Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away;
She recognised no being, and no spot,

However dear or cherish'd in their day:
They changed from room to room, but all forgot,
Gentle, but without memory, she lay;

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,
And
sung of love, the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
To be so being; in a gushing stream

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.
LXVII

Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick,
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose
As one who ne'er hd dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,
Although her paroxysm drew towards its close:
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.
LXVII.

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 Availd for either; neither change of place, Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep-the power seem'd for ever. gone

LXIX.

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show
A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd:

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 eves-the beautiful, the blackOh! to possess such Justre-and then lack!

LXX.

She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might
Hlave dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin :
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of heaven descend above
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.
LXXI.

Thus lived-thus died she; never more on her
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure, till they are laid
By age in earth; her days and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful-such as had not stay'd
Long with her destiny: but she sleeps well
By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell.
LXXI.

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 fair

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 sad.
And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf;
I don't much like describing people mad,
For fear of seeming rather toneh'd myself-
Besides, I've no more on this head to add:

And as my Muse is a capricious elf,
We'll put about and try another tack
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back.
LXXV.
Wounded and fetter'd, « cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,»
Some days and nights elapsed before that he
Could altogether call the past to mind;

And when he did, he found himself at sea, Sailing six knots an hour before the wind:

The shores of Iliou lay beneath their leeAnother time he might have liked to see 'em, But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigæum. LXXVI.

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sca) intomb d the bravest of the brave, Achilles: They say so-(Bryant says the contrary:) And further downward, tall and towering, still is The tumulus-of whom-Heaven knows! f' may Patrochus, Ajax, o; 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 't is 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

Some little hamlets with new names uncouth; Some shepherds (unlike Paris), led to stare A moment at the European youth Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there-but the devil a Phrygian. 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
To be Italians-as they were, in fact;
From them, at least, their destiny he heard,
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,
In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate,
But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 3
LXXXI.

By one of these, the buffo of the party,
Juan was told about their curious case;
For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he
Still kept his spirits up-at least his face;
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty,
And bore him with some gaiety and grace,
Showing a much more reconciled demeanour
Than did the prima donna and the tenor.
LXXX I.

In a few words he told their hapless story,
Saying, «Our Machiavelian impresario,
Making a signal off some promontory,

Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario!
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry,
Without a single scudo of salario;
But, if the sultan has a taste for song,
We will revive our fortunes before long.

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 Cæsar Cicogna
From an old Roman princess at Bologna.

LXXXIV.

«And then there are the dancers; there's the Nini,
With more than one profession gains by all;
Then there's that laughing slut, the Pellegrini,
She too was fortunate last carnival,

And made at least five hundred good zecchini,
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;
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure.
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 4 makes yearly, 't would perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. LXXXVII.

<< The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education,

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; In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth,» XC.

Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital

Was interrupted by the pirate crew,

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.

XCVIII.

T is all the same to me, I'm fond of yielding,
And therefore leave them to the purer page
Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding,

Who say strange things for so correct an age.
I once had great alacrity in wielding

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage,

And recollect the time when all this cant
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't.

XCIX.

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble;
But at this hour I wish to part in
peace,
Leaving such to the literary rabble,

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease While the right hand which wrote it still is able, Or of some centuries to take a lease,

The grass upon my grave will grow as long,
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.

C.

Of poets who come down to us through distance
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame,
Life seems the smallest portion of existence;
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name,
'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same,
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow,-
But after all 't is nothing but cold snow.

CI.

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, And love of glory 's but an airy lust,

Too often in its fury overcoming all

Who would, as 't were, identify their dust

From out the wide destruction which, entombing all,
Leaves nothing till the coming of the just-

Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.
CII.

The very generations of the derd

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an age is fled,

And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read?

Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, And lose their own in universal death.

CV.

With human blood that column was cemented,
With human filth that column is defiled,
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented,
To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd.
Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented

Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.

CVI.

Yet there will still be bards; though fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke

Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; As on the beach the waves at last are broke,

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, Dash into poetry, which is but passion, Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion.

CVII.

If in the course of such a life as was

At once adventurous and contemplative, Men who partake all passions as they pass,

Acquire the deep and bitter power to give Their images again, as in a glass,

And in such colours that they seem to live; You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.

CVIII. Oh! ye, who make the fortunes of all books! Benign ceruleans of the second sex! Who advertise new poems by your looks, Your « imprimatur» will ye not annex? What, must I go to the oblivious cooks,Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? Ah! must I then the only minstrel be Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea? CIX.

What, can I prove « a lion» then no more?

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, To bear the compliments of many a bore,

་

And sigh I can't get out,» like Yorick's starling. Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling), That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.

CX.

Oh! « darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,»

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, And I, learned ladies. ye of say you;

They say your stockings are so (leaven knows why, I have examined few pair of that hue);

Blue as the garters which serenely lie Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn The festal midnight and the levee morn.

CXI.

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures: But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, You read my stanzas, and I read your features: And-but no matter, all those things are over. Still I have no dislike to learned natures,

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover: I know one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but-quite a fool.

CXII.

Humboldt, «<the first of travellers,» but not
The last, if late accounts be accurate,
Invented, by some name I have forgot,

As well as the sublime discovery's date,
An airy instrument, with which he sought
To ascertain the atmospheric state,
By measuring the intensity of blue:»
Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!
CXIII.

But to the narrative.-The vessel bound
With slaves to sell off in the capital,
After the usual process, might be found
At anchor under the seraglio wall:
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound,
Were landed in the market, one and all,
And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians,
Bought up for different purposes and passions.

CXIV.

Some went off dearly: fifteen hundred dollars
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given,
Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours

Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven:
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven;
But when the offer went beyond, they knew
'T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew.
CXV.

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price
Which the West-Indian market scarce would bring;
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice
What it was ere abolition; and the thing
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice

Is always much more splendid than a king:
The virtues, even the most exalted, charity,
Are saving-vice spares nothing for a rarity.
CXVI.

But for the destiny of this young troop,

How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, How some to burdens were obliged to stoop,

And others rose to the command of crews
As renegadoes; while in hapless group,

Hoping no very old vizier might chuse,
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em,
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim.

CXVII.

All this must be reserved for further song;
Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant
(Because this canto has become too long;),

Must be postponed discreetly for the present; I'm sensible redundancy is wrong,

But could not for the muse of me put less in 't: And now delay the progress of Don Juan, Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan,

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain-simple-short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd.
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This
poem will become a moral model.
III.

The European with the Asian shore

Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream,' Here and there studded with a seventy-four; Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;

The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;

The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, Far less describe, present the view Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.

IV.

very

I have a passion for the name of « Mary,»
For once it was a magic sound to me,
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;

All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,

A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: But I grow sad—and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told.

V.

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades,
'Tis a grand sight, from off « the Giant's Grave,»2
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

VI.

"T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parea then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinuing

In all who o'er the great deep take their ways: They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't; Because if drown'd, they can't-if spared, they won't.

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,

And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; Each bevy with the merchaut in his station:

Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed. All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation,

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged; The negroes more philosophy display'd,— Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd.

VIII.

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full,

As most at his age are, of hope, and health; Yet I must own he look'd a little dull,

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth : Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull

His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth,
A mistress, and such comfortable quarters,
To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,

IX.

Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless,
Upon the whole his carriage was serene :
His figure, and the splendour of his dress,
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen,
Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess

He was above the vulgar by his mien;
And then, though pale, he was so very handsome;
And then-they calculated on his ransom.

X.

Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted

With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted:

Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.

It chanced, amongst the other people lotted,

A man of thirty, rather stout and hale,
With resolution in his dark grey eye,
Next Juan stood, till some might chuse to buy.
XI.

He had an English look; that is, was square
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy,
Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study,
An open brow a little mark'd with care:

One arm had on a bandage rather bloody;

And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator.

XII.

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad,

Of a high spirit evidently, though At present weigh'd down by a doom which had O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show A kind of blunt compassion for the sad Lot of so young a partner in the woe, Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse Than any other scrape-a thing of course.

XIII

My boy!» said he, «amidst this motley crew
Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not,
All ragamuffins differing but in hue,
With whom it is our luck to cast our lot,
The only gentlemen seem I and you,

So let us be acquainted, as we ought:
If I could yield you any consolation,
T would give me

pleasure:-Pray, what is your nation! »