by Lord Byron
To make a twilight in, just as Sol’s heat is
Quench’d in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.
LXX
And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine),
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing
Whose temporary passion was quite flattering,
Because each lover look’d a sort of king,
Made up upon an amatory pattern,
A royal husband in all save the ring —
Which, being the damn’dest part of matrimony,
Seem’d taking out the sting to leave the honey.
LXXI
And when you add to this, her womanhood
In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray
(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,
Or better, as the best examples say:
Napoleon’s, Mary’s (queen of Scotland), should
Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue,
Too wise to look through optics black or blue) —
LXXII
Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension,
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger
(Fellows whom Messalina’s self would pension),
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,
With other extras, which we need not mention, —
All these, or any one of these, explain
Enough to make a stripling very vain.
LXXIII
And that’s enough, for love is vanity,
Selfish in its beginning as its end,
Except where ‘t is a mere insanity,
A maddening spirit which would strive to blend
Itself with beauty’s frail inanity,
On which the passion’s self seems to depend:
And hence some heathenish philosophers
Make love the main spring of the universe.
LXXIV
Besides Platonic love, besides the love
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving
Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove,
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving
‘Gainst reason — Reason ne’er was hand-and-glove
With rhyme, but always leant less to improving
The sound than sense) — beside all these pretences
To love, there are those things which words name senses;
LXXV
Those movements, those improvements in our bodies
Which make all bodies anxious to get out
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,
For such all women are at first no doubt.
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is
That fever which precedes the languid rout
Of our sensations! What a curious way
The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!
LXXVI
The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,
To end or to begin with; the next grand
Is that which may be christen’d love canonical,
Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
The third sort to be noted in our chronicle
As flourishing in every Christian land,
Is when chaste matrons to their other ties
Add what may be call’d marriage in disguise.
LXXVII
Well, we won’t analyse — our story must
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,
Juan much flatter’d by her love, or lust; —
I cannot stop to alter words once written,
And the two are so mix’d with human dust,
That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
But in such matters Russia’s mighty empress
Behaved no better than a common sempstress.
LXXVIII
The whole court melted into one wide whisper,
And all lips were applied unto all ears!
The elder ladies’ wrinkles curl’d much crisper
As they beheld; the younger cast some leers
On one another, and each lovely lisper
Smiled as she talk’d the matter o’er; but tears
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye
Of all the standing army who stood by.
LXXIX
All the ambassadors of all the powers
Enquired, Who was this very new young man,
Who promised to be great in some few hours?
Which is full soon — though life is but a span.
Already they beheld the silver showers
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents
Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.
LXXX
Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are:
Love, that great opener of the heart and all
The ways that lead there, be they near or far,
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, —
Love (though she had a curséd taste for war,
And was not the best wife, unless we call
Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps ‘t is better
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) —
LXXXI
Love had made Catherine make each lover’s fortune,
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,
If history, the grand liar, ever saith
The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,
Because she put a favourite to death,
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.
LXXXII
But when the levée rose, and all was bustle
In the dissolving circle, all the nations’
Ambassadors began as ‘t were to hustle
Round the young man with their congratulations.
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations
It is to speculate on handsome faces,
Especially when such lead to high places.
LXXXIII
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,
A general object of attention, made
His answers with a very graceful bow,
As if born for the ministerial trade.
Though modest, on his unembarrass’d brow
Nature had written “gentleman.” He said
Little, but to the purpose; and his manner
Flung hovering graces o’er him like a banner.
LXXXIV
An order from her majesty consign’d
Our young lieutenant to the genial care
Of those in office: all the world look’d kind
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare,
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind),
As also did Miss Protasoff then there,
Named from her mystic office “l’Eprouveuse,”
A term inexplicable to the Muse.
LXXXV
With her then, as in humble duty bound,
Juan retired, — and so will I, until
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.
We have just lit on a “heaven-kissing hill,”
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round,
And all my fancies whirling like a mill;
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain,
To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.
DON JUAN: CANTO THE TENTH
I
When Newton saw an apple fall, he found
In that slight startle from his contemplation —
‘T is said (for I’ll not answer above ground
For any sage’s creed or calculation) —
A mode of proving that the earth turn’d round
In a most natural whirl, called “gravitation;”
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple,
Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.
II
Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,
If this be true; for we must deem the mode
In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road,
A thing to counterbalance human woes:
For ever since immortal man hath glow’d
With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon
Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.
III
And wherefore this exordium? — Why, just now,
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper,
My bosom underwent a glorious glow,
And my internal spirit cut a caper:
And though so much inferior, as I know,
To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour,
Discover stars and sail in the wind’s eye,
I wish to do as much by poesy.
IV
In the wind’s eye I have sail’d, and sail; but for
The stars, I own my telescope is dim:
But at least I have shunn’d the common shore,
And leaving land far out of sight, would skim
The ocean of eternity: the roar
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim,
But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float
Where ships have founder’d, as doth many a boat.
V
We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom
Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush;
And far be it from my Muses to presume
(For I have more than one Muse at a push)
To follow him beyond the drawing-room:
It is enough that Fortune found him flush
Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things
Which for an instant clip enjoyment’s wings.
VI
But soon they grow again and leave their nest.
”Oh!” saith the Psalmist, “that I had a dove’s
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!”
And who that recollects young years and loves, —
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,
And palsied fancy, which no longer roves
Beyond its dimm’d eye’s sphere, — but would much rather
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?
VII
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows’) shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow,
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
Such difference doth a few months make. You’d think
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow;
No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys,
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.
VIII
But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now
And then before sighs cease; for oft the one
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun
Of life reach’d ten o’clock: and while a glow,
Hectic and brief as summer’s day nigh done,
O’erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay,
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die, — how happy they!
IX
But Juan was not meant to die so soon.
We left him in the focus of such glory
As may be won by favour of the moon
Or ladies’ fancies — rather transitory
Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June,
Because December, with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.
X
Besides, he had some qualities which fix
Middle-aged ladies even more than young:
The former know what’s what; while new-fledged chicks
Know little more of love than what is sung
In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks)
In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung.
Some reckon women by their suns or years,
I rather think the moon should date the dears.
XI
And why? because she’s changeable and chaste.
I know no other reason, whatsoe’er
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste,
May choose to tax me with; which is not fair,
Nor flattering to “their temper or their taste,”
As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air:
However, I forgive him, and I trust
He will forgive himself; — if not, I must.
XII
Old enemies who have become new friends
Should so continue — ‘t is a point of honour;
And I know nothing which could make amends
For a return to hatred: I would shun her
Like garlic, howsoever she extends
Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her.
Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes —
Converted foes should scorn to join with those.
XIII
This were the worst desertion: — renegadoes,
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie,
Would scarcely join again the “reformadoes,”
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate’s sty:
And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes,
Whether in Caledon or Italy,
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize
To pain, the moment when you cease to please.
XIV
The lawyer and the critic but behold
The baser sides of literature and life,
And nought remains unseen, but much untold,
By those who scour those double vales of strife.
While common men grow ignorantly old,
The lawyer’s brief is like the surgeon’s knife,
Dissecting the whole inside of a question,
And with it all the process of digestion.
XV
A legal broom’s a moral chimney-sweeper,
And that’s the reason he himself’s so dirty;
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper
Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he
Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper,
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty,
In all their habits; — not so you, I own;
As Cæsar wore his robe you wear your gown.
XVI
And all our little feuds, at least all mine,
Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe
(As far as rhyme and criticism combine
To make such puppets of us things below),
Are over: Here’s a health to “Auld Lang Syne!”
I do not know you, and may never know
Your face — but you have acted on the whole
Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.
XVII
And when I use the phrase of “Auld Lang Syne!”
’T is not address’d to you — the more’s the pity
For me, for I would rather take my wine
With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city.
But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy’s whine,
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty,
But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred
A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, —
As “Auld Lang Syne” brings Scotland, one and all,
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams,
The Dee — the Don — Balgounie’s brig’s black wall,
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams
Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,
Like Banquo’s offspring; — floating past me seems
My childhood in this childishness of mine:
I care not — ‘t is a glimpse of “Auld Lang Syne.”
XIX
And though, as you remember, in a fit
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
I rail’d at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
Which must be own’d was sensitive and surly,
Yet ‘t is in vain such sallies to permit,
They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
I “scotch’d not kill’d” the Scotchman in my blood,
And love the land of “mountain and of flood.”
XX
Don Juan, who was real, or ideal, —
For both are much the same, since what men think
Exists when the once thinkers are less real
Than what they thought, for mind can never sink,
And ‘gainst the body makes a strong appeal;
And yet ‘t is very puzzling on the brink
Of what is call’d eternity, to stare,
And know no more of what is here, than there; —
XXI
Don Juan grew a very polish’d Russian —
How we won’t mention, why we need not say:
Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion
Of any slight temptation in their way;
But his just now were spread as is a cushion
Smooth’d for a monarch’s seat of honour; gay
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money,
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.
XXII
The favour of the empress was agreeable;
And though the duty wax’d a little hard,
Young people at his time of life should be able
To come off handsomely in that regard.
He was now growing up like a green tree, able
For love, war, or ambition, which reward
Their luckier votaries, till old age’s tedium
Make some prefer the circulating medium.
XXIII
About this time, as might have been anticipated,
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples,
Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated;
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples
On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated
With all kinds of incorrigible samples
Of frail humanity — must make us selfish,
And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.
XXIV
This we pass over. We will also pass