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For we all know that English people are

Fed upon beef-I won't say much of beer, Because 't is liquor only, and being far

From this my subject, has no business here; We know, too, they are very fond of war,

A pleasure-like all pleasures-rather dear;
So were the Cretans-from which I infer,
That beef and battles both were owing to her.
CLVII.

But to resume. The languid Juan raised
His head upon his elbow, and he saw
A sight on which he had not lately gazed,

As all his latter meals had been quite raw,
Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised,
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw,
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like

A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.

CLVIII.

He ate, and he was well supplied; and she,
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead :
But Zoe, being older than Haidée,

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read)
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
CLIX.

And so she took the liberty to state,

Rather by deeds than words, because the case Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, Unless he wish'd to die upon the place

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. CLX.

Next they-he being naked, save a tatter'd

Pair of scarce decent trowsers-went to work, And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, Or Greek—that is, although it not much matter'd, Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches, With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches.

CLXI.

And then fair Haidée tried her tongue at speaking, But not a word could Juan comprehend, Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; And, as he interrupted not, went eking

Her speech out to her protégé and friend, Till pausing at the last her breath to take, She saw he did not understand Romaic.

CLXII.

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs,
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye,
And read (the only book she could) the lines
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy,
The answer eloquent, where the soul shines
And darts in one quick glance a long reply;
And thus in every look she saw exprest

A world of words, and things at which she guess'd.
CLXIII.

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes,
And words repeated after her, he took
A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise,
No doubt, less of her language than her look:
As he who studies fervently the skies

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book,
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better
From Haidée's glance than any graven letter.

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but the ring itself I had made a vow never to give away."

* When at Seville in 1809, Lord Byron lodged in the house This, however, could not be;-any thing but the ring, I deof two unmarried ladies; and in his diary he describes him-clared, was at her service, and much more than its value,self as having made earnest love to the younger of them, with the help of a dictionary. "For some time," he says, "I went on prosperously, both as a linguist and a lover, till at length, the lady took a fancy to a ring which I wore, and set her heart on my giving it to her, as a pledge of my sincerity.

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"In 1813, I formed, in the fashionable world of London, an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of something. I had been the lion of 1812."--Byron Diary, 1821.

But that, like other things, has pass'd away,

And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on: Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

CLXVII.

Return we to Don Juan. He begun

To hear new words, and to repeat them; but Some feelings, universal as the sun,

Were such as could not in his breast be shut More than within the bosom of a nun:

He was in love,-as you would be, no doubt, With a young benefactress,-so was she, Just in the way we very often see.

CLXVIII.

And every day by daybreak-rather early
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest-
She came into the cave, but it was merely
To see her bird reposing in his nest;
And she would softly stir his locks so curly,
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest,
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth,
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south.

CLXIX.

And every morn his color freshlier came,
And every day help'd on his convalescence;
"T was well, because health in the human frame
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence,
For health and idleness to passion's flame

Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, Without whom Venus will not long attack us.

CLXX.

While Venus fills the heart (without heart really Love, though good always, is not quite so good), Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli,

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood,While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food; But who is their purveyor from above Heaven knows,-it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.

CLXXI.

When Juan woke he found some good things ready,
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes
That ever made a youthful heart less steady,

Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size;
But I have spoken of all this already-

And repetition 's tiresome and unwise,Well-Juan, after bathing in the sea, Came always back to coffee and Haidée.

CLXXII.

Both were so young, and one so innocent,

That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd To her, as 't were, the kind of being sent,

Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd,

A something to be loved, a creature meant

To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd
To render happy; all who joy would win
Must share it,-Happiness was born a twin.
CLXXIII.

It was such pleasure to behold him, such
Enlargement of existence to partake
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch,
To watch him slumbering, and to see
wake:

To live with him for ever were too much;

him

CLXXIV.

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidée
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took
Such plentiful precautions, that still he
Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook;
At last her father's prows put out to sea,

For certain merchantmen upon the look,
Not as of yore to carry off an Io,
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio.
CLXXV.

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother,
So that, her father being at sea, she was
Free as a married woman, or such other
Female, as where she likes may freely pass,
Without even the incumbrance of a brother,
The freest she that ever gazed on glass:

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison,
Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison.

CLXXVI.

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk (For they must talk), and he had learnt to say So much as to propose to take a walk,

For little had he wander'd since the day On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk,

Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,— And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, And saw the sun set opposite the moon.

CLXXVII.

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast,
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore,
Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host,
With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore
A better welcome to the tempest-tost;

And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar, Save on the dead long summer days, which make The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake.

CLXXVIII.

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in

vain,

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

CLXXIX.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,
The best of life is but intoxication:
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk
The hopes of all men, and of every nation;
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk
Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion!
But to return,-Get very drunk; and when
You wake with headache, you shall see what then.

CLXXX.

Ring for your valet-bid him quickly bring
Some hock and soda-water, then you'll know
A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king;
For not the best sherbet, sublimed with snow,
Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring,
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow,
After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter,
Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water.

CLXXXI.

But then the thought of parting made her The coast-I think it was the coast that I quake;

He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast

Like a rich wreck-her first love, and her last.

Was just describing-Yes, it was the coastLay at this period quiet as the sky,

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost,

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And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret Against the boundary it scarcely wet.

CLXXXII.

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone,
As I have said, upon an expedition ;
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none,
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision
She waited on her lady with the sun,

Thought daily service was her only mission, Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, And asking now and then for cast-off dresses.

CLXXXIII.

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

CLXXXIV.

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand,
Over the shining pebbles and the shells,
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand,

And in the worn and wild receptacles
Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd,
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells,
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm,
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.
CLXXXV.

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
They gazed upon the glittering sea below,

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light
Into each other-and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;

CLXXXVI.

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled from above;

Such kisses as belong to early days,

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake,-for a kiss's strength,
I think, it must be reckon'd by its length.

CLXXXVII.

By length I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long-no doubt they never reckon'd;

And if they had, they could not have secured
The sum of their sensations to a second:
They had not spoken; but they felt allured,

As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung

Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

CLXXXVIII.

They were alone, but not alone as they
Who shut in chambers think it loneliness;
The silent ocean, and the starlight bay,

The twilight glow, which momently grew less,
The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay
Around them, made them to each other press,
As if there were no life beneath the sky
Save theirs, and that their life could never die.

CLXXXIX.

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach;
They felt no terrors from the night; they were
All in all to each other: though their speech
Was broken words, they thought a language
there,-

And all the burning tongues the passions teach
Found in one sigh the best interpreter

Of nature's oracle-first love,—that all
Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.
CXC.

Haidée spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows,
Nor offer'd any; she had never heard
Of plight and promises to be a spouse,

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd;
She was all which pure ignorance allows,
And flew to her young mate like a young bird;
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she
Had not one word to say of constancy.

CXCI.

She loved, and was beloved-she adored,
And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion,
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd,
If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,-
But by degrees their senses were restored,

Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on;
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidée's heart
Felt as if never more to beat apart.

CXCII.

Alas! they were so young, so beautiful,

So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour Was that in which the heart is always full, And, having o'er itself no further power, Prompts deeds eternity can not annul,

But pays off moments in an endless shower Of hell-fire-all prepared for people giving Pleasure or pain to one another living.

CXCIII.

Alas! for Juan and Haidée! they were
So loving and so lovely-till then never,
Excepting our first parents, such a pair
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever:
And Haidée, being devout as well as fair,
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river,
And hell and purgatory-but forgot
Just in the very crisis she should not.

CXCIV.

They look upon each other, and their eyes
Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps
Round Juan's head, and his around her lies
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps;
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs,
He hers, until they end in broken gasps;
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique,
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.

CXCV.

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd,
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms,
She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast,
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms;
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast,
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants
With all it granted, and with all it grants.

CXCVI.

An infant when it gazes on a light,

A child the moment when it drains the breast, A devotee when soars the Host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest,

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