I know not why, but in that hour to-night, XXII. That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone; Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance inquired of hers for some excuse For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. XXIII. She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort And master'd by her wisdom or her pride; Juan would question further, but she press'd Some people prefer wine-'t is not amiss: I have tried both; so those who would a part take May choose between the head-ache and the heart-ache. XXV. One of the two, according to your choice, But which to choose I really hardly know; For both sides I could many reasons show, And then decide, without great wrong to either, It were much better to have both than neither. XXVI. Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other, With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, All that the best can mingle and express, When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, And love too much, and yet can not love less; But almost sanctify the sweet excess By the immortal wish and power to bless. XXVII. Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, They should have lived together deep in woods, Call'd social, where all vice, and hatred are: The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, For ever and anon a something shook Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream Good to the soul which we no more can bind; Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. XXXI. She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir She could not from the spot, and the loud roar Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; And o'er her upper hip they seem'd to pour, Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. XXXII. Anon-she was released, and then she stray'd "T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. ΧΧΧΙΙΙ. The dream changed: in a cave she stood, its walls Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. XXXIV. And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!) Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat Of his quench'd heart; and the sea-duges low Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, | And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. XXXV. More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew- And starting, she awoke, and what to view! Oh! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? 'Tis 't is her father's-fix'd upon the pair! XXXVI. Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, I have seen such-but must not call to mind. XXXVII. Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, And caught her falling, and from off the wall And Haidee clung around him; "Juan, 't is Oh dearest father, in this agony Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be High and inscrutable the old man stood, Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye- XL. "Young man, your sword;" so Lambro once more said: And drawing from his belt a pistol, he It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, If you have got a former friend for foe; Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew In vain she struggled in her father's grasp,- Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through CANTO IV. XLIX. DON JUAN. The second had his cheek laid open; but L. And then they bound him where he fell, and bore Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; The world is full of strange vicissitudes, And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, LII. Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; For if my pure libations exceed three, I feel my heart become so sympathetic, That I must have recourse to black Bohea: Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac! Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill! And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? (In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill I leave Don Juan for the present safe Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded? There the large olive rains its amber store In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, LVI. Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower: Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, But, overwrought with passion and despair, The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own: LIX. A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, LX. Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill, All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred The ruling passion, such as marble shows LXII. She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true LXIII. She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; However dear or cherish'd in their day; And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, seem'd full of fearful meaning. LXV. At last a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came, and tuned his instrument; At the first notes, irregular and sharp, On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, And he began a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. LXVI. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick, Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence Avail'd for either; neither change of place, Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last, And they who watch'd her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the blackOh! to possess such lustre-and then lack! LXX. She died, but not alone; she held within Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one bught; Thus lived-thus died she: never more on her. That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay: Ye could not know where lies a thing so far. No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. LXXIII. But many a Greek maid in a loving song Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander With her sire's story makes the night less long; Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her; If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrongA heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, For soon or late Love is his own avenger. LXXIV. But let me change this theme, which grows too sal, I don't much like describing people mad, Wounded and fetter'd, "cabin'd, cribb'd, confined" And when he did, he found himself at sea, Sailing six knots an hour before the wind; The shores of Ilion lay beneath their leeAnother time he might have liked to see 'em, But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigrun. LXXVI. There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilies: They say so-(Bryant says the contrary): And further downward, tall and towering, still is The tumulus-of whom? Heaven knows; 't may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, All heroes, who if living still would slay us. LXXVII. High barrows, without marble or a name, A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, And Ida in the distance, still the same, And old Scamander (if 'tis he), remain; The situation seems still form'd for fame A hundred thousand men might fight again With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls; LXXVIII. Troops of untended horses; here and there Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; LXXXIV. "And then there are the dancers; there's the Nini, But spends so fast, she has not now a paul; And then there's the Grotesca-such a dancer! Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. LXXXV. "As for the figuranti, they are like The rest of all that tribe; with here and there A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; There's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, Yet has a sentimental kind of air, Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour ; Are what I found there-but the devil a Phrygian. The more's the pity, with her face and figure. LXXIX. Don Juan, here permitted to emerge From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; Forlorn, and gazing on the deep-blue surge, O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave: Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge A few brief questions; and the answers gave No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation. LXXX. He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd Which was an odd one; a troop going to act In Sicily-all singers, duly rear'd In their vocation,-had not been attack'd, By one of these, the buffo of the party, And bore him with some gaiety and grace, LXXXII. In a few words he told their hapless story, LXXXIII. "The prima donna, though a little old, And haggard with a dissipated life, And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife, With no great voice, is pleasing to behold; Last carnival she made a deal of strife, By carrying off Count Cesar Cicogna, From an old Roman princess at Bologna. LXXXVI. "As for the men, they are a middling set; The Musico is but a crack'd old basin, But, being qualified in one way yet, May the seraglio do to set his face in, And as a servant some preferment get; His singing I no further trust can place in: From all the pope makes yearly, 't would perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. LXXXVII. "The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, But being the prima donna's near relation, Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe An ass was practising recitative. LXXXVIII. "T would not become myself to dwell upon My own merits, and though young-I see, sir-you Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one To whom the opera is by no means new: You've heard of Raucocanti ?-I'm the man; The time may come when you may hear me too; You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, But next, when I'm engaged to sing there-do go. LXXXIX. "Our barytone I almost had forgot, A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; With graceful action, science not a jot, A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, He always is complaining of his lot, Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital Who came at stated moments to invite all The captives back to their sad births; each threw A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all, From the blue skies derived a double blue, Dancing all free and happy in the sun), And then went down the hatchway one by one. |