Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  To their own whims and passions, and what not;

  Society itself, which should create

  Kindness, destroys what little we had got:

  To feel for none is the true social art

  Of the world’s stoics — men without a heart.”

  XXVI

  Just now a black old neutral personage

  Of the third sex stept up, and peering over

  The captives, seem’d to mark their looks and age,

  And capabilities, as to discover

  If they were fitted for the purposed cage:

  No lady e’er is ogled by a lover,

  Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,

  Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

  XXVII

  As is a slave by his intended bidder.

  ’T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures;

  And all are to be sold, if you consider

  Their passions, and are dext’rous; some by features

  Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,

  Some by a place — as tend their years or natures;

  The most by ready cash — but all have prices,

  From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

  XXVIII

  The eunuch, having eyed them o’er with care,

  Turn’d to the merchant, and begun to bid

  First but for one, and after for the pair;

  They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did!

  As though they were in a mere Christian fair

  Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;

  So that their bargain sounded like a battle

  For this superior yoke of human cattle.

  XXIX

  At last they settled into simple grumbling,

  And pulling out reluctant purses, and

  Turning each piece of silver o’er, and tumbling

  Some down, and weighing others in their hand,

  And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,

  Until the sum was accurately scann’d,

  And then the merchant giving change, and signing

  Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

  XXX

  I wonder if his appetite was good?

  Or, if it were, if also his digestion?

  Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude,

  And conscience ask a curious sort of question,

  About the right divine how far we should

  Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one,

  I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour

  Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

  XXXI

  Voltaire says “No:” he tells you that Candide

  Found life most tolerable after meals;

  He’s wrong — unless man were a pig, indeed,

  Repletion rather adds to what he feels,

  Unless he’s drunk, and then no doubt he’s freed

  From his own brain’s oppression while it reels.

  Of food I think with Philip’s son, or rather

  Ammon’s (ill pleased with one world and one father);

  XXXII

  I think with Alexander, that the act

  Of eating, with another act or two,

  Makes us feel our mortality in fact

  Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout,

  And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back’d,

  Can give us either pain or pleasure, who

  Would pique himself on intellects, whose use

  Depends so much upon the gastric juice?

  XXXIII

  The other evening (‘t was on Friday last) —

  This is a fact and no poetic fable —

  Just as my great coat was about me cast,

  My hat and gloves still lying on the table,

  I heard a shot — ‘t was eight o’clock scarce past —

  And, running out as fast as I was able,

  I found the military commandant

  Stretch’d in the street, and able scarce to pant.

  XXXIV

  Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad,

  They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there

  To perish on the pavement: so I had

  Him borne into the house and up the stair,

  And stripp’d and look’d to — But why should I ad

  More circumstances? vain was every care;

  The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel

  Kill’d by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.

  XXXV

  I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;

  And though I have seen many corpses, never

  Saw one, whom such an accident befell,

  So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver,

  He seem’d to sleep, — for you could scarcely tell

  (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river

  Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead:

  So as I gazed on him, I thought or said —

  XXXVI

  “Can this be death? then what is life or death?

  Speak!” but he spoke not: “Wake!” but still he slept: —

  “But yesterday and who had mightier breath?

  A thousand warriors by his word were kept

  In awe: he said, as the centurion saith,

  ’Go,’ and he goeth; ‘come,’ and forth he stepp’d.

  The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb —

  And now nought left him but the muffled drum.”

  XXXVII

  And they who waited once and worshipp’d — they

  With their rough faces throng’d about the bed

  To gaze once more on the commanding clay

  Which for the last, though not the first, time bled:

  And such an end! that he who many a day

  Had faced Napoleon’s foes until they fled, —

  The foremost in the charge or in the sally,

  Should now be butcher’d in a civic alley.

  XXXVIII

  The scars of his old wounds were near his new,

  Those honourable scars which brought him fame;

  And horrid was the contrast to the view —

  But let me quit the theme; as such things claim

  Perhaps even more attention than is due

  From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)

  To try if I could wrench aught out of death

  Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;

  XXXIX

  But it was all a mystery. Here we are,

  And there we go: — but where? five bits of lead,

  Or three, or two, or one, send very far!

  And is this blood, then, form’d but to be shed?

  Can every element our elements mar?

  And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead?

  We whose minds comprehend all things? No more;

  But let us to the story as before.

  XL

  The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance

  Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat,

  Embark’d himself and them, and off they went thence

  As fast as oars could pull and water float;

  They look’d like persons being led to sentence,

  Wondering what next, till the caïque was brought

  Up in a little creek below a wall

  O’ertopp’d with cypresses, dark-green and tall.

  XLI

  Here their conductor tapping at the wicket

  Of a small iron door, ‘t was open’d, and

  He led them onward, first through a low thicket

  Flank’d by large groves, which tower’d on either hand:

  They almost lost their way, and had to pick it —

  For night was dosing ere they came to land.

  The eunuch made a sign to those on b
oard,

  Who row’d off, leaving them without a word.

  XLII

  As they were plodding on their winding way

  Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth

  (Of which I might have a good deal to say,

  There being no such profusion in the North

  Of oriental plants, “et cetera,”

  But that of late your scribblers think it worth

  Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works

  Because one poet travell’d ‘mongst the Turks) —

  XLIII

  As they were threading on their way, there came

  Into Don Juan’s head a thought, which he

  Whisper’d to his companion: — ‘t was the same

  Which might have then occurr’d to you or me.

  “Methinks,” said he, “it would be no great shame

  If we should strike a stroke to set us free;

  Let’s knock that old black fellow on the head,

  And march away — ‘t were easier done than said.”

  XLIV

  “Yes,” said the other, “and when done, what then?

  How get out? how the devil got we in?

  And when we once were fairly out, and when

  From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin,

  To-morrow’d see us in some other den,

  And worse off than we hitherto have been;

  Besides, I’m hungry, and just now would take,

  Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.

  XLV

  “We must be near some place of man’s abode; —

  For the old negro’s confidence in creeping,

  With his two captives, by so queer a road,

  Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping;

  A single cry would bring them all abroad:

  ’T is therefore better looking before leaping —

  And there, you see, this turn has brought us through,

  By Jove, a noble palace! — lighted too.”

  XLVI

  It was indeed a wide extensive building

  Which open’d on their view, and o’er the front

  There seem’d to be besprent a deal of gilding

  And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, —

  A gaudy taste; for they are little skill’d in

  The arts of which these lands were once the font:

  Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen

  New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.

  XLVII

  And nearer as they came, a genial savour

  Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus,

  Things which in hungry mortals’ eyes find favour,

  Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause,

  And put himself upon his good behaviour:

  His friend, too, adding a new saving clause,

  Said, “In Heaven’s name let’s get some supper now,

  And then I’m with you, if you’re for a row.”

  XLVIII

  Some talk of an appeal unto some passion,

  Some to men’s feelings, others to their reason;

  The last of these was never much the fashion,

  For reason thinks all reasoning out of season.

  Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on,

  But more or less continue still to tease on,

  With arguments according to their “forte;”

  But no one dreams of ever being short. —

  XLIX

  But I digress: of all appeals, — although

  I grant the power of pathos, and of gold,

  Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no

  Method’s more sure at moments to take hold

  Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow

  More tender, as we every day behold,

  Than that all-softening, overpowering knell,

  The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell.

  L

  Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine;

  And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard

  No Christian knoll to table, saw no line

  Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared,

  Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine,

  And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared,

  And gazed around them to the left and right

  With the prophetic eye of appetite.

  LI

  And giving up all notions of resistance,

  They follow’d close behind their sable guide,

  Who little thought that his own crack’d existence

  Was on the point of being set aside:

  He motion’d them to stop at some small distance,

  And knocking at the gate, ‘t was open’d wide,

  And a magnificent large hall display’d

  The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.

  LII

  I won’t describe; description is my forte,

  But every fool describes in these bright days

  His wondrous journey to some foreign court,

  And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise —

  Death to his publisher, to him ‘t is sport;

  While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways,

  Resigns herself with exemplary patience

  To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.

  LIII

  Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted

  Upon their hams, were occupied at chess;

  Others in monosyllable talk chatted,

  And some seem’d much in love with their own dress.

  And divers smoked superb pipes decorated

  With amber mouths of greater price or less;

  And several strutted, others slept, and some

  Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.

  LIV

  As the black eunuch enter’d with his brace

  Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes

  A moment without slackening from their pace;

  But those who sate ne’er stirr’d in anywise:

  One or two stared the captives in the face,

  Just as one views a horse to guess his price;

  Some nodded to the negro from their station,

  But no one troubled him with conversation.

  LV

  He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping,

  On through a farther range of goodly rooms,

  Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping,

  A marble fountain echoes through the glooms

  Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping

  Some female head most curiously presumes

  To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice,

  As wondering what the devil a noise that is.

  LVI

  Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls

  Gave light enough to hint their farther way,

  But not enough to show the imperial halls,

  In all the flashing of their full array;

  Perhaps there’s nothing — I’ll not say appals,

  But saddens more by night as well as day,

  Than an enormous room without a soul

  To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.

  LVII

  Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing:

  In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore,

  There solitude, we know, has her full growth in

  The spots which were her realms for evermore;

  But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in

  More modern buildings and those built of yore,

  A kind of death comes o’er us all alone,

  Seeing what’s meant for many with but one.

  LVIII

  A neat, snug study on a winter’s night,

  A book, frien
d, single lady, or a glass

  Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite,

  Are things which make an English evening pass;

  Though certes by no means so grand a sight

  As is a theatre lit up by gas.

  I pass my evenings in long galleries solely,

  And that’s the reason I’m so melancholy.

  LIX

  Alas! man makes that great which makes him little:

  I grant you in a church ‘t is very well:

  What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle,

  But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell

  Their names who rear’d it; but huge houses fit ill —

  And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell:

  Methinks the story of the tower of Babel

  Might teach them this much better than I’m able.

  LX

  Babel was Nimrod’s hunting-box, and then

  A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing,

  Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men,

  Reign’d, till one summer’s day he took to grazing,

  And Daniel tamed the lions in their den,

  The people’s awe and admiration raising;

  ‘T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus,

  And the calumniated queen Semiramis.

  LXI

  That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse

  Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy)

  Of an improper friendship for her horse

  (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy):

  This monstrous tale had probably its source

  (For such exaggerations here and there I see)

  In writing “Courser” by mistake for “Courier:”

  I wish the case could come before a jury here.

  LXII

  But to resume, — should there be (what may not

  Be in these days?) some infidels, who don’t,

  Because they can’t find out the very spot

  Of that same Babel, or because they won’t

  (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got,

  And written lately two memoirs upon’t),

  Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who

  Must be believed, though they believe not you,

  LXIII

  Yet let them think that Horace has exprest

  Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly

  Of those, forgetting the great place of rest,

  Who give themselves to architecture wholly;

  We know where things and men must end at best:

  A moral (like all morals) melancholy,

  And “Et sepulchri immemor struis domos”

  Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.

  LXIV

  At last they reach’d a quarter most retired,

  Where echo woke as if from a long slumber;

  Though full of all things which could be desired,