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I know not why, but in that hour to-night,
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came,
And swept, as 't were, 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 Haidee's eye.


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.


She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort
Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside :
Whatever feeling 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,»

Juan would question further, but she press'd
His lips 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 't is the best :

Some people prefer wine-'t is not amiss :

I have tried both; so those who would a part take May chuse between the headache and the heartache. XXV.

One of the two, according to your choice,

Women or wine, you ll have to undergo; Both maladies are taxes on our joys:

But which to chuse 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.


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.


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.


They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes

Called social, where all vice and hatred are: 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 as mortals do.


Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
Haidee 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 Haidee'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:

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
Walks over 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 't is still to be) Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.


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 high
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.


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;

"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.


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 Jurk;

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 feil, she thought.


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.


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! Oh! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? 'Tis-t is her father's-fix'd upon the pair!


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 Haidec,

It was a moment of that awful kind——
I have seen such-but must not call to mind.


Up Juan sprung to Haidee'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
A thousand scimitars await the word;
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword,»


And Haidee clung around him:


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T is Lambro-t is my father! Kneel with meHe 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.

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Lambro presented, and one instant more
Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath,
When Haidee 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.»


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.

He gazed on her, and she on him; t was 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 flaine;
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.

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

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.


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 strangers 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


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 biew; 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.»

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew
His daughter; while compress'd within Ins grasp
Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew;
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp—
His 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 throug

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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 red— One on the arm, the other on the head.


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.

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.


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 : T is pity wine should be so deleterious,

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious.


Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac!
Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill!
Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,
And make, like other nymphis, 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.

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 Haidee's bosom bounded? She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, And then give way, subdued because surrounded; ller mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.


There the large olive rains its amber store

In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 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, Aud as the soil is, so the heart of man.


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 Haidee's mother's dower: But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.


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.

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 he trod, her beautiful, her own:
Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,—

Her 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.


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 suminon'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.


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 soul,
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.


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


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 futies made a pause.


She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless though she spoke not: not a sigh
Reheved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.

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.

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 fishing 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.


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.

Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick,
And whiri'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.


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 gone for ever.


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 eyes-the beautiful, the black-
Oh! to posseSS
such lustre-and then lack!


She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might
Dave 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.


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.


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 fairNo stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dire, 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.


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 touch'd myself-
Besides, I've no more on this head to add:
And as my Muse is a capricious elf,
We li put about and try another tack
With Juan, left half-hill'd some stanzas back.

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 Ilion lay beneath their lee-
Another time he might have liked to see 'em,
But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigæum.

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea)
Intombed 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!
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus,-

All heroes who, if living still, would slay us.

may be


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.


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

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 recouciled demeanour Than did the prima donna and the tenor.


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

Haild 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 sultau has a taste for song,
We will revive our fortunes before long.


«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.


«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.

«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.

« 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.


«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.

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