Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  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.

  DON JUAN: CANTO THE THIRD

  I

  Hail, Muse! et cetera. — We left Juan sleeping,

  Pillow’d upon a fair and happy breast,

  And watch’d by eyes that never yet knew weeping,

  And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest

  To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,

  Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,

  Had soil’d the current of her sinless years,

  And turn’d her pure heart’s purest blood to tears!

  II

  Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours

  Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why

  With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,

  And made thy best interpreter a sigh?

  As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,

  And place them on their breast — but place to die —

  Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish

  Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

  III

  In her first passion woman loves her lover,

  In all the others all she loves is love,

  Which grows a habit she can ne’er get over,

  And fits her loosely — like an easy glove,

  As you may find, whene’er you like to prove her:

  One man alone at first her heart can move;

  She then prefers him in the plural number,

  Not finding that the additions much encumber.

  IV

  I know not if the fault be men’s or theirs;

  But one thing’s pretty sure; a woman planted

  (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)

  After a decent time must be gallanted;

  Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs

  Is that to which her heart is wholly granted;

  Yet there are some, they say, who have had none,

  But those who have ne’er end with only one.

  V

  ‘T is melancholy, and a fearful sign

  Of human frailty, folly, also crime,

&n
bsp; That love and marriage rarely can combine,

  Although they both are born in the same clime;

  Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine —

  A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time

  Is sharpen’d from its high celestial flavour

  Down to a very homely household savour.

  VI

  There’s something of antipathy, as ‘t were,

  Between their present and their future state;

  A kind of flattery that’s hardly fair

  Is used until the truth arrives too late —

  Yet what can people do, except despair?

  The same things change their names at such a rate;

  For instance — passion in a lover’s glorious,

  But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

  VII

  Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;

  They sometimes also get a little tired

  (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:

  The same things cannot always be admired,

  Yet ‘t is “so nominated in the bond,”

  That both are tied till one shall have expired.

  Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning

  Our days, and put one’s servants into mourning.

  VIII

  There’s doubtless something in domestic doings

  Which forms, in fact, true love’s antithesis;

  Romances paint at full length people’s wooings,

  But only give a bust of marriages;

  For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,

  There’s nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:

  Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife,

  He would have written sonnets all his life?

  IX

  All tragedies are finish’d by a death,

  All comedies are ended by a marriage;

  The future states of both are left to faith,

  For authors fear description might disparage

  The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,

  And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;

  So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready,

  They say no more of Death or of the Lady.

  X

  The only two that in my recollection

  Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are

  Dante and Milton, and of both the affection

  Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar

  Of fault or temper ruin’d the connection

  (Such things, in fact, it don’t ask much to mar):

  But Dante’s Beatrice and Milton’s Eve

  Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.

  XI

  Some persons say that Dante meant theology

  By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I,

  Although my opinion may require apology,

  Deem this a commentator’s fantasy,

  Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he

  Decided thus, and show’d good reason why;

  I think that Dante’s more abstruse ecstatics

  Meant to personify the mathematics.

  XII

  Haidée and Juan were not married, but

  The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair,

  Chaste reader, then, in any way to put

  The blame on me, unless you wish they were;

  Then if you’d have them wedded, please to shut

  The book which treats of this erroneous pair,

  Before the consequences grow too awful;

  ‘T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.

  XIII

  Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit

  Indulgence of their innocent desires;

  But more imprudent grown with every visit,

  Haidée forgot the island was her sire’s;

  When we have what we like, ‘t is hard to miss it,

  At least in the beginning, ere one tires;

  Thus she came often, not a moment losing,

  Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.

  XIV

  Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,

  Although he fleeced the flags of every nation,

  For into a prime minister but change

  His title, and ‘t is nothing but taxation;

  But he, more modest, took an humbler range

  Of life, and in an honester vocation

  Pursued o’er the high seas his watery journey,

  And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

  XV

  The good old gentleman had been detain’d

  By winds and waves, and some important captures;

  And, in the hope of more, at sea remain’d,

  Although a squall or two had damp’d his raptures,

  By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain’d

  His prisoners, dividing them like chapters

  In number’d lots; they all had cuffs and collars,

  And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.

  XVI

  Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,

  Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold

  To his Tunis correspondents, save one man

  Toss’d overboard unsaleable (being old);

  The rest — save here and there some richer one,

  Reserved for future ransom — in the hold

  Were link’d alike, as for the common people he

  Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

  XVII

  The merchandise was served in the same way,

  Pieced out for different marts in the Levant;

  Except some certain portions of the prey,

  Light classic articles of female want,

  French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray,

  Guitars and castanets from Alicant,

  All which selected from the spoil he gathers,

  Robb’d for his daughter by the best of fathers.

  XVIII

  A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,

  Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens,

  He chose from several animals he saw —

  A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton’s,

  Who dying on the coast of Ithaca,

  The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance;

  These to secure in this strong blowing weather,

  He caged in one huge hamper altogether.

  XIX

  Then having settled his marine affairs,

  Despatching single cruisers here and there,

  His vessel having need of some repairs,

  He shaped his course to where his daughter fair

  Continued still her hospitable cares;

  But that part of the coast being shoal and bare,

  And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile,

  His port lay on the other side o’ the isle.

  XX

  And there he went ashore without delay,

  Having no custom-house nor quarantine

  To ask him awkward questions on the way

  About the time and place where he had been:

  He left his ship to be hove down next day,

  With orders to the people to careen;

  So that all hands were busy beyond measure,

  In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.

  XXI

  Arriving at the summit of a hill

  Which overlook’d the white walls of his home,

  He stopp’d. — What singular emotions fill

  Their bosoms who have been induced to roam!

  With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill —

  With love for many, and with fears for some;

  All feelings which o’erleap the years long lost,

  And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.

&n
bsp; XXII

  The approach of home to husbands and to sires,

  After long travelling by land or water,

  Most naturally some small doubt inspires —

  A female family’s a serious matter

  (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires —

  But they hate flattery, so I never flatter);

  Wives in their husbands’ absences grow subtler,

  And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

  XXIII

  An honest gentleman at his return

  May not have the good fortune of Ulysses;

  Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn,

  Or show the same dislike to suitors’ kisses;

  The odds are that he finds a handsome urn

  To his memory — and two or three young misses

  Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, —

  And that his Argus — bites him by the breeches.

  XXIV

  If single, probably his plighted fair

  Has in his absence wedded some rich miser;

  But all the better, for the happy pair

  May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser,

  He may resume his amatory care

  As cavalier servente, or despise her;

  And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one,

  Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

  XXV

  And oh! ye gentlemen who have already

  Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean

  An honest friendship with a married lady —

  The only thing of this sort ever seen

  To last — of all connections the most steady,

  And the true Hymen (the first’s but a screen) —

  Yet for all that keep not too long away,

  I’ve known the absent wrong’d four times a day.

  XXVI

  Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had

  Much less experience of dry land than ocean,

  On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad;

  But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion

  Of the true reason of his not being sad,

  Or that of any other strong emotion;

  He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her,

  But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.

  XXVII

  He saw his white walls shining in the sun,

  His garden trees all shadowy and green;

  He heard his rivulet’s light bubbling run,

  The distant dog-bark; and perceived between

  The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun

  The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen

  Of arms (in the East all arm) — and various dyes

  Of colour’d garbs, as bright as butterflies.

  XXVIII

  And as the spot where they appear he nears,

  Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling,

  He hears — alas! no music of the spheres,