Oldalképek
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir,
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont;
And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river,
Had often turn'd the art to some account.
better swimmer you could scarce see ever,
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont,
As once, (a feat on which ourselves we prided,)
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.

And then of these some part burst into tears,
And others, looking with a stupid stare,
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears,
And seem'd as if they had no further care;
While a few pray'd-(the first time for some years)-A
And at the bottom of the boat three were
Asleep; they shook them by the hand and head,
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.
XCIX.

The day before, fast sleeping on the water,
They found a turtle of the hawks-bill kind,
And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her,
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind
Proved even still a more nutritious matter,
Because it left encouragement behind:

CVI.

So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark,
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark
The beach which lay before him, high and dry:
The greatest danger here was from a shark,
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh;

They thought that in such perils, more than chance As for the other two, they could not swim,
Had sent them this for their deliverance.

C.

The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast,

And higher grew the mountains as they drew,
Set by a current, toward it: they were lost
In various conjectures, for none knew
To what part of the earth they had been toss'd,
So changeable had been the winds that blew;
Some thought it was Mount Etna, some the high-
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. [lands
CI.

Meantime the current, with a rising gale,

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore,
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale:

Their living freight was now reduced to four;
And three dead, whom their strength could not avail
To heave into the deep with those before,
Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd
The spray into their faces as they splash'd.

CII.

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to
Such things, a mother had not known her son

Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

CIII.

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen,
Unequal in its aspect here and there,
They felt the freshness of its growing green,

That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air,
And fell upon their glazed eyes as a screen
From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare-
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.

CIV.

The shore look'd wild, without the trace of man,
And girt by formidable waves; but they
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran,
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay:
A reef between them also now began

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray;
But, finding no place for their landing better,
They ran the boat for shore, and overset her.

So nobody arrived on shore but him.

CVII.

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,

Which, providentially for him, was wash'd
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more,
And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dash'o
Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore

The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd;
At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he
Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea:

CVIII.

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave,
From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave:
And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung,
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave,
With just enough of life to feel its pain,
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain.

CIX.

With slow and staggering effort he arose,
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee,
And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those
Who long had been his mates upon the sea,
But none of them appear'd to share his woes,
Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three,
Who died two days before, and now had found
An unknown barren beach for burial ground.

CX.

And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast,

And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand
Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd:
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand
Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,)
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay,
As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.

CXI.

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him,
And time had nothing more of night nor day
For his congealing blood, and senses dim,
And how this heavy faintness pass'd away

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb
And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life,
For Death, though vanquish'd, still retir'd with strife.

CXII.

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed,

For all was doubt and dizziness: he thought He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, And wish'd it death in which he had reposed;

And then once more his feelings back were brought,| And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen A lovely female face of seventeen.

CXIII.

'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death:
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to sooth
Each pulse to animation, till beneath
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh
To these kind efforts made a low reply.
CXIV.

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung
Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm
Rais'd higher the faint head which o'er it hung;
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,
Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew
A sigh from his heaved bosom-and hers too.

CXV.

And lifting him with care into the cave,
The gentle girl, and her attendant,-one
Young yet her elder, and of brow less grave,
And more robust of figure,-then begun
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave
Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun
Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er
She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.

CXVI.

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair,
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd
In braids behind, and, though her stature were
Even of the highest for a female mould,

They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land.

CXVII.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
Deepest attraction, for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;
"Tis as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length,
And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

CXVIII.

Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pure dye
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip-sweet lips! that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary,

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done : I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.)

CXIX.

I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just

One should not rail without a decent cause: There was an Irish lady, to whose bust

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model; and if e'er she must

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. CXX.

And such was she, the lady of the cave:

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave;

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish) The basquina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay.

CXXI.

But with our damsel this was not the case:
Her dress was many color'd, finely spun;
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face,
But through them gold and gems profusely shone,
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking, Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.

CXXII.

The other female's dress was not unlike,

But of inferior materials: she
Had not so many ornaments to strike:

Her hair had silver only, bound to be
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike,

Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free; Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes As black, but quicker, and of smaller size.

CXXIII.

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, Which are (as I must own) of female growth,

And have ten thousand delicate inventions; They made a most superior mess of broth,

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's Achilles order'd dinner for new comers.

CXXIV.

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, Lest they should seem princesses in disguise; Besides I hate all mystery, and that air

Of clap-trap, which your poets prize; And so, in short, the girls they really were

They shall appear before your curious eyes, Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter Of an old man who lived upon the water.

CXXV.
A fisherman he had been in his youth,

And still a sort of fisherman was he;
But other speculations were, in sooth,

Added to his connexion with the sea, Perhaps, not so respectable in truth;

A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres

CXXVI.

A fisher, therefore, was he-though cf men,
Like Peter the Apostle,-and he fish'd
For wandering merchant vessels, now and then,
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd;
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade,
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.
CXXVII.

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)
A very handsome house from out his guilt,
And there he lived exceedingly at ease;

CXXXIII.

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse,

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make His couch; and that he might be more at ease,

And warm, in case by chance he should awake
They also gave a petticoat apiece,

She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish,
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.
CXXXIV.

And thus they left him to his lone repose:
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead,
Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,)
Just for the present, and in his lull'd head

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, Not even a vision of his former woes

A sad old fellow was he, if you please, But this I know, it was a spacious building, Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.

CXXVIII.

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee,
The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles;
Besides so very beautiful was she,

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree

She grew to womanhood, and between whiles
Rejected several suitors, just to learn
How to accept a better in his turn.

CXXIX.

And walking out upon the beach below
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found,
Insensible, not dead, but nearly so,-

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;
But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know,
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,
As far as in her lay, "to take him in,
A stranger," dying, with so white a skin.

CXXX.

But taking him into her father's house
Was not exactly the best way to save,
But like conveying to the cat the mouse,
Or people in a trance into their grave;
Because the good old man had so much "vovs,"
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
And sold him instantly when out of danger.

CXXXI.

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best
(A virgin always on her maid relies)
To place him in the cave for present rest:

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes,
Their charity increased about their guest.

And their compassion grew to such a size, It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven(Saint Paul says 'tis the toll which must be given.)

CXXXII.

They made a fire, but such a fire as they

Upon the moment could contrive with such Materials as were cast up round the bay,

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay,

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty,
That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty.

[spread
Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes
Unwelcome visions of our former years,
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.

CXXXV.

Young Juan slept all dreamless;-but the maid
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den,
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd,
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again.
He slumber'd: yet she thought, at least she said,
(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,)
He had pronounced her name-but she forgot
That at this moment Juan knew it not.

CXXXVI.

And pensive to her father's house she went,
Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant,
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who

She being wiser by a year or two:

A year or two 's an age when rightly spent,
And Zoe spent hers as most women do,
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
Which is acquired in nature's good old college.

CXXXVII.

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon
His rest; the rushing of the neighboring rill,
And the young beams of the excluded sun,
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;

And need he had of slumber yet, for none
Had suffer'd more-his hardships were comparative
To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative."

CXXXVIII.

Not so Haidee; she sadly toss'd and tumbled,

And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, Dream of a thousond wrecks, o'er which she

stumbled,

And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore; And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore several oaths-Armenian, Turk, and Greek,They knew not what to think of such a freak.

CXXXIX.

But up she got, and up she made them get,
With some pretence about the sun, that makes
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;

And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks
Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet
With mist, and every bird with him awakes,
And night is flung off like a mourning suit
Worn for a husband,-
-or some other brute.

[graphic][subsumed][subsumed]
« ElőzőTovább »