Being pride, (1) which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. (2)

II.

But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man, and, as we would hope,-perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,

We know not this-the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. (3)
III.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,

And wish'd that others held the same opinion; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow

Leaf, "(4) and Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

IV.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,

"Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep,

that nothing is so painful to the sensibilities of an author as the palpable neglect of his productions. From this species of mortification no poet has ever, perhaps, been more fully exempt than Lord Byron. None of his publications have failed in at least exciting a sufficient portion of general interest and attention; and even those among them which the scrutinising eye of criticism might deem somewhat unworthy of his powers, have never compelled him, like many of his poetical brethren, to seek refuge from the apathy and want of discernment of contemporaries, in the consoling anticipation of posthu mous honours and triumphs. But, if we are to infer, from the axiom already alluded to, that extensive notoriety must be pleasing in the same proportion that neglect is distressing to an author, then none of his lordship's productions can afford him so ample a field for selfcongratulation as the Don Juan. Revilers and partisans have alike contributed to the popularity of this singular work; and the result is, that scarcely any poem of the present day has been more generally read, or its continuation more eagerly and impatiently awaited. Its poetical merits have been extolled to the skies by its admirers, and the Priest and the Levite, though they have joined to anathematise it, have not, when they came in its way, 'passed by on the other side.'

"But little progress is made in the history and adventures of the hero in these three additional cantos. The fact is, however, that nothing has appeared, from the beginning, to be farther from the author's intention, than to render his Don Juan any thing like a regular narrative. On the contrary, its general appearance tends strongly to remind us of the learned philosopher's treatise-' De rebus omnibus et quibusdam aliis.' And here we cannot avoid remarking, what an admirable method those persons must possess of reconciling contradictions, who, in the same breath, censure the poem for its want of plan, and impeach the writer of a deliberate design against the religion and government of the country. His lordship has himself given what appears to us a very candid exposition

of his motives-

-the fact is, that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it were to be a moment merry: A novel word in my vocabulary!'

Indeed, the whole poem has completely the appearance of being produced in those intervals in which an active and powerful mind, habitually engaged in literary occupation, relaxes from its more serious labours, and amuses itself with comparative trifling. Hence the narrative is interrupted by continual digressions, and the general character of the language is that of irony and sarcastic humour;-an apparent levity, which, however, often serves but as a veil to deep reflection. Nor can the talent of the master-hand be always concealed: it involuntarily betrays itself in the touches of the pathetic and sublime which frequently present themselves in the course of the poem; in the thoughts too big for utterance, and too deep for tears,' which are interspersed in various parts of it." Campbell.L. E.

"Tis that our nature cannot always bring
Itself to apathy, for we must steep
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep:
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; (5)
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. (6)
V.,

Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the land, (7)
And trace it in this poem every line:

I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it were to be a moment merry: A novel word in my vocabulary!

VI.

To the kind reader of our sober clime

This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, (8) Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell'd in the fancies of the time,

True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings But all these, save the last, being obsolete, [despotic I chose a modern subject as more meet.

Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature:
The vile are only vain; the great are proud."
Marino Faliero.-L.E.

(3) "Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy:
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r;
With listless eyes the dotard views the store,
He views, and wonders that they please no more

Johnson's Vanity of Human II'ishes.—LE "'Tis a grand poem-and so true!-true as the 10 Juvenal himself. The lapse of ages changes all thing time-language-the earth-the bounds of the seastars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and derneath' man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite vanity of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment." B. Diary, 1821.—L. E.

(7) "Lord Byron is the very Comus of poetry, who, by the bewitching airiness of his numbers, aims to turn the moral world into a herd of monsters."-- Watkins. "Deep as Byron has dipped his pen into vice, he has dipped it still deeper into immorality. Alas! he shines only to mislead-he flashes only to destroy."-Colton.

"In Don Juan he is highly profane; but, in that poem the profaneness is in keeping with all the other qualities, and religion comes in for a sneer, or a burlesque, only common with every thing that is dear and valuable to us 23 moral and social beings."-Ecl. Rev.

"Dost thou aspire, like a Satanic mind,
With vice to waste and desolate mankind?
Toward every rude and dark and dismal deed
To see them hurrying on with swifter speed?
To make them, from restraint and conscience free,
Bad as thyself, or worse-if such can be?"
Cottle.-L.E.

(8) See antè, p. 324.-P. E.

VII.

How I have treated it I do not know;

Perhaps no better than they have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see: But if it gives them pleasure, be it so;

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,
And tells me to resume my story here. (1)

VIII.

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,
Bat, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail,
They were all summer: lightning might assail
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail
long and snake-like life of dull decay
Was not for them-they had too little clay.

X.

They were alone once more; for them to be
Thus was another Eden; they were never
Weary, unless when separate: the tree

Cat from its forest root of years-the river
Damm'd from its fountain-the child from the knee
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,-
Would wither less than these two torn apart; (2)
Alas! there is no instinct like the heart-

XI.

The heart-which may be broken: happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay,

Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold The long year link'd with heavy day on day,

And all which must be borne, and never told; While life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die.

XII.

*Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, (3)
And many deaths do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and that which slays even more-
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is,
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore

Awaits at last even those whom longest miss
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save. (4)

(1) "Cum canerem reges et prælia, Cynthius aurem
Vellit, et admonuit." Virg. Ecl. vi.-L. E.
(2) In the MS.-

"from its mother's knee

When its last weaning draught is drain'd for ever, The child divided-it were less to see,

Than these two from each other torn apart."-L. E.

XIX.

This is in others a factitious state,

An opium dream (1) 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 't were across their heart's 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; (2) 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."

XXIV.

Juan would question further, but she press'd His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,

(1) The celebrated Confessions of an English OpiumEater, by Mr. De Quincey, had been published shortly before this Canto was written.-L. E.

(2) "Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing."
Shakspeare.-L. E.

(3) "The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is strange. It settles, but it makes me gloomy-gloomy at the very moment of their effect, and not gay hardly ever. But it composes for a time, though sullenly. Swimming raises my spirits, but in general they are low, and get daily lower. That is hopeless; for I do not think I am so much ennuyé as 1 was at nineteen." B. Diary, 1821.-L. E.

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; (3) so those who would a part take
May chose between the head-ache and the heart-ache.

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.(4)

XXVII.

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart,

Why did they not then die?—they had lived toolong, Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;

Years could but bring them cruel things or wra 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 intens, It was their very spirit-not a sense.

XXVIII.

They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale; (5) 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

(4) "Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend

Towards a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanction'd, chiefly for that end; For this the passion to excess was drivenThat self might be annull'd-her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."Wordsworth's Laodamia.-LE (5) "The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: There can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses, and record my woes." Shakspeare.-L. E.

型

A wordless music, and her face so fair

XXXIII.

All her innocent thoughts,

Like rose-leaves scatter'd."-L. E.

(2) "We are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps, and the slumber of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of sense, but the liberty of rea; and our waking conceptions do not match the fancies of our sleeps. At my nativity my ascendant was the watery sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardise of company; yet in one dream I can compose a whole comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful as my reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my dreams; and this time also would I choose for my devotions; but our grosser memories have then so little hold of our abstracted understandings, that they forget the story, and can only relate to our awakened souls a confused and broken tale of that that has passed." Sir Thomas Browne.-L.E.

(3) In the MS.

"Strange state of being!-for 't is still to be

Addison

And who can know all false what then we see?"-L. E. (4) "One of the finest moral tales I ever read, is an account of a dream in the Tatler, which, though it has every appearance of a real dream, comprehends a moral so sublime and so interesting, that I question whether any man who attends to it can ever forget it; and, if he remembers, whether he can ever cease to be the better for it. is the author of the paper; and I shall give the story in his own elegant words:-I was once in agonies of grief that are unutterable, and in so great a distraction of mind, that I thought myself even out of the possibility of receiving comfort. The occasion was as follows:- When I was a youth, in a part of the army which was then quartered at Dover, I fell in love with an agreeable young woman of a good family in those parts, and had the satisfaction of seeing my addresses kindly received, which occasioned the perplexity I am going to relate. We were, in a calm evening, diverting ourselves, on the top of a cliff, with the prospect of the sea; and trifling away the time in such little fond

Were hung with marble icicles; the work Of ages on its water-fretted halls,

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and Her hair was dripping, and the very balls [lurk; Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk 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 (6) appear'd a life too long.(7)
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?
Oh! 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

nesses, as are most ridiculous to people in business, and
most agreeable to those in love. In the midst of these
our innocent endearments, she snatched a paper of verses
out of my hand, and ran away with them. I was fol-
lowing her; when on a sudden the ground, though at a
considerable distance from the verge of the precipice, sunk
under her, and threw her down from so prodigious a height,
upon such a range of rocks, as would have dashed her into
ten thousand pieces, had her body heen made of adamant.
It is much easier for my reader to imagine my state of mind
upon such an occasion, than for me to express it. I said to
myself, it is not in the power of Heaven to relieve me-when
I awaked, equally transported and astonished, to see myself
drawn out of an affliction, which, the very moment before,
appeared to be altogether inextricable.'-What fable of
Æsop, nay of Homer, or of Virgil, conveys so fine a moral?
Yet most people have, if I mistake not, met with such deli-
verances by means of a dream. Let us not despise instruction,
how mean soever the vehicle may be that brings it. Even
if it be a dream, let us learn to profit by it. For, whether
asleep or awake, we are equally the care of Providence;
and neither a dream, nor a waking thought, can occur to
us without the permission of Him in whom we live, and
move, and have our being." Dr. Beattie.-L. E.
(5) In the MS.-

Anon-there were no waters-but she stray'd
O'er the sharp shingles," etc.-L. E.

Have struck more terror in the soul of Richard,
Than could the substance of ten thousand men,
Arm'd all in proof,' etc. etc.

I do not like this dream,-I hate its foregone conclusion.' And am I to be shaken by shadows? Ay, when they remind me of no matter-but, if I dream thus again, I will try whether all sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, I've been in considerable bodily pain also; but it is gone and over; and now, like Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day." B. Journal, 1813.-L. E.

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 mind.(1)

XXXVII.

Up Juan sprung 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; (2) Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." XXXVIII.

And Haidée clung around him; "Juan, 't is
"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,
And, 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 lock-
And 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.
XLII.

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

(1) In the MS.

"I have seen such-but they o'erthrew my mind.”—L. E. (2) In the MS.

"A thousand sharper sabres wait the word."--L. E. (3) In the MS.

"But a few moments-she had been all tears. "-L. E. (4) "The reader will observe a curious mark of propinquity which the poet notices, with respect to the hands of the father and daughter. Lord Byron, we suspect, is in

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,(3)
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 (4)

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 b 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 1," he said, "have sought this stranger's 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.(5)
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, debted for the first hint of this to Ali Pacha, who, by the by, is the original of Lambro; for, when his lordship wa introduced, with his friend Hobhouse, to that agreeable mannered tyrant, the vizier said that he knew he was the Megalos Anthropos (i. e. the Great Man), by the smallness of his ears and hands." Galt.-L. E.

(5) In the MS.

"And if I did my duty as thou hast,

This hour were thine and thy young minion's last."—LE.