'Twould save us many a heartache, many a shil(For we must get them anyhow, or grieve); [ling Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart as well as liver! CCXIV.

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,

But changes night and day, too, like the sky: Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, And darkness and destruction as on high. But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,

Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, Which make the English climate of our years.

CCXV.

The liver is the lazaret of bile.

But very rarely executes its function;

I.

For the first passion stays there such a while,
That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunc tion,

So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central.'

CCXVI.

In the meantime, without proceeding more
In this anatomy, I've finish'd now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,
That being about the number I'll allow
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four:
And laying down my pen, I make my bow,
Leaving Don Juan and Haidée to plead
For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

HAIL, Muse! et cetera.-We left Juan sleeping, Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,

That love and marriage rarely can combine,
Although they both are born in the same clime.
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine-
A sad, sour, sober beverage-by time
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour,
Down to a very homely household savour.

VI.

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere,
Between their present and their future state;

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair

Is used until the truth arrives too late

Yet what can people do, except despair?

The same things change their names at such a rate;

For instance-passion in a lover's glorious,
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

VII.

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;
They sometimes also get a little tired
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:
The same things cannot always be admired,
Yet 'tis so nominated in the bond,'

That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.

VIII.

There's doubtless something in domestic doings,
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis;
Romances paint at full length people's wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages:
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,
There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?

IX.

All tragedies are finish'd by a death;

All comedies are ended by a marriage: The future states of both are left to faith, For authors fear description might disparage

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady.

X.

The only two that in my recollection

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are Dante and Milton, and of both the affection Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar); But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.
XI.

Some persons say that Dante meant theology
By Beatrice, and not a mistress-I,
Although my opinion may require apology,

Deem this a commentator's phantasy;
Unless, indeed, it was from his own knowledge he
Decided thus, and show'd good reason why:

I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics
Meant to personify the mathematics.

XII.

Haidée and Juan were not married; but
The fault was theirs, not mine: it is not fair,
Chaste reader, then, in any way to put

The blame on me, unless you wish they were.
Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut
The book which treats of this erroneous pair,
Before the consequences grow too awful;
'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful.
XIII.

Yet they were happy-happy in the illicit
Indulgence of their innocent desires;
But more imprudent grown with every visit,
Haidée forgot the island was her sire's.
When we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss it,
At least in the beginning, ere one tires :
Thus she came often, not a moment losing,
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.
XIV.

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation;
For into a prime minister but change

His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation. But he, more modest, took a humbler range Of life, and in an honester vocation Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

XV.

The good old gentleman had been detain'd
By winds and waves, and some important captures,
And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd,

Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures,
By swamping one of the prizes. He had chain'd
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters,
In number'd lots: they all had cuffs and collars;
And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.

Dante calls his wife, in the Inferno, La fiera moglie. Milton's first wife ran away from him.

XVI.

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,

Among his friends the Mainots: some he sold To his Tunis correspondents, save one man Toss'd overboard, unsaleable (being old); The rest-save here and there some richer one, Reserved for future ransom-in the hold, Were link'd alike; as for the common people, he Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

XVII.

The merchandise was served in the same way,
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant,
Except some certain portions of the prey,
Light classic articles of female want,
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot,
Guitars and castanets from Alicant,
[tray,
All which selected from the spoil he gathers,
Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers.
XVIII.

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, He chose from several animals he saw

A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, Who dying on the coast of Ithaca,

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittances These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper all together.

XIX.

Then having settled his marine affairs,

Despatching single cruisers here and there, His vessel having need of some repairs,

He shaped his course to where his daughter fair Continued still her hospitable cares;

But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, His port lay on the other side o' the isle.

XX.

And there he went ashore without delay,
Having no custom-house nor quarantine
To ask him awkward questions on the way,
About the time and place where he had been.
He left his ship to be hove down next day,
With orders to the people to careen;
So that all hands were busy beyond measure,
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.

XXI.

Arriving at the summit of a hill

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, He stepp'd-What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill

With love for many, and with fears for some; All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.

XXII.

The approach of home to husbands and to sires,
After long travelling by land or water,
Most naturally some small doubt inspires-
A female family's a serious inatter;
(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires-
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter;)
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,
And daughters semetimes run off with the butler:

XXIII.

An honest gentleman, at his return,

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses; Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses. The odds are that he finds a handsome urn

To his memory-and two or three young misses Born to some friend, who holds his wife and richesAnd that his Argus bites him by-the breeches. XXIV.

If single, probably his plighted fair

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair

May quarrel; and, the lady growing wiser,
He may resume his amatory care

As cavalier servente, or despise her;
And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one,
Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

XXX.

And, further on, a troop of Grecian girls,
The first and tallest her white kerchief waving,
Were strung together like a row of pearls,

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing: each too having

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls

(The least of which would set ten poets raving): Their leader sang; and bounded to her song. With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.

XXXI.

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays,
Small social parties just began to dine;
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze,

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine,
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase:

Above them their dessert grew on its vine: The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store.

XXXII.

A band of children, round a snow-white ram,
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
While, peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers
His sober head, majestically tame,

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then,
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

XXXIII.

Their classical profiles and glittering åresses.

Their large black eyes and soft seraphic cheeks, Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, The innocence which happy childhood blesses, Made quite a picture of these little Greeks: So that the philosophical beholder Sigh'd for their sakes, that they should e'er grow older.

XXXIV.

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales
To a sedate grey circle of old smokers,
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,
Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails,
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers;
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,
Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact).
XXXV.

Here was no lack of innocent diversion
For the imagination or the senses;
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is:
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,
Perceiving in his absence such expenses,
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.

XXXVI.

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
The happiest mortals, even after dinner!
A day of gold, from out an age of iron,
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner:

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least)'s a siren That lures to flay alive the young beginner; Lambro's reception at his people's banquet Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

XXXVII.

He-being a man who seldom used a word
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise
(In general, he surprised men with the sword)
His daughter-had not sent before to advise
Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd:

And long he paused to re-assure his eyes;
In fact, much more astonish'd than delighted,
To find so much good company invited.
XXXVIII.

He did not know (alas! how men will lie)
That a report (especially the Greeks)
Avouch'd his death (such people never die),

And put his house in mourning several weeksBut now their eyes and also lips were dry:

The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidée's cheeks. Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, She now kept house upon her own account.

XXXIX.

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine and fiddling, Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; The servants all were getting drunk or idling.

A life which made them happy beyond measure. Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, Compared with what Haidée did with his trea

sure:

'Twas wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving.

XL.

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast,
He flew into a passion, and in fact
There was no mighty reason to be pleased;
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,
To teach his people to be more exact;
And that, proceeding at a very high rate,
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.
XLI.

You're wrong: he was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat,
With such true breeding of a gentleman,
You never could divine his real thought;
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can
Gird more deceit within a petticoat :
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,
He was so great a loss to good society.

XLII.

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray,
Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest,
With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,
Boded no good, whatever it express'd,
He ask'd the meaning of this holiday.

The vinous Greek, to whom he had address'd
His question, much too merry to divine
The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine,

XLIII.

And, without turning his facetious head, Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air,

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said,

Talking's dry work, I have no time to spare.' A second hiccup'd, 'Our old master's dead: You'd better ask our mistress who's his heir.' 'Our mistress!' quoth a third, 'Our mistress!pooh!

You mean our master-not the old, but new.'

XLIV. These rascals, being new comers, new not whom They thus address'd; and Lambro's visage tell; And o'er his eye a momentary gloom

Pass'd; but he strove quite courteously to quell The expression, and, endeavouring to resume His smile, requested one of them to tell The name and quality of his new patron, Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidée into a matron. XLV.

'I know not,' quoth the fellow, 'who or what He is, nor whence he came-and little care; But this I know, that this roast capon's fat, And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare:

And if you are not satisfied with that,

Direct your questions to my neighbour there; He'll answer all for better or for worse,

For none likes more to hear himself converse.

XLVI.

I said that Lambro was a man of patience,
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding,
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding.
He bore these sneers against his near relations;
His own anxiety-his heart, too, bleeding;
The insults, too, of every servile glutton,
Who all the time was eating up his mutton.

XLVII.

Now in a person used to much command-
To bid men come, and go, and come again-
To see his orders done, too, out of hand-
Whether the word was death, or but the chain-
It may seem strange to find his manners bland;
Yet such things are, which I can not explain,
Though doubtless he who can command himself
Is good to govern-almost as a Guelf.

XLVIII.

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, But never in his real and serious mood; Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood: With him it never was a word and blow,

His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood; But in his silence there was much to rue, And his one blow left little work for two.

Rispone allor' Margatte, a dir tel tosto
Io non credo piu al nero ch' all'azzurro :
Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto,
E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro;
Nella cervigia, e quando io n' ho nel mosto,
E molto più nell' espro che il mangurro;
Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede,

E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede '

PULCI, Morgante Maggiore, c. 18, s. 151.

XLIX.

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded
On to the house, but by a private way,
So that the few who met him hardly heeded,
So little they expected him that day.
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded

For Haidée's sake, is more than I can say; But certainly to one deem d dead, returning, This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning.

L.

If all the dead could now return to life

(Which God forbid !) or some, or a great many; For instance, if a husband or his wife

(Nuptial examples are as good as any,)

No doubt, whate'er might be their former strife,
The present weather would be much more rainy;
Tears shed into the grave of the connection
Would share most probably its resurrection.

LI.

He enter'd in the house no more his home,

A thing to human feelings the most trying, And harder for the heart to overcome,

Ferhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying: To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb,

And round its once warm precincts palely lying The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief Beyond a single gentleman's belief.

LII.

He entered in the house-his home no more; For without hearts there is no home,-and felt The solitude of passing his own door

Without a welcome: there he long had dwelt; There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er; There his warm bosom and keen eye would melt Over the innocence of that sweet child, His only shrine of feelings undefiled.

LIII.

He was a man of a strange temperament,

Of mild demeanour, though of savage mood; Moderate in all his habits, and content

With temperance in pleasure, as in food; Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant For something better, if not wholly good: His country's wrongs, and his despair to save her, Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver.

LIV,

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold,
The hardness by long habitude produced,
The dangerous life in which he had grown old,
The mercy he had granted oft abused,
The sights he was accustom'd to behold,

The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised,

Had cost his enemies a long repentance, [tance. And made him a good friend, but bad acquain

LV.

But something of the spirit of old Greeee
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays,
Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece

His predecessors in the Colchian days. 'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace! Alas! his country show'd no path to praise :

Hate to the world and war with every nation He waged, in vengeance of her degradation.

LVI.

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd
Its power unconsciously full many a time:
A taste seen in the choice of his abode,
A love of inusic and of scenes sublime,

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd
Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers,
Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours.
LVII.

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed

On that beloved daughter. She had been The only thing which kept his heart unclosed Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen; A lonely, pure affection unopposed:

There wanted but the loss of this to wean His feelings from all milk of human kindness, And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blind

ness.

LVIII.

The cubless tigress, in her jungle raging,

Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; The ocean, when its yeasty war is waging, Is awful to the vessel near the rock; But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, Their fury being spent by its own shock, Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire Of a strong human heart, and in a sire.

LIX.

It is a hard, although a common case,

To find our children running restive-they In whom our brightest days we would retrace, Our little selves reform'd in finer clay, Just as old age is creeping on apace,

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company-the gout and stone.

LX.

Yet a fine family is a fine thing

(Provided they don't come in after dinner): 'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her)
Like cherubs round an altar-piece, they cling
To the fireside (a sight to touch a sinner).
A lady with her daughters or her nieces
Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.
LXI

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate,
And stood within his hall at eventide;
Meantime the lady and her lover sate
At wassail in their beauty and their pride;
An ivory inlaid table spread with state

Before them, and fair slaves on every side: Gems, gold, and silver form'd the service mostly, Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly.

LXII.

The dinner made about a hundred dishes;

Lamb and pistachio nuts-in short, all meats, And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes