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; But to resume. The languid Juan raised As all his latter meals had been quite raw, A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. CLVIII. He ate, and he was well supplied; and she, Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 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, A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 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. "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 CLXIX. And every morn his color freshlier came, 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, Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; 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 It was such pleasure to behold him, such To live with him for ever were too much; him CLXXIV. And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidée For certain merchantmen upon the look, Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 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, 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, CLXXX. Ring for your valet-bid him quickly bring 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, 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, 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 CLXXXIV. And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, And in the worn and wild receptacles They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; CLXXXVI. A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 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 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 The twilight glow, which momently grew less, CLXXXIX. They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach; And all the burning tongues the passions teach Of nature's oracle-first love,—that all Haidée spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; CXCI. She loved, and was beloved-she adored, Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; 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 CXCIV. They look upon each other, and their eyes CXCV. And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 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, |