:

  They have a number, though they ne’er exhibit ‘em,

  Four wives by law, and concubines “ad libitum.”

  LXXI.

  They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily,

  They scarcely can behold their male relations,

  So that their moments do not pass so gaily

  As is supposed the case with northern nations;

  Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely;

  And as the Turks abhor long conversations,

  Their days are either passed in doing nothing,

  Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.

  LXXII.

  They cannot read, and so don’t lisp in criticism;

  Nor write, and so they don’t affect the Muse;

  Were never caught in epigram or witticism,

  Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, —

  In Harams learning soon would make a pretty schism,

  But luckily these Beauties are no “Blues;”

  No bustling Botherby have they to show ‘em

  “That charming passage in the last new poem:”

  LXXIII.

  No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,

  Who having angled all his life for Fame,

  And getting but a nibble at a time,

  Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same

  Small “Triton of the minnows,” the sublime

  Of Mediocrity, the furious tame,

  The Echo’s echo, usher of the school

  Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool!

  LXXIV.

  A stalking oracle of awful phrase,

  The approving “Good!” (by no means good in law)

  Humming like flies around the newest blaze,

  The bluest of bluebottles you e’er saw,

  Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,

  Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,

  Translating tongues he knows not even by letter,

  And sweating plays so middling, bad were better.

  LXXV.

  One hates an author that’s all author — fellows