Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles;

  And then, by the advice of some old ladies,

  She sent her son to be shipp’d off from Cadiz.

  CXCI

  She had resolved that he should travel through

  All European climes, by land or sea,

  To mend his former morals, and get new,

  Especially in France and Italy

  (At least this is the thing most people do).

  Julia was sent into a convent: she

  Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better

  Shown in the following copy of her Letter: —

  CXCII

  “They tell me ‘t is decided; you depart:

  ’T is wise — ’t is well, but not the less a pain;

  I have no further claim on your young heart,

  Mine is the victim, and would be again;

  To love too much has been the only art

  I used; — I write in haste, and if a stain

  Be on this sheet, ‘t is not what it appears;

  My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

  CXCIII

  “I loved, I love you, for this love have lost

  State, station, heaven, mankind’s, my own esteem,

  And yet can not regret what it hath cost,

  So dear is still the memory of that dream;

  Yet, if I name my guilt, ‘t is not to boast,

  None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:

  I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest —

  I’ve nothing to reproach, or to request.

  CXCIV

  “Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,

  ’T is woman’s whole existence; man may range

  The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;

  Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange

  Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

  And few there are whom these cannot estrange;

  Men have all these resources, we but one,

  To love again, and be again undone.

  CXCV

  “You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,

  Beloved and loving many; all is o’er

  For me on earth, except some years to hide

  My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core;

  These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

  The passion which still rages as before —

  And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No,

  That word is idle now — but let it go.

  CXCVI

  “My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;

  But still I think I can collect my mind;

  My blood still rushes where my spirit’s set,

  As roll the waves before the settled wind;

  My heart is feminine, nor can forget —

  To all, except one image, madly blind;

  So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,

  As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul.

  CXCVII

  “I have no more to say, but linger still,

  And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,

  And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

  My misery can scarce be more complete:

  I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;

  Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,

  And I must even survive this last adieu,

  And bear with life, to love and pray for you!”

  CXCVIII

  This note was written upon gilt-edged paper

  With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new:

  Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,

  It trembled as magnetic needles do,

  And yet she did not let one tear escape her;

  The seal a sun-flower; “Elle vous suit partout,”

  The motto cut upon a white cornelian;

  The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

  CXCIX

  This was Don Juan’s earliest scrape; but whether

  I shall proceed with his adventures is

  Dependent on the public altogether;

  We’ll see, however, what they say to this:

  Their favour in an author’s cap’s a feather,

  And no great mischief’s done by their caprice;

  And if their approbation we experience,

  Perhaps they’ll have some more about a year hence.

  CC

  My poem’s epic, and is meant to be

  Divided in twelve books; each book containing,

  With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,

  A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,

  New characters; the episodes are three:

  A panoramic view of hell’s in training,

  After the style of Virgil and of Homer,

  So that my name of Epic’s no misnomer.

  CCI

  All these things will be specified in time,

  With strict regard to Aristotle’s rules,

  The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,

  Which makes so many poets, and some fools:

  Prose poets like blank-verse, I’m fond of rhyme,

  Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;

  I’ve got new mythological machinery,

  And very handsome supernatural scenery.

  CCII

  There’s only one slight difference between

  Me and my epic brethren gone before,

  And here the advantage is my own, I ween

  (Not that I have not several merits more,

  But this will more peculiarly be seen);

  They so embellish, that ‘t is quite a bore

  Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,

  Whereas this story’s actually true.

  CCIII

  If any person doubt it, I appeal

  To history, tradition, and to facts,

  To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,

  To plays in five, and operas in three acts;

  All these confirm my statement a good deal,

  But that which more completely faith exacts

  Is that myself, and several now in Seville,

  Saw Juan’s last elopement with the devil.

  CCIV

  If ever I should condescend to prose,

  I’ll write poetical commandments, which

  Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those

  That went before; in these I shall enrich

  My text with many things that no one knows,

  And carry precept to the highest pitch:

  I’ll call the work “Longinus o’er a Bottle,

  Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.”

  CCV

  Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;

  Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;

  Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,

  The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:

  With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,

  And Campbell’s Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:

  Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor

  Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore.

  CCVI

  Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby’s Muse,

  His Pegasus, nor anything that’s his;

  Thou shalt not bear false witness like “the Blues”

  (There’s one, at least, is very fond of this);

  Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:

  This is true criticism, and you may kiss —

  Exactly as you please, or not, — the rod;

  But if you don’t, I’ll lay it on, by G-d!

  CCVII

  If any person should presume to assert

  This story is not moral, first, I pray,

  That they will not cry out before they’re h
urt,

  Then that they’ll read it o’er again, and say

  (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)

  That this is not a moral tale, though gay;

  Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show

  The very place where wicked people go.

  CCVIII

  If, after all, there should be some so blind

  To their own good this warning to despise,

  Led by some tortuosity of mind,

  Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,

  And cry that they “the moral cannot find,”

  I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;

  Should captains the remark, or critics, make,

  They also lie too — under a mistake.

  CCIX

  The public approbation I expect,

  And beg they’ll take my word about the moral,

  Which I with their amusement will connect

  (So children cutting teeth receive a coral);

  Meantime, they’ll doubtless please to recollect

  My epical pretensions to the laurel:

  For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,

  I’ve bribed my grandmother’s review — the British.

  CCX

  I sent it in a letter to the Editor,

  Who thank’d me duly by return of post —

  I’m for a handsome article his creditor;

  Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,

  And break a promise after having made it her,

  Denying the receipt of what it cost,

  And smear his page with gall instead of honey,

  All I can say is — that he had the money.

  CCXI

  I think that with this holy new alliance

  I may ensure the public, and defy

  All other magazines of art or science,

  Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I

  Have not essay’d to multiply their clients,

  Because they tell me ‘t were in vain to try,

  And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly

  Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

  CCXII

  “Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventâ

  Consule Planco,” Horace said, and so

  Say I; by which quotation there is meant a

  Hint that some six or seven good years ago

  (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)

  I was most ready to return a blow,

  And would not brook at all this sort of thing

  In my hot youth — when George the Third was King.

  CCXIII

  But now at thirty years my hair is grey

  (I wonder what it will be like at forty?

  I thought of a peruke the other day) —

  My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I

  Have squander’d my whole summer while ‘t was May,

  And feel no more the spirit to retort; I

  Have spent my life, both interest and principal,

  And deem not, what I deem’d, my soul invincible.

  CCXIV

  No more — no more — Oh! never more on me

  The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,

  Which out of all the lovely things we see

  Extracts emotions beautiful and new,

  Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee:

  Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?

  Alas! ‘t was not in them, but in thy power

  To double even the sweetness of a flower.

  CCXV

  No more — no more — Oh! never more, my heart,

  Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!

  Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

  Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:

  The illusion’s gone for ever, and thou art

  Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,

  And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgment,

  Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

  CCXVI

  My days of love are over; me no more

  The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,

  Can make the fool of which they made before, —

  In short, I must not lead the life I did do;

  The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er,

  The copious use of claret is forbid too,

  So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,

  I think I must take up with avarice.

  CCXVII

  Ambition was my idol, which was broken

  Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;

  And the two last have left me many a token

  O’er which reflection may be made at leisure:

  Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen head, I’ve spoken,

  ”Time is, Time was, Time’s past:” — a chymic treasure

  Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes —

  My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

  CCXVIII

  What is the end of Fame? ‘t is but to fill

  A certain portion of uncertain paper:

  Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

  Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;

  For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,

  And bards burn what they call their “midnight taper,”

  To have, when the original is dust,

  A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

  CCXIX

  What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt’s King

  Cheops erected the first pyramid

  And largest, thinking it was just the thing

  To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;

  But somebody or other rummaging,

  Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid:

  Let not a monument give you or me hopes,

  Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

  CCXX

  But I being fond of true philosophy,

  Say very often to myself, “Alas!

  All things that have been born were born to die,

  And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;

  You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly,

  And if you had it o’er again — ’t would pass —

  So thank your stars that matters are no worse,

  And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.”

  CCXXI

  But for the present, gentle reader! and

  Still gentler purchaser! the bard — that’s I —

  Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,

  And so “Your humble servant, and good-b’ye!”

  We meet again, if we should understand

  Each other; and if not, I shall not try

  Your patience further than by this short sample —

  ‘T were well if others follow’d my example.

  CCXXII

  “Go, little book, from this my solitude!

  I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways!

  And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,

  The world will find thee after many days.”

  When Southey’s read, and Wordsworth understood,

  I can’t help putting in my claim to praise —

  The four first rhymes are Southey’s every line:

  For God’s sake, reader! take them not for mine.

  Nov. 1, 1818

  DON JUAN: CANTO THE SECOND

  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

  B
ecame 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;