II. But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, III. As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wish'd that others held the same opinion; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow "Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. IV. And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, which we must steep First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep: Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. V. Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it was to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary. : VI. To the kind reader of our sober clime Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell'd in the fancies of the time, True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic; But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet. VII. How I have treated it, I do not know; Perhaps no better than they have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see; But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: And tells me to resume my story here. VIII. Young Juan and his lady-love were left With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing. IX. Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their A long and snake-like life of dull decay X. They were alone once more; for them to be Cut from its forest root of years-the river XI. The heart-which may be broken: happy they! The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold The long year link'd with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told; While life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die. |