Young Juan and his lady-love were left

To their own hearts' most sweet society; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he
Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft,
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
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail:
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair;
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail,
They were all summer: lightning might assail
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail
A long and snake-like life of dull decay
Was not for them-they had too little clay,

The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest iniss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over, may be meant to save. XIII.

Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead.

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them:

They found no fault with Time, save that he fied; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: Each was the other's mirror, and but read

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem; And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection.

XIV.

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,

The least glance better understood than words, Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much; A language, too, but like to that of birds, Known but to them, at least appearing such As but to lovers a true sense affords : Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard.

XV.

All these were theirs, for they were children still,
And children still they should have ever been:
They were not made in the real world to fill
A busy character in the dull scene;
But like two beings born from out a rill,

A nymph and her beloved, all unseen
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers,
And never know the weight of human hours.

XVI.

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found

Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys

* See Herodotus.

As rarely they beheld throughout their round;
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys,
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound

By the mere senses; and that which destroys
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd
A thing which each endearment more endear'd.
XVII.

Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful!

But theirs was love in which the mind delights To lose itself, when the old world grows dull, And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, Intrigues, adventures of the common school, Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet

more,

Whose husband only knows her not a wh-re.

XVIII.

Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know.

Enough. The faithful and the fairy pair, Who never found a single hour too slow,

What was it made them thus exempt from care? Young innate feelings all have felt below,

Which perish in the rest, but in them were Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic. XIX.

This is in others a factitious state,

An opium-dream of too much youth and reading, But was in them their nature or their fate:

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding;

For Haidée's knowledge was by no means great,
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding;
So that there was no reason for their loves
More than for those of nightingales or doves.
XX.

They gazed upon the sunset: 'tis an hour

Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes,

For it had made them what they were: the power Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies,

When happiness had been their only dower,

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought

The past still welcome as the present thought.

XXI.

I know not why, but in that hour to-night,

Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came.
And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight,
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame,
When one is shook in sound, and one in sight;
And thus some boding flash'd through either
frame.

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh,
While one new tear arose in Haidée's eye.

XXII.

That large black prophet-eye seem'd to dilate,
And follow far the disappearing sun,

As if their last day of a happy date

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 Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:

Whatever feelings shook her, it seem'd short,
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride:
When Juan spoke, too-it might be in sport-
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied,
'If it should be so-but-it cannot be-
Or I at least shall not survive to see.'

XXIV.

Juan would question further, but she press'd
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,
And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast,
Defying augury with that fond kiss:

And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best.

Some people prefer wine-tis not amiss;

I have tried both: so those who would a part take May choose between the headache and the heartache.

XXV.

One of the two according to your choice,
Woman or wine, you'll have to undergo:
Both maladies are taxes on our joys,

But which to choose I really hardly know;
And if I had to give a casting voice,

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 Haidée 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, Why did they not then die?-they had lived too long

Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; Years could but bring them cruel things or

wrong;

The world was not for them, nor the world's art For beings passionate as Sappho's song: Love was born with them, in them, so intense, It was their very spirit-not a sense.

XXVIII.

They should have lived together deep in woods. Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care: How lonely every freeborn creature broods!

The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair: The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.

XXIX.

Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
Haidée and Juan their siesta took,
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep.
For ever and anon a something shook
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep;
And Haidée's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook,
A wordless music, and her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air;
XXX.

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream,
The mystical usurper of the mind-
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem

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 lip they seem'd to pour,

Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and highEach broke to drown her, yet she could not die. XXXII.

Anon she was released, and then she stray'd O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And stumbled almost every step she made: And something roll'd before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue, howe'er afraid;

'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet Her glance or grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.

XXXIII.

The dream changed: in a cave she stood, its walls Were hung with marble icicles, the work

Of ages on its water-fretted halls,

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-dirges low Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.

XXXV.

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face
Faded, or alter'd into something new-
Like to her father's features, till each trace
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew--

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;
And starting, she awoke, and what to view?
O powers of heaven! what dark eye meets she
there?

'Tis 'tis her father's-fix'd upon the pair!

XXXVI.

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see, Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell The ocean buried, risen from death, to be Perchance the death of one she loved too well; Dear as her father had been to Haidée,

It was a moment of that awful kind

I have seen such-but must not call to inind.
XXXVII.

Up Juan sprang to Haidée's bitter shriek,
And caught her falling, and from off the wall
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all.
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,
Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call,
A thousand scimitars await the word;
Put up. young man, put up your silly sword.'

XXXVIII.

And Haidée clung around him: 'Juan, 'tis-
'Tis Lambro-'tis my father! Kneel with me-
He will forgive us-yes-it must be-yes.
Oh, dearest father, in this agony
Of pleasure and of pain, even while I kiss

Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.' XXXIX.

High and inscrutable the old man stood,

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eyeNot always signs with him of calmest mood: He look'd upon her, but gave no reply: Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood Oft came and went, as there resolved to die; In arms, at least, he stood in act to spring On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring.

XL.

'Young man, your sword! So Lambro once more said;

Juan replied, 'Not while this arm is free!" The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, But drawing from his belt a pistol, he Replied, 'Your blood be then on your own head.' Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 'Twas fresh-for he had lately used the lockAnd next proceeded quietly to cock.

XLI.

It has a strange, quick jar upon the ear,

That cocking of a pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so;
A gentlemanly distance, not too near,

If you have got a former friend for foe;
But after being fired at once or twice,
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.
XLI,

Lambro presented, and one instant more
Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath,

When Haidée threw herself her boy before,
Stern as her sire: On me,' she cried, 'let death
Descend-the fault is mine; this fatal shore

He found-but sought not. I have pledged my faith;

I love him-I will die with him; I knew
Your nature's firmness-know your daughter's too.'

XLIII.

A minute past, and she had been all tears,
And tenderness, and infancy; but now
She stood as one who champion'd human fears-
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow;
And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers,
She drew up to her height, as if to show
A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye, scann'd
Her father's face-but never stopp'd his hand.

XLIV.

He gazed on her, and she on him; 'twas strange How like they look'd!-the expression was the

same;

Serenely savage, with a little change

In the large dark eye's mutual darted flame; For she, too, was as one who could avenge, If cause should be-a lioness, though tame: Her father's blood, before her father's face Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race.

XLV.

I said they were alike, their features and
Their stature differing but in sex and years;
Even to the delicacy of their hand

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; And now to see them, thus divided, stand

In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, Show what the passions are in their full growth. XLVI.

The father paused a moment, then withdrew

His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, And looking on her, as to look her through, 'Not I,' he said, have sought this stranger's ill; Not I have made this desolation: few

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; But I must do my duty-how thou hast Done thine, the present vouches for the past.

XLVII.

'Let him disarm; or, by my father's head,
His own shall roll before you, like a ball!'
He raised his whistle, as the word he said,
And blew; another answer'd to the call,
And, rushing in disorderly, though led,

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; He gave the word,- Arrest or slay the Frank!'

XLVIII.

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew His daughter; while compress'd within his clasp, 'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew;

In vain she struggled in her father's graspHis arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, The file of pirates; save the foremost, who Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through.

XLIX.

The second had his cheek laid open; but
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took
The blows upon his cutlass, and then put

His own well in: so well, ere you could look, His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, With the blood running, like a little brook, From two smart sabre gashes, deep and redOne on the arm, the other on the head.

L.

And then they bound him where he fell, and bore
Juan from the apartment: with a sign,
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore,
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar

Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; On board of one of these, and under hatches, They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches.

LI.

The world is full of strange vicissitudes,

And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, Just at the very time when he least broods

On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, And all because a lady fell in love.

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:
'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious,
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious,
LIII.

Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!
Sweet Naïad of the Phlegethontic rill!
Ah, why the liver wilt thou thus attack,
And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill?
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack
(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim,
Wakes me next morning with its synonym.

LIV.

I leave Don Juan for the present, safe—
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded;
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half

Of those with which his Haidée's bosom bounded!
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe,
And then give way, subdued, because surrounded;
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez,
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.

J.V.

There the large olive rains its amber store fruit,
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and
Gush from the earth, until the land runs o'er:
But there, too, many a poison tree has root,
And midnight listens to the lion's roar,

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot,
Or heaving, whelm the helpless caravan:
And as the soil is, so the heart of man.

LVI.

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth

Her human clay is kindled: full of power For good or evil, burning from its birth.

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And like the soil beneath, it will bring forth.

Beauty and love were Haidée's mother's dower; But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.

LVII.

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth and fair
Till slowly charged with thunder, they display
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air,
Had held till now her soft and milky way;

But, overwrought with passion and despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.

LVIII.

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
And he himself o'ermaster'd, and cut down;
His blood was running on the very floor,

Where late le trod, her beautiful, her own; Thus much she view'd an instant, and no moreHer struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire's arm, which, until now, scarce held Her, writhing, fell she, like a cedar fell'd.

LIX.

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ;*

And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies

O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore

Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes.

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store; But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.

LX.

Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill;
With nothing livid, still her lips were red:
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead.
Corruption came not, in each mind to kill

All hope; to look upon her sweet face, bred New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soulShe had so much, earth could not claim the whole. LXI.

The ruling passion, such as marble shows
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there,

*This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis Foscari, on his deposition, in 1457, hearing the bell of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, mourut subitement d'une hémorrhagie causée par une veine qui s'éclata dans sa poitrine (see Sismondi and Daru, vols. i. and ii.), at the age of eighty years, when Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him? Before I was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a melancholy instance! of the same effect of mixed passions upon a young. person; who, however, did not die in consequence at that time, but fell a victim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same kind, arising from causes intimately connected with agitation of mind,

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes,

And ever-dying Gladiator's air,
Their energy, like life, forms all their fame,
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.
LXII.

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache

Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause.