Lord Byron: Selected Writings (21st-Century Oxford Authors) 0198733259, 9780198733256

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21st-CENTURY OXFORD AUTHORS

general editor

SEAMUS PERRY

21st-CENTURY OXFORD AUTHORS

Lord Byron Edited by JONATHAN SACHS and ANDREW STAUFFER

Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Introduction and Editorial Material © Jonathan Sachs and Andrew Stauffer 2023 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2023933545 ISBN 978–0–19–873325–6 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, cr0 4yy

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS In preparing this edition, we have been helped by a number of people to whom we owe a debt of thanks. First, to our student research assistants, Regan Schadl, Janice Murray, and Jordan Burke, for their keen attention to detail in preparing and proofing the typescript. Thanks also to Adam Friegen, and to the many students in classrooms at Concordia University, Montreal and the University of Virginia who offered feedback and suggestions on the edition in-­progress. We have been assisted by the wonderful curators and staff of the Pforzheimer Collection at the New York Public Library, including Liz Denlinger, Timothy Gress, and Doucet Devin Fischer, with special gratitude to Charles Carter for obtaining our title page images. We also owe a particular debt of gratitude to Gary Dyer for his guidance regarding the textual intricacies of the Hunt cantos of Don Juan. Many thanks to our editor, Seamus Perry, for commissioning this edition and working with us through the long period of its development, and to the numerous people at Oxford University Press who saw it through: Ellie Collins, Kathleen Fearn, Matthew Humphrys, Ela Kotkowska, and Karen Raith. In preparing this edition, we have relied heavily on the advice and example of other Byron editors and scholars, whose work has been in various ways a model of the best features of our own: Alice Levine, Leslie Marchand, Peter Cochran, Peter Graham, Susan Wolfson, Peter Manning, Jane Stabler, and, above all, Jerry McGann.

CONTENTS Illustrationsxiii Abbreviationsxv Introductionxvii Note on the Texts

xxxiii

Chronologyxxxix

from Fugitive Pieces (1806)1 On Leaving N—­st—­d3 To Maria——4 Epitaph on a Beloved Friend5 To Mary6 [‘When to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice’]8 On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill. 18068 To Mary, on Receiving her Picture10 The Cornelian11

from Hours of Idleness (1807)13 Lachin Y. Gair15 To—— [‘Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine’]16

Stanzas to Jessy [‘There is a mystic thread of life’] (Monthly Literary Recreations, July 1807)19 Letter to Elizabeth Bridget Pigot, 2 August 1807, London20 from Poems Original and Translated (1808)23 Song [‘When I rov’d, a young Highlander, o’er the dark heath’]25 Stanzas [‘I would I were a careless child’] 26

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from Imitations and Translations (1809)29 Inscription on the Monument of a Favourite Dog31 To *************** [‘Well! thou art happy, and I feel’]32 A Love Song. To ******* [‘Remind me not, remind me not’]33 To the Same [‘And wilt thou weep when I am low?’]34 Stanzas to ****** on Leaving England35

Letter to Mrs. Catherine Gordon Byron, 28 June 1810, Constantinople37 An Ode to the Framers of the Frame Bill (Morning Chronicle, 2 March 1812)40 from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, A Romaunt: And Other Poems (1812)41 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, A Romaunt. [Cantos I–II]43   Poems 127    Written in an Album127    Stanzas [‘Chill and mirk is the nightly blast’]127    Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos. May 9, 1810.130    Song. Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. Athens, 1810. [‘Maid of Athens, ere we part’]131    Written beneath a Picture132    To Thyrza [‘Without a stone to mark the spot’]133    To Thyrza [‘One struggle more, and I am free’]134

Letter to Lady Caroline Lamb, 29 April 1813, London137 Letter to Annabella Milbanke, 6 September 1813, London138 Letter to Lady Melbourne, 8 October 1813, Aston Hall, Yorkshire140 The Giaour (1813; 7th edition)143

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Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte (1814; 3rd edition)186 from Hebrew Melodies (1815)193 She Walks in Beauty195 My Soul is Dark195 Sun of the Sleepless!196 The Destruction of Semnacherib196

Letter to Lady Byron, 8 February 1816, Piccadilly Terrace, London198 from Poems (1816)199 Stanzas [‘Bright be the place of thy soul!’]201 [‘When we two parted’]201 Stanzas for Music [‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters’]202 Fare Thee Well!203

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Canto the Third (1816)205 from Alpine Journal (17–29 September 1816)247 from The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816)255 Stanzas to——— [‘Though the day of my destiny’s over’]257 Darkness258 Churchill’s Grave, A Fact Literally Rendered260 The Dream261 Prometheus267

Letter to Augusta Leigh, 8 September 1816, Villa Diodati269 Manfred, A Dramatic Poem (1817)271 Letter to Thomas Moore, 28 January 1817, Venice312

x contents

Letter to Thomas Moore, 28 February 1817, Venice [‘So, we’ll go no more a roving’]315 Letter to John Murray, 15 September 1817, Venice317 Letter to John Murray, 8 January 1818, Venice [‘My dear Mr. Murray’]319 Beppo, A Venetian Story (1818; 5th edition)323 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Canto the Fourth (1818)351 Don Juan I–II (1819)407 Letter to John Cam Hobhouse and Douglas Kinnaird, 19 January 1819, Venice520 Letter to Augusta Leigh, 17 May 1819, Venice522 Letter to John Murray, 7 June 1819, Bologna524 Letter to Douglas Kinnaird, 26 October 1819, Venice527 Letter to Percy Bysshe Shelley, 26 April 1821, Ravenna529 Don Juan III–IV–V (1821)531 from Detached Thoughts (1821–1822) 637 The Vision of Judgment (1822)643 Letter to Augusta Leigh, 12 December 1822, Genoa672 ‘Preface’ to The Vision of Judgment (1823)674 Letter to John Cam Hobhouse, 7 April 1823, Genoa677 Don Juan VI–VII–VIII (1823)679 Don Juan IX–X–XI (1823)771 from Journal in Cephalonia (19 June and 28 September 1823)840 Don Juan XII–XIII–XIV (1823)845 Don Juan XV–XVI (1824)925

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Posthumously Published Poems 987 To the Po.——June 1819 (Morning Chronicle, 4 June 1824)989 Stanzas [‘Remember thee—­remember thee!’] (Attic Miscellany, October 1824)991 Messolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824 [‘On this day I complete my thirty-­sixth year.’] (Morning Chronicle, 29 October 1824)992 When I Left thy Shores, O Naxos! (A. R. Poole, Philadelphia, 1826)994 I Speak Not—­I Trace Not. (Fugitive Pieces and Reminiscences of Lord Byron, 1829)995 from Thomas Moore, The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with Notices of his Life (1830)996   Extract from an Unpublished Poem [‘Could I remount the river of my years’]996    To Augusta [‘My sister! my sweet sister! if a name’]998    Francesca of Rimini1003    [‘When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home’]1005    [‘Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story’]1006 [‘Could Love for ever’] (New Monthly Magazine, 1832)1007 Dedication to Don Juan [I–II] (Works of Lord Byron, 1832)1010

Verses by Lord Byron [‘I watched thee when the foe was at our side’] (Murray’s Magazine, 1887)1015 Don Juan. Canto XVII fragment (Works, E. H. Coleridge, 1903)1017 Notes1021 Index of Titles

1125

Index of First Lines

1127

ILLUSTRATIONS 1. Title page, Hours of Idleness. 1st edn. (S. and J. Ridge, 1807). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

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2. Title page, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 7th edn. ( John Murray, 1814). The Byron Society Collection. Special Collections and Archives. Photograph by Candace Reilly. Image published with the permission of Drew University Library, Madison, New Jersey.

42

3. Title page, The Giaour. 7th edn. ( John Murray, 1813). *76-­1013. Houghton Library, Harvard University.

144

4. Title page, Poems. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1816). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

200

5. Title page, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: Canto the Third. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1816). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

206

6. Title page, The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1816). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

256

7. Title page, Manfred: A Dramatic Poem. 1st edn., 3rd issue ( John Murray, 1817). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

272

8. Title page, Beppo: A Venetian Story. 5th edn. ( John Murray, 1818). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

324

9. Title page, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: Canto the Fourth. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1818). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.352 10. Title page, Don Juan. 1st edn. ([ John Murray,] 1819). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

408

illustrations xiv 11. Title page, Don Juan: Cantos III–IV–V. 5th edn. ([ John Murray], 1822). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

532

12. Title page, The Liberal: Verse and Prose from the South. 2nd edn. ( John Hunt, 1822). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

644

13. Title page, Don Juan: Cantos VI–VII–VIII. 1st edn., 18mo., Harvard Library ( John Hunt, 1823). 

680

14. Title page, Don Juan: Cantos XV–XVI. 1st edn., 18mo., Harvard Library ( John Hunt, 1824). 

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ABBREVIATIONS Byron’s works BLJ CH CHP CPW DJ DJV HM LJ PCOP

Byron’s Letters and Journals, ed. Leslie A. Marchand, 11 vols. & suppl. (Harvard University Press, 1973–1994) Byron: The Critical Heritage, ed. Andrew Rutherford (Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970) Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage Lord Byron: The Complete Poetical Works, ed. Jerome J. McGann, 7 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980–1993) Don Juan Byron’s Don Juan: A Variorum Edition, eds. Truman Guy Steffan and Willis W. Pratt, 4 vols. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1957) Hebrew Melodies (London: John Murray, 1815) Thomas Moore, The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with Notices of his Life, 2 vols. (London: John Murray, 1830) The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (London: John Murray, 1816)

Other works cited BB Leslie A. Marchand, Byron: A Biography, 3 vols. (Alfred A. Knopf, 1957) Blackwood’s Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine EBSR English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (London: James Cawthorn, 1809) LJM The Letters of John Murray to Lord Byron, ed. Andrew Nicholson (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2007) Medwin Thomas Medwin, Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron (Henry Colburn, 1824) Shakespeare The New Oxford Shakespeare: Modern Critical Edition, eds. Gary Taylor, John Jowett, Terri Borus, and Gabriel Egan, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016)

Persons B

George Gordon (Lord) Byron

Editorial symbols and abbreviations [xxxx 2–3 number of words crossed out   words] ch. chapter Fr. French

abbreviations xvi Gk. Greek It. Italian Lat. Latin l./ll. line(s) p./pp. page(s) sec. section Span. Spanish st./sts. stanza(s) vol./vols. volume(s)

INTRODUCTION 23 April 1816: George Gordon, the sixth Lord Byron, exited his large townhouse in Piccadilly Terrace, London, climbed into a lavish replica of Napoleon’s coach, and set out for Dover. His departure was quickly succeeded by an invasion of bailiffs, who seized Byron’s property and that of his servants. It was an ignominious end to a fine but tumultuous stretch of the poet’s life, one that had begun in 1812 with the publication of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the poem that first vaulted him to fame. At Dover, Byron and his friends John Cam Hobhouse and Scrope Davies visited the local church and paid homage at the tomb of the satirist Charles Churchill, where Byron lay down upon the grave. He would soon compose a rueful poem, ‘On Churchill’s Grave’, which ends by registering the ‘Glory and the Nothing of a Name’ (p. 261) The ­following morning, leaving behind a wife and a newborn daughter, he set sail for Ostend and continental Europe beyond. Byron would never set foot in England again. Unfortunately for the literary world, Byron’s flight from England, like his marriage, was ill-­fated. As Byron’s ship pushed off from the cliffs of Dover, an unexpected storm swept in from the North Sea with gale force winds, producing a violent swell on the waters. The weather was too much for the boat, which struggled and sank. Survivors reported seeing Byron, who was a strong swimmer, working calmly to rescue two children who had been travelling alone. His body was never recovered. That, of course, is not what happened. But what if it had? What would Byron’s literary reputation have been if he had died in April of 1816? For a start, that reputation would have been based on a much smaller corpus: his early volumes of juvenile verse; a significant satire in the eighteenth-­century mode, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, and the subsequent satire The Curse of Minerva; the first two cantos of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage; a series of verse narratives (The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, and Parisina), and occasional lyrics and volumes of lines set to music (Hebrew Melodies). This work was immensely popular in England and abroad: in George Sainsbury’s words, Byron ‘simply took possession of the Continent of Europe and kept it’.1 Byron surely would not have been forgotten, and you would likely still be holding some version of this book in your hands. But that version would likely conclude with ‘Churchill’s Grave’ or else Byron’s plangent 1816 lyric written to Lady Byron, ‘Fare Thee Well!’—either one of which would be taken as his apt and moving last word. 1  Byron: The Critical Heritage, ed. Andrew Rutherford (Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970), 477. Further references appear parenthetically as CH.

introduction xviii Had Byron died at this hinge point of his career, we would link his use of the Spenserian stanza to the innovation of verse forms associated with other second-­generation Romantic writers. He would certainly have been part of any account of Romantic satire. We would pass lightly over most of his early lyrics, the kind of exercises about which Henry Brougham asks in his damning review, ‘why print them after they have had their day and served their turn?’ (CH, 30). But ‘She Walks in Beauty’ and ‘Maid of Athens’ would probably still be firmly lodged in popular memory and anthologies. Ultimately, it would be the first two cantos of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and the Turkish Tales, seen in light of the colourful life Byron lived during his Regency years, that would form the basis of the poet’s reputation. Out of these emerged the figure of the Byronic hero, a lone male figure with a troubled past, a distinguished appearance, a heedless daring, and a physical courage, a figure inflected by a melancholy experience of love and an ambivalent relationship to moral laws. As Byron describes the hero of The Corsair, his name was ‘Linked with one virtue’—that is, love—‘and a thousand crimes’ (l. 695, CPW, 3:214). Both Childe Harold and the Tales would also be remembered for their powerful allegories of the political and ideological issues of early nineteenth-­century Europe, with an emphasis on betrayed political ideals and the stubborn recalcitrance of the status quo. Fortunately for us, however, Byron arrived in West Flanders externally unscathed, having begun the sequel to Childe Harold on board the ship: poetry was not finished with him yet. Around the same time, he reflected in a lyric to his sister Augusta, I have outlived myself by many a day; Having survived so many things that were; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life which might have fill’d a century, Before its fourth in time had pass’d me by.  (st. 14, p. 1001)

And that was only in 1816, with what we now know to be eight more years of ‘a devilish deal of wear & tear of mind and body’ (p. 317) still to come. Given the outsize proportions and fascinating episodes of that life, it’s tempting to indulge in its retelling, however briefly. And that is a temptation we have chosen not to resist because Byron’s poetry is so tangled with the course of his ­experiences and emotions. That tangling, more or less true for all poets, becomes especially characteristic of Byron, one of the first examples of a modern celebrity, and one whose art depended on the projection of personae, of Byronic doubles and avatars, upon the backdrop of European geography, history, and current events. From its earliest period, Byron’s life was full of variety and extremes. He  was born on 22 January 1788 to Catherine Gordon and Captain John

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‘Mad Jack’ Byron. The family was aristocratic, but not wealthy. Byron’s father spent most of Catherine’s inheritance and died in 1791 after abandoning Byron and his mother in straightened circumstances. The boy had been born with a deformed right foot and calf, a source of embarrassment that caused him to limp throughout his life. Raised in Scotland (mostly in Aberdeen) by his mother with whom he frequently clashed, George Gordon began his life on the perimeter of genteel society. He wasn’t always six feet tall and a Lord (the qualities to which Keats would later attribute Byron’s poetic success) but was rather the opposite, a disabled child who grew up without a father in a state of relative want. At the age of ten, however, George Gordon inherited the title from his great-­uncle, becoming the sixth Lord Byron, a position that came with considerable property, including the large, dilapidated Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. Byron’s life changed dramatically. He moved with his mother to England, took up residence at Newstead and in nearby Southwell, and entered school at Harrow, where his contemporaries came from among the most elite and distinguished families in England. There were love affairs with a series of female neighbours and passionately romantic relationships with a number of boys at school. Byron then moved on to Trinity College, Cambridge, from October 1805 to the end of 1807, where he formed im­port­ ant and lifelong friendships with John Cam Hobhouse, Douglas Kinnaird, Scrope Davies, and others, and also experienced a series of intense same-­sex liaisons. The most serious of these was with John Edelston, a younger chorister, not enrolled in the University, who inspired Byron’s tender lyric ‘The Cornelian’ (p. 11) and the ‘Thyrza’ poems (pp. 133–6). At Trinity, Byron spent excessively, running up large debts as part of an extravagant lifestyle built around drinking, gambling, and sexual dissipation. Thumbing his nose at the college ban on dogs, Byron kept a pet bear, telling those who asked that he intended that the bear ‘should sit for a fellowship’.2 Byron started writing poetry in his teens. His first book, Fugitive Pieces, was privately printed in 1806 and circulated among Cambridge friends and Southwell society. The poems were mostly light verses, school translations, meditations on his ancestry, and poems of flirtation and youthful love, some of the latter too warmly drawn. Byron quickly recognized the volume as a false start. He produced a revised privately printed volume, Poems on Various Occasions (1807), and then, a few months later, went public with Hours of Idleness (1807), the book that launched his poetic career in London and beyond. Hours of Idleness sold reasonably well and was gently handled by most critics, but it was excoriated in the Edinburgh Review by Henry 2  Byron to Elizabeth Pigot, 26 October 1807, in Byron’s Letters and Journals, ed. Leslie A. Marchand, 11 vols. & suppl. (Harvard University Press, 1973–1994), 1:135–36. Further references to this edition cited parenthetically as BLJ.

introduction xx Brougham, who accused Byron of egotism and disingenuousness. Brougham insisted that Byron dwelt far too heavily on his ancestry, noting with incredulity an eleven-­ page poem on Byron’s family seat. Brougham ultimately advised that Byron should ‘forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account’ (CH, 28). Byron read the review in rage, he reports in his journal of 1813, then ‘dined and drank three bottles of claret’ (BLJ, 2:330). His friend Hobhouse recalled that he seriously contemplated suicide. One benefit of Brougham’s negative review was its prompting of Byron’s pen to retaliatory action: it drove his first major poem, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809). This precocious satire offers a scathing rebuke to the contemporary poetry scene, marking Byron from the start as a spoiler of Romantic-­era literary culture. The mode of Byron’s attack shows his debt to Roman satirists like Juvenal and Horace, while his witty use of the heroic couplet reveals his debt to Pope. As a tyro on the scene looking to make a name, Byron attacked not only the Edinburgh Review and its representatives, but also many with whom he would later become friendly, including Thomas Moore, Lord Holland, and Walter Scott. The poem also contains mockeries of the Lake School poets William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge, and, especially, Robert Southey, all of whom Byron would single out for fuller censure in later works. As his satire circulated through the literary scene in the summer of 1809, the now twenty-­ one-­ year-­ old Byron left England for extended travels abroad with his Cambridge friend Hobhouse. It was to be an idiosyncratic version of the aristocratic ‘Grand Tour’, with extensive travel around the Mediterranean and the northern Levant. The ongoing Napoleonic wars meant many of the usual European destinations for cultural tourism were closed to the travellers. For Byron, this became an opportunity, and he would soon turn his travels among Greeks, Turks, and Albanians to poetic and ­personal account. The Europe to which Byron and Hobhouse sailed was a decidedly different place than it had been twenty years earlier when the French had stormed the Bastille. Gone were the heady promises of the early French Revolution and its ideals—­liberty, equality, fraternity—­which were so influential for an earlier generation of poets. Byron came of age during wartime, in the years of reaction and counter-­revolution, after the French armies had attacked European monarchies and the revolution itself had changed to fit the ambitions of Napoleon. As First Consul and then as Emperor of the French from December 1804, Napoleon sought to transform the political structure of Europe. In this he was opposed by shifting alliances of European powers largely led by Britain. Through the 1800s, his dazzling series of vic­tor­ies across Europe had made him a legend, and the war for the Continent was, in 1809, playing out on the Iberian Peninsula. France had invaded Portugal

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alongside Spanish armies in 1807, but by early 1808 Napoleon turned on the Spanish, crossed the Pyrenees, and occupied areas in the north of Spain. The Peninsula became the main area of European warfare until 1814. Byron and Hobhouse were navigating into the eye of this storm. Byron’s extended tour took him from the war zone of the Iberian Peninsula through Europe’s border regions, from Albania and Greece to Constantinople, all then controlled by the Ottoman empire. In Albania, Byron visited the robber chieftain Ali Pasha, who flattered the young Briton, noting the smallness of his ears and hands as sure signs of noble descent. A long letter to his mother from Turkey dated 12 November 1809 recounts the visit to the Pasha—­whom Byron characterizes as ‘a mighty warrior, but . . . as barbarous as he is successful, roasting rebels &c. &c’.—alongside Byron’s broader impressions of Albania and its customs and manners (BLJ, 1.228). Albanians, he notes, are ‘brave, rigidly honest, & faithful, but they are cruel though not treacherous, & have several vices, but no meannesses’. Byron consistently interprets Albanian culture as wild and even primitive, but somehow more truthful than elsewhere in contemporary Europe. From the beginning, foreign manners and mores fascinated Byron, and his poetry often adopts a sympathetic, an­thropo­logic­al stance towards other cultures. This is reflected not only in his letters but especially in the long poem in the Spenserian stanza that he began among the Albanians in October 1809—the poem that would eventually become Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Byron remained abroad for nearly two more years, during which he travelled extensively and continued to write poetry, including numerous lyrics and a further satire in the manner of English Bards. From Albania, Byron and Hobhouse moved on to Greece, where they stayed ten weeks in Athens before venturing across the Aegean to the Troad and Constantinople. It was on this part of the journey, in May 1810, that Byron made his famous swim across the Hellespont (the Dardanelles), which inspired the lyric ‘Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos’ (p. 130). In July, the two friends returned to Greece: Hobhouse set off for England, but Byron remained in Athens for another nine months, living in a Capuchin monastery and, free from the repressive strictures of England, having a sexual affair with Nicolo Giraud, a young Greek-­born Frenchman. Byron’s early experiences in Greece made a deep impression on him, and he would cherish memories of this period for the rest of his life. As he would later tell Edward Trelawny, ‘If I am a poet . . . the air of Greece has made me one.’3 In April 1811, Byron finally left Athens and slowly made his way home via Malta. His mother died just before he reached Newstead in July. When John Murray published Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage in March 1812, Byron instantly became famous. The poem marks the emergence of Byron’s 3  Edward Trelwany, Records of Shelley, Byron, and the Author, 2 vols. (Pickering, 1878), 1:48.

introduction xxii distinctive style, his capacity to evoke and express emotion with heightened rhetoric and vivid imagery taken from life—­as in the Cadiz bullfight scene where the ‘throng’d arena shakes with shouts for more’ (st. 68, p. 68). Set along the route of Byron’s travels, the poem combines a sense of abiding personal alienation with sustained criticism of the dismal prospects and corrupt failures of European politics. Childe Harold managed to capture for its moment the tethering of the fate of Europe and the fate of the individual, offering grand panoramas of history in alternation with interior landscapes of the narrator’s jaded and sentimental heart. The poem presents the first avatar of the Byronic hero: the brooding, displaced figure of Childe Harold, himself the culmination of an eighteenth-­century tradition: the man of feeling. Yet Byron’s protagonist is utterly distinctive, shaped by both the tumultuous events of the early nineteenth century and Byron’s dramatization of his own fateful choices. The poem clearly struck a chord. Copies of Childe Harold were to be found on every fashionable table in London and beyond, and the young aristocrat rapidly captured the imagination of elite society, men and women alike, throughout Regency England. Byron had assumed his hereditary seat in the House of Lords in March 1809, but it was just before the publication of Childe Harold, in February 1812, that he delivered his first speech. Revealing his liberal allegiances, he spoke in defence of the protesting workers in Northern England (the frame-­ breakers or Luddites), a subject that also inspired his poem, ‘Ode to the Framers of the Frame-­Bill’ (p. 40). Soon thereafter he spoke in favour of granting more rights to Catholics. Politically, Byron aligned himself with the moderate Whigs led by Lord Holland, the nephew of the great orator Charles James Fox. Although the Whigs remained the party in opposition throughout Byron’s lifetime, Holland House was a fashionable, aristocratic hub of Regency political and literary culture. There Byron dined with fellow authors Thomas Moore, Samuel Rogers, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, exchanged political gossip with Lord Holland, abused the Prince Regent (who had deserted the Whig party), and flirted with Lady Caroline Lamb, with whom he soon began a fiery love affair. The Hollands were also devoted to the the­ atre, and it was through them that Byron became involved with the administration of Drury Lane. As Childe Harold went through ten editions by 1815, Byron continued to write and publish considerable quantities of verse, including a series of ­narrative poems set in Europe’s eastern borderlands that were part of the Ottoman empire: The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, and Lara. Best-­sellers of the decade and, indeed, of the Romantic movement more ­generally, Byron’s so-­called ‘Turkish Tales’ provided more versions of the Byronic hero, caught up in tragic affairs of love and violence, with settings,  imagery, language, and plots drawn from the poet’s travels in the Mediterranean. This was also the period of Byron’s song-­lyric collaboration

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with Isaac Nathan, Hebrew Melodies, which contained what is perhaps his best-­known short poem, ‘She Walks in Beauty’ (p. 195). During these years of fame in London, Byron socialized with the powerful families of his class: the Jerseys, the Melbournes, the Oxfords, the Heathcotes, the Websters, and others. Love affairs were part of his agenda, including li­aisons with Lady Caroline Lamb, Lady Oxford, Lady Frances Webster, and, most notoriously, Byron’s own half-­sister Augusta Leigh—­all of which ­augmented his notoriety and would remain the subject of gossip for decades. In recounting these episodes, and indeed throughout his correspondence, Byron was a brilliant letter writer: his style is fresh, familiar, sparkling with life and brio, by turns brusque and ebullient. To read one of his letters is to  feel the emotional charge of its occasion rise off the page. To Caroline Lamb, for example, who had sworn revenge after the messy end of their affair, Byron replied: I will not shrink from you—­perhaps I deserve punishment—­if so — you are quite as proper a person to inflict it as any other.—You say you will ‘ruin me’—I thank you—­ but I have done that for myself already—­you say you will ‘destroy me’ perhaps you will only save me the trouble. (p. 137)

His poem that begins ‘Remember thee—­remember thee!’ (p. 991) offers an equally bitter view of their relationship. In a letter of this period to Lady Melbourne, Byron tells of his seduction of Lady Frances Webster over a game of billiards. He would later exploit a variation of this scene to mark the tension between Lady Adeline Amundeville and Juan that Byron teasingly suggests ‘sprung from a harmless game of billiards’, in Canto XIV of Don Juan. Full of little familiar codes and literary allusions to Shakespeare, Lawrence Sterne, and others, the letter reads like an instalment of a risqué epistolary novel like Les Liaisons Dangereuses, with Lady Melbourne as the Marquise de Merteuil and Byron as the Vicomte de Valmont. In certain moods, Byron even resembles the Satanic rake Lovelace in Richardson’s Clarissa, a novel Byron knew well. The letter itself, complemented by the string of postscripts with which it closes, offers a sense of immediacy that recalls the investment of Richardson’s long novel in ‘writing to the moment’. Byron would later reminisce over the ‘fashionable world of London (of which I then formed an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of something)’, a time when he ‘had been the lion of 1812’ (BLJ, 8:29). But the seeming glamour and exuberance of these years was checked by an underlying tendency towards depression and by Byron’s disgust with the political failures of his age. He was also struggling with his desire for his half-­sister and his largely suppressed sexual attraction to men. Beset by conflicting emotions, Byron sought a more stable life. Keen to marry

introduction xxiv and hopeful that a wife and children would allay his near-­manic pursuit of pleasure, distraction, and intrigue, he proposed to Annabella Milbanke in 1814. The daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke and Lady Judith Noel Milbanke, Annabella was Byron’s social equal who was further distinguished by her intellect, her gift for mathematics, and her straightlaced morals. Byron and Annabella were married on 2 January 1815. Moderated by his wife, Byron hoped for a classic and very public version of the rake’s reform. But this was not to be. Waking in their red-­curtained honeymoon bed, Byron exclaimed, ‘Good God, I am surely in hell’.4 Reports of physical and psychological abuse shadowed the union, as Byron flaunted his sexual involvement with Augusta. There were episodes of tenderness, however, and, judging from their letters, the couple seem to have been happy for a time. A daughter, Augusta Ada, was born on 10 December 1815. By mid-­January 1816, however, Annabella had had enough. She left Byron in London and retreated to her parents with the infant Ada. Byron received a letter from his father-­in-­law requesting his agreement to a formal separation. Accused of insanity and mistreatment, Byron suffered in the court of public opinion and the fame to which he had awoken in 1812 had soured. Behind him lay a trail of wreckage: debts, scandalous affairs, unstable behaviour, and a failed marriage, all of which would often overshadow his literary output in the years to come. As he left England in 1816, he began a new, darker canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, ‘once more upon the waters’, lamenting that he had ‘grown aged in this world of woe, / In deeds, not years’ (sts. 5, pp. 207–8). Byron began his self-­exile travelling through the Rhine valley and settled for a season in Switzerland at the Villa Diodati overlooking Lake Geneva. There he met Percy and Mary Shelley, accompanied by Mary’s half-­sister Claire Claremont, with whom Byron had had a brief affair just before leaving England. This was the Frankenstein summer of 1816 that produced Mary Shelley’s famous novel and brought Byron into creative collaboration with the Shelleys. Byron continued Childe Harold and wrote his gothic verse drama Manfred and The Prisoner of Chillon, even as he told Augusta that September that his heart felt ‘as if an Elephant had trodden on it’ (p. 269). Emotional turbulence and a sense of remorse fuelled this period of prod­uct­ iv­ity, as Byron brooded upon his own failures and the betrayals of former friends. In January 1817, Claire gave birth to Byron’s natural daughter Allegra, confirming the deracination of his domestic life. The poems of his period project an outsized sense of self, perhaps most  notably in the self-­portrait stanzas to Napoleon in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage III, where a ‘spirit antithetically mixt’ and ‘[e]xtreme in all things’ is both the ‘Conqueror and captive of the earth’ (sts. 36–45; p. 216). But this 4  Reported by Samuel Rogers in his Table Talk, and cited by Fiona MacCarthy, Byron: Life and Legend ( John Murray, 2002), 238.

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poetry avoids mere self-­absorption in its sophisticated braiding of Byron’s suffering with fate of Europe, a mode that Goethe and others would call Weltschmerz, or ‘world-­pain’. Manfred, the drama that Byron began during the Geneva summer of 1816 and completed around the Venetian Carnival in February 1817, picks up aspects of the Byronic hero with his dark nebulous past and his incestuous love for his sister, a love fuelled by her sameness to him. Manfred sees himself as a being apart, claiming that ‘From my youth upwards / My spirit walk’d not with the souls of men’ (II.ii.50–1, p. 288). His agonizing self-­fixation has metaphysical stakes, including his sceptical refusal to accept Christian salvation, accompanied by sentiments clearly inflected by the ­crucible of feeling one finds in Goethe’s Faust. From Switzerland, Byron continued southwards into Italy, establishing himself in Venice and its environs. The faded grandeur of the city suited him well: ‘Venice pleases me as much as I expected—­and I expected much’, he reported to Murray, ‘it is one of those places which I know before I see them—­and has always haunted me the most—­after the East.— —I like the gloomy gaiety of their gondolas—­and the silence of their canals—­I do not even dislike the evident decay of the city’ (BLJ, 5:132). Byron fell in love, he fell in the canal (as the same letter reports), he continued to scorn and mourn his wife, whom he called his ‘moral Clytemnestra’ (p. 525), and he slept with many women, bragging to his friend James Wedderburn Webster that there were ‘at least two hundred of one sort or another—­perhaps more—­for I have not lately kept the recount’ (BLJ, 6:66). We don’t know but might guess that Byron also took advantage of the promiscuous atmosphere of Venice to continue his experiences of sex with young men as well. In any case, the cross-­ dressing and indulgent spirit of Venice and its Carnival brought out his appetites, for experience and for writing. Byron began the fourth and final canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage in the summer of 1817, drawing on his time spent in Rome. Dispensing with all pretence of difference between Harold and narrator, Byron calls Rome the ‘city of the soul’ and also a memento mori: ‘A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay’ (st. 78, p. 377). The poem contrasts a sense of persistence with ­inevitable loss and despair, turning to the legendary sites of ancient Rome as  emblems: the Forum, the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and above all the Colosseum. In Childe Harold IV, Rome’s ruins stand as a reminder that the ‘moral of all human tales’ is an endless cyclical repetition: ‘First Freedom, and then Glory—­when that fails, / Wealth, vice, corruption,—barbarism at last’ (st. 108, p. 385). Yet the poem clings to the ‘little bark of hope’ that imagination and creativity can provide, peopling the void with visions of greatness past and to come. Lamenting the seemingly endless tyrannies of human history, the poem nevertheless offers striking images of Promethean resistance, such as one in which freedom’s banner ‘torn, but flying, / Streams like the thunder-­storm against the wind’ (st. 98, p. 382).

introduction xxvi In 1819, Byron fell in love with Teresa Guiccioli of Ravenna. Teresa was a young woman, not yet twenty when Byron met her, married to a much older Italian aristocrat, Count Alessandro Guiccioli. As Byron wrote in Teresa’s copy of Madame de Staël’s Corinne that summer, ‘I feel I exist here—­and I  fear that I shall exist hereafter—­to what purpose—­you will decide—­my destiny rests with you’ (BLJ, 6:215–16). The arrangement between the two ­lovers was loosely accepted as part of the upper-­class Italian tradition of a cavalier servente, the professed lover and attendant of a married woman, an arrangement that often met with the tacit consent of the husband. Eventually the Count did object, and a separation was granted by the Pope. For the next several years, until Byron departed for Greece in 1823, he and Teresa established a kind of domesticity, first in Ravenna and then in Pisa and Genoa. Through Teresa’s father and brothers, the Gambas, Byron became involved in the Italian struggle for independence from the Austrian empire. Even more so than his immersion in Venetian society high and low, Byron’s years with Teresa and the Gamba family transformed the poet, as his identity and his language adapted to his Italian surroundings. As Byron settled in Italy, something changed: a new lightness emerged in his work. We see this first in Beppo, Byron’s urbane and playful verse narrative of a love affair that begins at the Venetian carnival, displaying the sustained contrast between Italian and English manners, with a clear preference for the louche and open-­hearted style of the European south. Writing to Murray in 1820, Byron claimed that his publisher would be unable to comprehend the Italians because ‘Their moral is not your moral—­their life is not your life’ (BLJ, 7:42). Byron himself was keenly attentive to cultural differences and to how apparent strangeness coheres into a system of morals: ‘Their system has it’s [sic] rules—­and its fitnesses—­and decorums—­so as to be reduced to a kind of discipline—­or game at hearts—­which admits few deviations unless you wish to lose it’ (BLJ, 7:43). Still, Byron was not convinced he could explain this to Murray, insisting that ‘I know not how to make you comprehend a people—­who are at once temperate and profligate—­ serious in their character and buffoons in their amusements—­capable of impressions and passions which are at once sudden and durable’ (BLJ, 7:42–3). Byron’s sense of the sharp contrasts in the Italian character would shape the tone of Don Juan. When Byron began Don Juan, he intended it as a shorter poem in the mode of Beppo, insisting to Murray after the publication of the poem’s first two cantos, ‘You ask me for the plan of Donny Johnny—­I have no plan—­I had no plan’ (BLJ, 6:207). Like Beppo, the opening episode of Don Juan focuses on the affair of a married woman, only this time, her love object, Juan, is not a man of the world but rather naïve youth who still lives with his mother. As the poem grew in length, however, it found its epic form and began to treat heavier subjects, including cannibalism, slavery, siege warfare, absolutist politics

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in the court of Catherine the Great, and the hypocrisies of English society. But even as the poem assumes these darker thematics, it remains nimble and changeable, moving rapidly among tragic, satiric, sentimental, and comic modes. These operative contrasts are further overlaid with the playful voice of the digressive narrator and lifted by Byron’s virtuoso skill with Hudibrastic feminine rhymes in the closing couplets of his ottava rima (e.g., rhyming ‘intellectual’ with ‘hen-­peck’d you all’). Ultimately, the style and register of Don Juan recall Byron’s sense of the contrasts in Italian culture, its com­bin­ ation of the temperate and profligate, the improvisatory and the durable. Don Juan is by turns serious and playful, combining narrative force with digressive wandering. Many readers, then and now, have objected to the poem’s unpredictable swings of mood and subject. One friend of Murray’s complained that it was nonsensical to be ‘scorched and drenched at the same time’. Byron’s sharp-­toned reply picks up on the metaphor and shows clearly that the shifts in tone were nothing if not intentional. ‘Ask him these questions’, Byron demanded of Murray: Did he never play at Cricket or walk a mile in hot weather—­did he never spill a dish of tea over his testicles in handing the cup to his charmer to the greater shame of his nankeen breeches?—did he never swim in the sea at Noonday with the Sun in his eyes and on his head—­which all the foam of the ocean could not cool? Did he never draw his foot out of a tub of too hot water damning his eyes and his valet’s? did he never inject for a Gonorrhea?—or make water through an ulcerated Urethra? Was he ever in a Turkish bath – that marble paradise of sherbet and sodomy?— . . .  (BLJ, 6:207)

Passages like this from the letters echo the poem itself in their ebullient and comic excess put to the service of what is, at bottom, a serious point: poetry, even epic poetry, can be lighthearted and solemn simultaneously—­indeed, it must be if it is to capture the truth of contemporary experience. And the truth of that experience, Byron insists, is what Don Juan is all about. ‘As to ‘Don Juan’ ’, he demanded of his friend Douglass Kinnaird, ‘confess—­ confess—­you dog—­and be candid—­that it is the sublime of that there sort of  writing—­it may be bawdy—­but is it not good English?—it may be profligate—­but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it—­who has not lived in the world?’ (p. 527). One of the persistent concerns of Don Juan is the state of British poetry and the movement we now label as Romanticism. Byron had previously engaged with this topic in his earlier satire, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, and some of the objections to the perceived decadence of contemporary poetry articulated there recur throughout his career. In what is perhaps his most pointed comment on the matter, he tells Murray in 1817: With regard to poetry in general I am convinced the more I think of it—­that he and all of us—­Scott—­Southey—­Wordsworth—­Moore—­Campbell—­I—are all in the

introduction xxviii wrong—­one as much as another—­that we are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical system—­or systems—­not worth a damn in itself—& from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are free—­and that the present & next generations will finally be of this opinion.—I am the more confirmed in this—­by having lately gone over some of our Classics—­particularly Pope—­whom I tried in this way—­I took Moore’s poems & my own & some others—& went over them side by side with Pope’s—­and I was really astonished (I ought not to have been so) and mortified—­at the ineffable distance in point of sense—­harmony—­effect—­and even Imagination Passion—& Invention—­ between the little Queen Anne’s Man—& us of the lower Empire—­depend upon it [it] is all Horace then, and Claudian now among us—­and if I had to begin again—­I would model myself accordingly— (pp. 317–18)

Here and elsewhere, Byron consistently denigrates almost all of his peers to praise the work of earlier writers, especially Alexander Pope, who were dismissed by his contemporaries. These are Byron’s post-­1816 preoccupations, critical insights that would percolate intensely from 1817 to 1821 when he published his Letter to J*** M***** [John Murray] about the state of contemporary poetry. Byron’s classical and neoclassical allegiances run deep, placing him athwart much of the ethos and practice of his Romantic contemporaries. His embrace of the polyglot—­of the variety of linguistic codes, ­registers, and dialects a poet might draw upon, from flash slang to aristocratic gossip and every­thing in between, across many languages and nations—­also sets him apart from, say, Wordsworth’s commitments to a purified English diction in poetry. In Don Juan, the Lake Poets come in for Byron’s greatest scorn, with Southey as ‘a sad trimmer’ (III.82, p. 553) and prating moralist (III.93, p.  558), Coleridge as so obscure that he needs to ‘explain his Explanation’ (Dedication, st. 2, p. 1010), and Wordsworth as a windbag whose nonsense could ‘add a story to the tower of Babel’ (Dedication, st. 4, p. 1011). Notable further moments of this theme include Byron’s poetical commandments in Canto I where he declares: ‘Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; / Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey’ (st. 205, p. 459). The seeds of these positions lie in English Bards, but they were nurtured by Byron’s developing European perspective, one that consistently exposes the provincial, insular qualities of British literary culture—­and, by extension, British political culture as well. For Byron, the Lake Poets are ‘shabby fellows’ as much for their politics as their poetry—­part of a single conjoint formation with that ‘intellectual eunuch’, that ‘state-­thing’, the vulgar ‘tool’ of tyranny, the Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh (all quotations from Dedication, pp. 1010–14). The corrupt state of English poetry, then, is matched by the corrupt state of its politics. What links the attack on poetry and politics is Byron’s loathing of ‘cant’, the language of hypocrisy. Cant for Byron is something close but not

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precisely equivalent to Max Black’s ‘humbug’ or Harry Frankfurt’s ‘bullshit’: it is a language first and foremost of cynical self-­deception, weaponized as a depraving verbal piety.5 In the first stanza of Don Juan, Byron complains that his age is forever ‘cloying the gazettes with cant’ about so-­called military heroes, whereby self-­satisfied and wilfully blind patriotism produces a language to match. In his 1821 Letter to [ John Murray], Byron writes comprehensively, ‘The truth is, that in these days the grand ‘primum mobile’ of England is cant; cant political, cant poetical, cant religious, cant moral; but always cant, multiplied through all the varieties of life’.6 For all of his differences from Wordsworth, then, Byron was also concerned with the state of the English language and its moral and cultural effects. For Byron, this concern expressed itself in satire, irony, and the cultivation of a self-­aware language of realism in poetry. With Don Juan, in particular, he attacked the tyranny of false pieties, writing to Moore in 1822 that he intended ‘to throw away the scabbard’ (BLJ, 9:191) and go to war against ‘Cant which is the crying sin of this double-­dealing and false-­speaking time of selfish Spoilers’ (Preface to DJ VI–VIII, p. 682). As Don Juan evolved, Byron’s ‘quiet facetiousness’ became something else entirely. Even as it revels in irony and humour, sentiment and sententiae, Don Juan amounts to a thoroughgoing attack on European forces of political and cultural reaction. It stands as Byron’s clearest articulation of his cosmopolitan imagination and creative mobility. It also reflects his investment in European movements for freedom and self-­determination, notably the Italian resistance to Austrian and other foreign influence. What is perhaps so noteworthy about Don Juan’s composition, however, is that it was written simultaneously with a series of remarkable dramas and satires. During the five-­year span from 1818 to 1823 in which he wrote Don Juan, Byron also composed a range of tra­ged­ ies: Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, Sardanapalus, Cain, and the unfinished Deformed Transformed. Though often obscured by Childe Harold and Don Juan, these dramas cast a formidable shadow across nineteenth-­century European culture: they were staged in Britain and America, and inspired musical works by Verdi, Donizetti, and Berlioz, as well as paintings by Delacroix and others. Collectively, Byron’s dramas engage, in a less comic register, with subjects that animate Don Juan: revolution and tyranny, innocence and corruption, belief and doubt, crime and punishment, love and mortality. By this point in his career, Byron had developed his range while amplifying his political critique. A ferocious mix of tones was essential to his satiric output, much of it aimed at the political and literary rot he saw as endemic to his culture. Satires of this five-­year period included The Prophecy 5 See Max Black, ‘The Prevalence of Humbug’, Philosophic Exchange 13.1 (1982): 1–23; Harry Frankfurt, On Bullshit (Princeton University Press, 2005). 6  Lord Byron: The Complete Miscellaneous Prose, ed. Andrew Nicholson (Oxford University Press, 1991), 128.

introduction xxx of Dante, The Blues, The Irish Avatar, The Age of Bronze, and, most notably, The Vision of Judgement. Vision shares with Don Juan both its use of ottava rima and its outrage at Tory corruption and the self-­righteous hypocrisy of Robert Southey, who had called Byron part of a ‘Satanic school’ of poetry. John Murray thought Vision too incendiary, and so it ended up appearing in a new periodical called The Liberal. Conceived as a collaboration between Byron, Percy Shelley, and the radical author and publisher Leigh Hunt, The Liberal was an initial hit but fizzled after only four issues. Shelley’s 1822 death in a sailing accident off the coast of Spezia contributed to the journal’s rapid failure, as he had been the key link between the contrary dispositions of Byron and Hunt. By this time, Byron’s relationship with Murray had also cracked beyond repair. Murray’s alarmed response to the Vision of Judgment and Don Juan, his dismay over Byron’s involvement with the Hunts, and Byron’s increasing radicalism precipitated the ultimate break between the  long-­time collaborators. The publication of Werner (1822) would be Byron’s last appearance under Murray’s imprint; for the brief remaining period of his life, all of his work would be published by John Hunt. But the 1822 deaths of Shelley and of Byron’s natural daughter Allegra, along with the end of his relationship with Murray, pushed Byron towards depression. He remarked on his weight loss to Kinnaird in October, and others noticed increasing thinness in November. He was certainly anxious and restless again, and by January 1823, he had reported his intentions to go to Greece. Whether he knew it or not as he completed the late cantos of Don Juan that spring, Byron’s life was winding to a rapid close. Byron was drawn back to Greece ostensibly on behalf of the London Greek Committee, of which his old friend Hobhouse was an active member. The goal was to advise and assist the Greek resistance to Turkish occupation, even as official British policy was in support of the Ottoman Empire as a bulwark against Russia. Committing himself and his available funds to the cause of the Greek Revolution, Byron had some idea of building a nation, in part by reviving the ancient spirit of Greece that he and his fellow Philhellenes had imbibed so deeply from history and literature. At the same time, Byron was also motivated—­half desperately, half ironically—­to pursue his earlier self, returning to the site of his adventures as the young Childe Harold. By mid-­ July the plan was actualized, and Byron set sail with Teresa’s brother, Pietro Gamba, and John Trelawny, a larger-­than-­life figure whom Byron described as ‘the personification of my Corsair’.7 Settling eventually at an improvised headquarters in Messolonghi in western Greece, Byron tried to make sense of the complex political scene, unsure which of the rival Greek leaders best 7  From Teresa Guiccioli’s La Vie de Lord Byron en Italie, as quoted by Iris Origo, The Last Attachment (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1949), 298. See Lord Byron’s Life in Italy, trans. Michael Rees, ed. Peter Cochran (University of Delaware Press, 2005), 367.

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merited his support. He wrote letters, met with politicians, paid soldiers, attempted to organize troops, and aided victims of war, even as he pined uselessly for a teenage Greek (Loukas Chalandritsanos), the subject of his last great poem, written on his thirty-­sixth birthday (p. 992). But his health was failing, and a set of feverish attacks, combined with his doctors’ regime of bloodletting and purgatives, brought Byron low: he died on 19 April 1824, ending a career of fundamental contradiction and unlikely c­ ontinuity—­in Byron’s own words from the last, unfinished canto of Don Juan, ‘Changeable . . . yet somehow ‘Idem semper’ ’ (p. 1019). Byron’s death resonated across Europe. Hearing the news, the young Tennyson carved ‘Byron is dead’ on a rock,8 Thomas Carlyle wrote, ‘the news of his death came down my heart like a mass of lead’ (CH, 286), and Sir Walter Scott felt ‘almost as if the great luminary of Heaven had suddenly disappeared from the sky’ (CH, 12–13). The Greeks celebrated him as a national hero (and still do), while authors including Pushkin, Ryleyev, and Lermontov in Russia; Lamartine, Hugo, and Stendhal in France; Heine in Germany; Mazzini in Italy; and Mickiewicz in Poland all registered the power of Byron’s influence and lamented his early end. The global influence of his poetry and persona would grow as the century went forward, inspiring ad­mirers and imitators from the Americas to Asia and virtually everywhere in between. But Byron’s critical reputation has fluctuated. As the Victorian era was rustling in the wings, Carlyle commanded readers to ‘close thy Byron; open thy Goethe’ (CH, 294) pointing them away from the self-­indulgent egotism of the Romantics. John Stuart Mill famously rejected Byron’s apparent theatricality in favour of Wordsworth’s sincerity and deep feeling, while A.  C.  Swinburne praised Byron’s mastery of ottava rima but accused him otherwise of almost total poetic incompetence (CH, 464–76). Byron’s stock fell in the later Victorian era as revelations of his incestuous affair with Augusta Leigh became public knowledge. It fell again in the early twentieth century, as the form-­conscious New Critics objected to what Matthew Arnold had called a ‘negligent’ poetics and a ‘slovenly, slipshod, and infelicitous’ (CH, 448) use of the English language (even though Arnold had placed Byron, along with Wordsworth, as one of the two master-­spirits of his age). Although Byron was consistently admired in Europe and popular among readers, it wasn’t until well into the second half of the twentieth century that his work was thoroughly recuperated for the Anglo-­American poetical tradition. In an influential 1965 essay, M. H. Abrams bracketed Byron from the main line of British Romanticism, a literary movement which was itself in the early

8  Hallam Tennyson, Tennyson: A Memoir, 2 vols. (Macmillan, 1897), 1:4.

introduction xxxii stages of recovery from critical disparagement.9 Even as late as 1984, Peter Manning could still write that, ‘Of the six major English romantic poets, Byron remains the odd man out’.10 But things were already changing. The story of Byron’s latter-­day critical fortunes, as involved with the cultural history of Romanticism, is beyond our scope here, though we would ground that narrative in the work of two scholars: Leslie Marchand, who wrote the first modern biography (1957) and edited Byron’s complete letters and journals (1973–1982), and Jerome McGann, who edited the definitive scholarly edition of the poetry (1980–1993) and reframed our understanding of ­ Romanticism by illuminating Byron’s exceptional imaginative and critical postures. In preparing this edition for the twenty-­first century, we have attempted to work in their spirit, relying also on the crucial work of Byron’s many scholarly editors who have come before us, particularly E. H. Coleridge, Andrew Nicholson, Peter Cochran, Donald Reiman, Doucet Devin Fischer, Richard Lansdown, and Alice Levine. Our hope is that this selected edition provides an ample and judicious rendering of Byron’s work, the poetry and prose of the complicated man whom Shelley called ‘the Pilgrim of Eternity’.11 9  See ‘Structure and Style in the Greater Romantic Lyric’, in From Sensibility to Romanticism: Essays Presented to Frederick  A.  Pottle, eds. Frederick  W.  Hilles and Harold Bloom (Oxford University Press, 1965), 527–60 (esp. 527). 10  Peter J. Manning, ‘Review of Byron: A Poet before his Public by Philip W. Martin and English Romantic Hellenism 1700–1823 by Timothy Webb’, Studies in Romanticism 23:3 (Fall 1984), 401–9 (401). 11  ‘Adonais’, in Shelley’s Poetry and Prose, eds. Neil Fraistat and Donald Reiman (Norton, 2002), l. 264.

NOTE ON THE TEXTS SELECTION In preparing this edition of Byron’s work for the 21st-­Century Oxford Authors series, our goal has been to provide readers with an ample selection of the poetry upon which his fame depended and his reputation now rests. Our first priority was the inclusion of two long works in their entirety: the sequences of cantos, published seriatim across the poet’s career, of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and Don Juan. Once those works were in place, the constraints of a single volume required hard choices regarding the other portions of Byron’s prodigious poetic output, much of which was written in longer forms: satires, tales, and dramas. Those choices were further pressured by our decision to print full published works only, rather than offering extracts or excerpted versions. Two other factors shaped our final table of contents: first, a decision to give wider representation to Byron’s lyric poetry than has been typical in modern editions, and second, in keeping with the mandate of the series, a commitment to reproduce all of the works in something close to their original printed forms. The result, we hope, is a fresh view of Byron’s literary achievement and an impetus to further reading in the works of this extraordinary creative figure. In this edition, Byron’s verse narratives are represented by The Giaour and Beppo, his dramas by Manfred, and his satires by The Vision of Judgment. In  choosing these, we have emphasized Byron’s more experimental work, perforce leaving aside many of his important and notorious poems, such as English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, The Corsair, and Cain. We note with regret that the late plays are particularly under-­represented; we intended to include Sardanapalus until the very last, when our page limit prevented it. By way of recompense, Byron’s early volumes of poetry are given in some detail, as is his posthumously published verse. In addition, we have made room for the inclusion of eighteen letters and selected passages from Byron’s private journals, which illuminate his experiences, thoughts, and opinions. Finally, we have retained almost all of Byron’s own prose notes to his poems, allowing readers to observe the interplay between styles and registers in his published works.

ORDERING We present Byron’s poems in the chronological order in which they were published, working in almost every case from their first appearances in print.

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note on the texts

This decision to proceed book by book has the effect of presenting Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and Don Juan not as unified works but as evolving serial publications, interspersed with other works published between instalments or sequels. Furthermore, this ordering principle extends to poems first published posthumously, so that, for example, the famous ‘Dedication’ to Don Juan (published 1832) appears not with the early cantos but at the end of our edition. Our goal has been to allow readers to trace the horizon of Byron’s public oeuvre as it developed in his lifetime and beyond. Prioritizing the event of publication over that of composition, we present Byron as what Philip Martin has called ‘a poet before his public’, following Jerome McGann’s emphasis on the social processes by which literary works come to exist in the world, particularly their publication and reception histories. Several exceptions to this principle seemed advisable. First, Poems (1816) gathers lyrics that had appeared in periodicals in various forms just before Murray’s publication of this single volume, published contempor­ aneously as  the separation controversy unfolded. Second, two poems ­contained in Byron’s letters—‘We’ll go no more a roving’ and ‘My Dear Mr. Murray’—have been reproduced from the letters, all of which are ­presented in chronological order of their composition. For Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage I–II, we present the first edition, but interpolate Byron’s ­significant later additions (i.e., the ‘Addition to the Preface’, the ‘To Ianthe’ lyric, and several stanzas in Canto II) in square brackets, following the text of the seventh edition for that material. Finally, and most significantly, we have in several cases preferred early editions beyond the first, in order to present poems in their completed and corrected forms: we take as our base text the seventh edition of The Giaour, the third edition of the Ode on Napoleon Buonaparte, the fifth edition of Beppo, and the fifth edition of Don Juan III–V. In each case, the later edition appeared very shortly after the first, and we deem our departure from strict adherence to first editions a price worth paying for access to the more finished versions of these works. In the case of the later cantos of Don Juan (VI–XVI), we have chosen as our copy text John Hunt’s four octodecimo (18mo) first editions. The first editions in this format had the widest circulation among the reading public: Hunt printed four times more octodecimos (priced at 1 shilling) than the more expensive octavos and duodecimos combined, in an effort to outflank the pirates, who had undercut Murray by publishing inexpensive copies of the early cantos of Don Juan. Furthermore, Byron likely saw and corrected proofs from the octodecimos for at least some of these cantos. For more on  these matters, see Gary Dyer, ‘What Is a First Edition? The Case of Don Juan. Cantos VI.—VII.—and VIII.’, Keats–Shelley Journal 60 (2011), 31–56.



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EDITORIAL PROCEDURE All of Byron’s poems presented here retain a basic fidelity to the early editions that we have chosen as our copy texts. Our process of ‘un-­editing’ Byron has meant omitting certain readings that Byron left in manuscript or revised in later editions and that we have come to recognize in modern editions of his work. It also has meant reproducing punctuation, orthography, and typ­og­ raphy that emerged in the process of publication, sometimes with an uncertain relation to Byron’s own intentions. Our wager is that twenty-­first-­century readers will find fresh value in returning, as far as is practicable, to the ori­gin­al texture of Byron’s published works as his contemporaries would have known them. For example, we retain the pleasingly defamiliarized but still recognizable spellings of the early editions (e.g., ‘trowsers’, ‘pease’, ‘scissars’). One example of the value of this practice: we have restored ‘vilain-­bonds’ in The Giaour (line 141, p. 149), which has always been ‘corrected’ by modern editors to ‘villain-­bonds’ but in fact comes from villein, French for cottager or serf. However, we have adjusted texts slightly when typographical errors or truly distracting issues mar the sense of a line or passage. This we have done silently unless the case is ambiguous, in which case we have indicated that ambiguity in a note. Some examples: (1) We preserve the variable ‘ed / ’d’ endings of Byron’s past-­tense verbs and adjectives as printed, but we have silently eliminated all nonstandard uses of apostrophes in possessives (e.g., ‘her’s’, ‘it’s’, ‘your’s’). (2) We employ double quotation marks as printed in early editions, but we do not reproduce them at the beginning of each new poetic line, as was common practice in Byron’s era. At a few points, (e.g, The Giaour, lines 358–63), we have added a mark to clarify the end of one quoted speech and the beginning of another. (3) In the poems themselves, we have reproduced Byron’s own idiosyncratic accentuation of French and Italian, in keeping with Byron’s studiously casual attitude towards the pronunciation of foreign languages, i.e. Joo-­ ahn for Juan. With similar insouciance, Byron renders the name of Juan’s lover as Haidee (Canto II) or Haidée (Cantos III and beyond). We preserve the discrepancy. But in Byron’s prose notes, we have corrected the accentuation for clarity. Byron’s rendering of ancient and modern Greek is also frequently incommensurate with modern standards; we have given it as printed. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations of foreign words and phrases are by the editors. (4) We have occasionally restored a dropped pronoun or article (present either in manuscript or later revised editions) when both the sense and metre require it. In such cases, we have noted the adjustment.

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(5) For Byron’s notes, we have adjusted sigla, line numbering, and punctuation for clarity of reference. (6) For the later cantos of Don Juan (VI–XVI), published by John Hunt, we have taken our texts from the cheap and popular 18mo editions, which Hunt published simultaneously (but in much greater quantities) with the octavos and duodecimos. In presenting our texts of these cantos, we have silently corrected misprints and missing punctuation, reverting to the quartos in those cases. In the interest of readability, our texts of Byron’s letters and journals follow Leslie Marchand’s authoritative transcriptions from the manuscripts, as presented in BLJ.

ANNOTATION In preparing this edition, we have been struck afresh by the extent and range of historical and mythic references, quotations, allusions, idioms, and foreign languages in Byron’s poetry. Even Byron’s original readers must have found themselves occasionally at a loss, and those who come to his work now must traverse an even more bewildering terrain. Our annotations provide basic orient­eer­ing within the constraints of a single-­volume edition. We have mostly eschewed the provision of glosses for terms that can be easily found online, such as ‘Albion’, and have moved lightly over well-­known figures from history and myth, such as Napoleon and Apollo. But we have otherwise attempted to locate and illuminate points of reference and pockets of ob­scur­ity in Byron’s writing. Given the placement of our notes at the end of the volume, we have asked of each annotation, is this worth the trip? And when multiple references come packed in a short space of lines, we have occasionally deployed portmanteau notes in the interest of economy. In addition, Byron wrote more-­or-­less extensive notes to his own poems. Some of these occur as footnotes in the printed editions, but many come at the end of those volumes. Byron wrote to his publisher of Childe Harold I–II, ‘The Printer may place the notes in his own way, or any way, so that they are out of my way; I care nothing about types or margins’ (BLJ, 2:100). Nevertheless, we have reproduced them in their original relationship to the poems in the first or early editions, indicating the presence of a footnote by Byron with an asterisk [*] or other sigla and an endnote with a numeral. Although we have left his notes largely unannotated, we provide some points of explication in our glosses at the rear of the volume. Readers should know that we have not reproduced Byron’s appendix of additional materials to Childe Harold I–II. These extraordinary documents are an important



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aspect of the volume, attesting to Byron’s engagement with Greece and Turkey and providing key rhetorical and cultural contexts for the poem itself; but they are simply too copious to include in a selected edition of Byron’s work. For the same reason, we have, with regret, entirely eliminated the notes (written jointly by Byron and John Cam Hobhouse) printed with Childe Harold IV.

CHRONOLOGY 1788 1789 1791 1794–1798 1798 1799–1801 1801 1803 1804 1805 1806 1807 1808 1809

1810

1811 1812

George Gordon Byron born in London ( January 22). Moves with his mother to Aberdeen, Scotland. Father dies at age thirty-­six in France. Attends Aberdeen Grammar School. Inherits the title, becoming the sixth Baron Byron of Rochdale. Moves to Newstead Abbey, the ancestral estate of the Byrons, in Nottinghamshire. Attends boarding school at Dulwich in greater London. Enters Harrow School. Lives in Burgage Manor in Southwell, near Newstead Abbey, which is leased to Lord Grey de Ruthyn. Byron falls fruitlessly in love with his cousin Mary Chaworth. Begins writing to his half-­sister Augusta. Enters Trinity College, Cambridge, where he meets and has a romance with John Edleston. Fugitive Pieces privately printed but almost immediately scrapped. Poems on Various Occasions privately printed; Hours of Idleness published. Becomes friends with John Cam Hobhouse. Leaves Cambridge (December). Poems Original and Translated published. The Edinburgh Review excoriates Hours of Idleness. Lives at Newstead and in London. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers published. Takes his seat in the House of Lords. Travels with Hobhouse in the Mediterranean, including Portugal, Spain, Gibraltar, Malta, Albania, and Greece. Meets Ali Pasha in Tepelene. Writes the first canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Tour of Greece and Turkey, including Constantinople. Writes the second canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Swims the Hellespont. Resides in Athens. Love affairs with Nicolo Girard and Efstathios Georgiou. Returns to England ( July). Death of his mother and three schoolfriends (Skinner Matthews, Wingfield, and Edleston). Hints from Horace and The Curse of Minerva written. Delivers maiden speech in House of Lords (February). Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage I–II (March) published: fame ensues. Second Parliamentary speech on Catholic Emancipation (April). Affairs with Lady Caroline Lamb and Lady Oxford. The Waltz published. Proposal to Annabella Milbanke rejected (October).

chronology xl 1813 1814 1815 1816

1817 1818 1819 1820 1821

1822

1823

1824

The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos published. Affair with Augusta Leigh begins. The Corsair and Lara published. Medora Leigh, presumably Byron’s daughter, born to Augusta (April). Hebrew Melodies published. Marries Annabella Milbanke ( January). Lives in London. Joins Management Committee of Drury Lane Theatre. Birth of daughter, Ada (December). Lady Byron leaves, taking Ada with her ( January). Affair with Claire Claremont, leaving her pregnant with Allegra. Leaves England for good (April). Travels in Europe. Summer in the Villa Diodati with Percy and Mary Shelley, Claire, and Polidori. Sets off to Italy with Hobhouse (October). Settles in and around Venice (November). Studies in Armenian monastery on San Lazzaro. Affair with Marianna Segati. All published this year: The Siege of Corinth; Parasina; Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage III; and The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. Manfred and The Lament of Tasso published. Birth of a daughter, Allegra, to Claire Claremont ( January). Affair with Margarita Cogni in Venice. Sale of Newstead Abbey. Beppo and Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage IV published. Moves to Palazzo Mocenigo on the Grand Canal in Venice. Promiscuous affairs and dissipation. Don Juan I–II, Mazeppa, and a translation of Pulci’s Morgante Maggiore published. Relationship with Countess Teresa Guiccioli, his ‘last attachment’, begins (April). Moves to Ravenna and lives with Teresa and her family. Involvement with the Italian Carbonari revolutionary group. All published this year: Marino Faliero; The Prophecy of Dante; Don Juan III–V; Sardanapalus; The Two Foscari; Cain; The Blues; and The Irish Avatar. Moves to Pisa with Theresa’s family and the Shelleys (November). Death of Allegra (April). Resumes Don Juan and writes Cantos VI–XII. Werner published. Percy Shelley drowns ( July). Moves to Genoa with Leigh Hunt and his family (September). The Liberal published, including Byron’s The Vision of Judgment. All published this year: Heaven and Earth; The Age of Bronze; The Island; Don Juan VI–VIII ( July); Don Juan IX–XI (August); and Don Juan XII–XIV (December). Conversations with Lady Blessington. Sails for Greece ( July). Stays in Cephalonia. Departs for Messolonghi (December). The Deformed Transformed and Don Juan XV–XVI published. Dies in Messolonghi, Greece (19 April). Buried in Hucknall churchyard, near Newstead Abbey (16 July).

from Fugitive Pieces (1806)



Fugitive Pieces (1806)

3

On Leaving N—­st—­d Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle,   For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay; And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle   Have choak’d up the rose, which late bloom’d in the way. Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle5   Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain; The escutcheon and shield, which with ev’ry blast rattle,   Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more does old Robert, with harp-­stringing numbers,   Raise a flame in the breast, for the war laurell’d wreath,10 Near Askalon’s Towers John of Horiston* slumbers,   Unnerv’d is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy,   For the safety of Edward and England they fell, My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye,15   How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell. On Marston† with Rupert‡ ’gainst traitors contending,   Four Brothers enrich’d with their blood the bleak field For Charles the Martyr their country defending,   Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d.20 Shades of heroes farewell! your descendant departing,   From the seat of his ancestors, bids ye adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting   New courage, he’ll think upon glory, and you. Though a tear dims his eye at this sad separation,25   ’Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret; Far distant he goes with the same emulation,   In the grave, he alone can his fathers forget.

*  Horiston Castle, in Derbyshire, an ancient seat of the B—­r—n family. †   The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. ‡   Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet, in the Reign of Charles II.

4

lord byron Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish,   He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown;30 Like you will he live, or like you will he perish,   When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your own. 1803.

To Maria—— Since now the hour is come at last,   When you must quit your anxious lover, Since now, our dream of bliss is past,   One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that pang will be severe,5   Which bid us part, to meet no more; Which tears me far from one so dear,   Departing for a distant shore. Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,   And joy will mingle with our tears;10 When thinking on these ancient towers,   The shelter of our infant years. Where from this gothic casement’s height,   We view’d the lake, the park, the dell, And still though tears obstruct our sight,15   We lingering look a last farewell.— O’er fields, through which we us’d to run,   And spend the hours in childish play, O’er shades where, when our race was done,   Reposing on my breast you lay,20 Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,   Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss,   It dar’d to give your slumbering eyes. See still the little painted bark,25   In which I row’d you o’er the lake;



Fugitive Pieces (1806)

5

See there, high waving o’er the park,  The elm, I clamber’d for your sake. These times are past, our joys are gone,   You leave me, leave this happy vale;30 These scenes, I must retrace alone,   Without thee, what will they avail. Who can conceive, who has not prov’d,   The anguish of a last embrace? When torn from all you fondly lov’d,35   You bid a long adieu to peace. This is the deepest of our woes,  For this, these tears our cheeks bedew, This is of love the final close,  Oh God! the fondest, last adieu!40 1805.

Epitaph on a Beloved Friend Oh Boy! forever lov’d, for ever dear, What fruitless tears have wash’d thy honour’d bier; What sighs re-­echoed to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death. Could tears have turn’d the tyrant in his course,5 Could sighs have check’d his dart’s relentless force, Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey, Thou still had’st liv’d, to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade’s honour, and thy friend’s delight:10 Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. For thee alone I liv’d, or wish’d to live,15 (Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive) Heart broken now, I wait an equal doom, Content to join thee in thy turf-­clad tomb: Where this frail form compos’d in endless rest, I’ll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast;20

6

lord byron That breast where oft in life, I’ve laid my head, Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead. This life resign’d without one parting sigh, Together in one bed of earth we’ll lie! Together share the fate to mortals given,25 Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven. Harrow, 1803.

To Mary [1.] Rack’d by the flames of jealous rage,   By all her torments deeply curst,   Of hell-­born passions far the worst, What hope my pangs can now assuage? 2. I tore me from thy circling arms,5   To madness fir’d by doubts and fears,   Heedless of thy suspicious tears, Nor feeling for thy feign’d alarms. 3. Resigning every thought of bliss,   Forever, from your love I go.10   Reckless of all the tears that flow, Disdaining thy polluted kiss. 4. No more that bosom heaves for me,   On it another seeks repose,   Another riots on its snows,15 Our bonds are broken, both are free. 5. No more with mutual love we burn,   No more the genial couch we bless,   Dissolving in the fond caress; Our love o’erthrown will ne’er return.20



Fugitive Pieces (1806)

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[6.] Though love than ours could ne’er be truer,   Yet flames too fierce themselves destroy,   Embraces oft repeated cloy, Ours came to frequent, to endure. 7. You quickly sought a second lover,25   And I too proud to share a heart,   Where once I held the whole, not part, Another mistress must discover. 8. Though not the first one, who hast blest me,   Yet I will own, you was the dearest,30   The one, unto my bosom nearest; So I conceiv’d, when I possest thee. 9. Even now I cannot well forget thee,   And though no more in folds of pleasure,   Kiss follows kiss in countless measure,35 I hope you sometimes will regret me. 10. And smile to think how oft we’ve done,   What prudes declare a sin to act is,   And never but in darkness practice, Fearing to trust the tell-­tale sun.40 [11.] And wisely therefore night prefer,   Whose dusky mantle veils their fears,  Of this, and that, of eyes and ears, Affording shades to those that err. 12. Now, by my soul, ’tis most delight45   To view each other panting, dying,

8

lord byron   In love’s extatic posture lying, Grateful to feeling, as to sight. 13. And had the glaring God of Day,   (As formerly of Mars and Venus)50   Divulg’d the joys which pass’d between us, Regardless of his peeping ray, 14. Of love admiring such a sample,   The Gods and Goddesses descending,   Had never fancied us offending,55 But wisely followed our example.

[‘When to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice’] When to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice, Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice, When pois’d upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or dark in mist, descend the mountain’s side; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur’d urns,5 To mark the spot, where earth to earth returns. No lengthen’d scroll of virtue, and renown. My epitaph, shall be my name alone; If that with honour fails to crown my clay, Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay;10 That, only that, shall single out the spot, By that remember’d or fore’er forgot.— 1803.

On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill. 1806 [1.] Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection   Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;



Fugitive Pieces (1806)

9

Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,   And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last. 2. Where fancy yet joys, to retrace the resemblance,5   Of comrades in friendship, and mischief allied; How welcome once more your ne’er fading remembrance,   Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny’d. 3. Again I revisit the hills where we sported,   The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;10 The school where loud warn’d by the bell we resorted,   To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught. 4. Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,   As reclining at eve on yon tombstone I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,15   To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray. 5. I once more view the room with spectators surrounded,   Where as Zanga I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown; While to swell my young pride such applauses resounded,   I fancied that Mossop* himself was outshone.20 6. Or as Lear I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,   By my daughters of kingdom and reason depriv’d; Till fir’d by laud plaudits, and self adulations,   I consider’d myself as a Garrick reviv’d. 7. Ye dreams of my boyhood how much I regret you,25   As your memory beams through this agoniz’d breast;

*  Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga, in Young’s tragedy of the Revenge.

10

lord byron Thus sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you,   Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest. 8. I thought this poor brain fever’d even to madness,   Of tears as of reason forever was drain’d,30 But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness,   Convince me, the springs have some moisture retain’d. 9. Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection   Has wrung from these eye-­lids to weeping long dead, In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection,35   The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed.

To Mary, on Receiving her Picture 1. This faint resemblance of thy charms,   (Though strong as mortal art could give) My constant heart of fear disarms,   Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 2. Here I can trace the locks of gold,5   Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,   The lips which made me Beauty’s slave. 3. Here I can trace—­ah no! that eye,   Whose azure floats in liquid fire,10 Must all the painter’s art defy,   And bid him from the task retire. 4. Here I behold, its beauteous hue,   But where’s the beam of soft desire?



Fugitive Pieces (1806)

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Which gave a lustre to its blue,15   Love, only love, could e’er inspire. 5. Sweet copy! far more dear to me,   Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be,   Save her, who plac’d thee next my heart.20 6. She plac’d it, sad with needless fear,   Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there,   Held every sense in fast controul. 7. Through hours, through years, through time ’twill cheer,25   My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life’s last conflict, ’twill appear,   And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

The Cornelian [1.] No specious splendor of this stone,   Endears it to my memory ever, With lustre only once it shone,   But blushes modest as the giver. 2. Some who can sneer at friendship’s ties,5   Have for my weakness oft reprov’d me, Yet still the simple gift I prize,   For I am sure, the giver lov’d me. 3. He offered it with downcast look,  As fearful that I might refuse it,10

12

lord byron I told him when the gift I took,  My only fear should be to lose it. 4. This pledge attentively I view’d,  And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew’d,15   And ever since I’ve lov’d a tear. 5. Still to adorn his humble youth,   Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield, But he who seeks the flowers of truth,   Must quit the garden for the field.20 6. ’Tis not the plant uprear’d in sloth,   Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume, The flowers which yield the most of both,   In nature’s wild luxuriance bloom. 7. Had Fortune aided nature’s care,25   For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share,   If well proportioned to his mind. 8. But had the Goddess clearly seen,   His form had fixed her fickle breast,30 Her countless hoards would his have been,   And none remain’d to give the rest.

from Hours of Idleness (1807)

Figure 1 Title page, Hours of Idleness. 1st edn. (S.  and J.  Ridge, 1807). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.



hours of idleness (1807)

15

Lachin Y. Gair Lachin  Y.  Gair, or as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch Na Garr, ­towers proudly pre-­eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern Tourists mentions it as the highest mountain perhaps in Great Britain; be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime, and picturesque, amongst our “Caledonian Alps.” Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows; near Lachin y. Gair, I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which, has given birth to the following stanzas.—— 1. Away, ye gay landscapes! ye gardens of roses!   In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-­flake reposes,   Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia! belov’d are thy mountains, 5   Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam, ’stead of smooth-­flowing fountains,   I sigh, for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 2. Ah! there my young footsteps, in infancy, wandered,   My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;* 10   On chieftains, long perish’d, my memory ponder’d, As daily I strode through the pine-­covered glade;   I sought not my home, till the day’s dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;   For Fancy was cheer’d, by traditional story, 15 Disclos’d by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 3. “Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices   Rise on the night-­rolling breath of the gale?” Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,   And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale: 20 *  This word is erroneously pronounced plad, the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shewn by the Orthography.

16

lord byron Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,   Winter presides in his cold icy car; Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers,   They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: 4. “Ill-­starred,* though brave, did no visions foreboding 25   Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?” Ah! were you destin’d to die at Culloden,†   Victory crown’d not your fall with applause; Still were you happy, in death’s earthy slumber,   You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar;‡ 30 The Pibroch§ resounds, to the piper’s loud number,   Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 5. Years have roll’d on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,   Years must elapse, e’er I tread you again; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 35   Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain: England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,   To one, who has rov’d on the mountains afar; Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,   The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. 40

To——— [1.] Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine,   As once this pledge appear’d a token; These follies had not, then, been mine,   For, then, my peace had not been broken. *  I allude here to my maternal ancestors, the “Gordons,” many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stewarts. George, the 2d. Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the 1st of Scotland, by her he left four sons: the 3d, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. †   Whether any perished in the Battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, “pars pro toto.” ‡   A Tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a Castle of Braemar. §   The Bagpipe.



hours of idleness (1807)

17

2. To thee, these early faults I owe, 5   To thee, the wise and old reproving; They know my sins, but do not know,   ’Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 3. For, once, my soul like thine was pure,   And all its rising fires could smother; 10 But, now, thy vows no more endure,   Bestow’d by thee upon another. 4. Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,   And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet, let my Rival smile in joy, 15   For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him. 5. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,   My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone,   Attempts, alas! to find in many. 20 6. Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid,   ’Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,   But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 7. Yet all this giddy waste of years, 25   This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron’s Fears,   These thoughtless strains to Passion’s measures, 8. If thou wert mine, had all been hush’d,   This cheek now pale from early riot; 30

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lord byron With Passions hectic ne’er had flush’d,   But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet. 9. Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,   For Nature seem’d to smile before thee; And once my Breast abhorr’d deceit, 35   For then it beat but to adore thee. 10. But, now, I seek for other joys,   To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,   I conquer half my Bosom’s sadness. 40 11. Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,   In spite of every vain endeavor; And fiends might pity what I feel,   To know, that thou art lost forever.

STANZAS TO JESSY

There is a mystic thread of life   So dearly wreath’d with mine alone, That destiny’s relentless knife   At once must sever both, or none. There is a form, on which these eyes 5   Have fondly gaz’d with such delight, By day, that form their joy supplies,   And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice whose tones inspire,   Such soften’d feelings in my breast; 10 I would not hear a seraph choir,   Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell   Affection’s tale upon the cheek; But pallid at our fond farewell, 15   Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip which mine has prest,   But none had ever prest before, It vow’d to make me sweetly blest,   That mine alone should press it more. 20 There is a bosom all my own,   Has pillow’d oft this aching head, A mouth, which smiles on me alone,   An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill, 25   In unison so closely sweet, That pulse to pulse responsive still,   They both must heave, or cease to beat. There are two souls whose equal flow,   In gentle stream so calmly run, 30 That when they part—­they part?—ah no!   They cannot part—­those souls are one.

LETTER TO ELIZABETH BRIDGET PIGOT

[London] August 2d. 1807 My dear Elizabeth—­London begins to disgorge its contents, town is empty, consequently I can scribble at leisure, as my occupations are less numerous, in a fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement, but expect 2 Epistles from you previous to that period.—Ridge, you tell me, does not proceed rapidly in Notts, very possible, in Town things wear a most promising aspect, & a Man whose works are praised by Reviewers, admired by Duchesses & sold by every Bookseller of the Metropolis, does not dedicate much consideration to rustic Readers.—I have now a Review before me, en­titled “Literary Recreations,” where my Bardship is applauded far beyond my Deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but think him a very discerning ­gentleman, & myself a devilish clever fellow, his critique pleases me particularly because it is of great length, & a proper quantum of censure is administered, just to give an agreeable relish to the praise, you know I hate insipid, unqualified common-­place compliments, if you would wish to see it, tell Ridge to order the 13th Number of “Literary Recreations” for the last Month. I assure you, I have not the most distant Idea, of the Writer of the article, it is printed in a periodical publication, & though I have written a paper (a Review of Wordsworth), which appears in the same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it, even the Editor, whose name I have not heard.—My Cousin, Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same Hotel, told me his Mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he would introduce my poetical Lordship to her highness, as she had bought my volume, admired it extremely, in common with the Rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim her relationship with the Author.—I was unluckily engaged on an excursion for some days afterwards, & as the Duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, have postponed my Introduction till the Winter, when I shall favour this Lady, whose Taste I shall not dispute, with my most sublime & edifying ­conversation.—She is now in the Highlands, & Alexander, took his departure a few days ago, for the same blessed Seat of “dark-­rolling Winds”.—Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, & has sent to Ridge for a third (at least so he says) in every Bookseller’s I see my own name, & say nothing, but enjoy my fame in secret.—My last Reviewer, kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more, and “as a friend to the cause



LETTER TO ELIZABETH BRIDGET PIGOT, 2 Aug. 1807

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of Literature” begs, I will gratify the Public, with some new work “at no very distant period”.—Who would not be a Bard? Elizabeth, that is to say, if all critics would be so polite, however the others will pay me off I doubt not, for this gentle encouragement.—If so, have at ’em, By the Bye, I have written at my Intervals of leisure, after 2 in the Morning. 380 lines in blank verse, of “Bosworth Field,” I have luckily procured Hutton’s account, & shall extend the Poem to 8 or 10 Books, & shall have finished in a year, whether it will be published or not must depend on circumstances.—So much for Egotism, my Laurels have turned my Brain, but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms, will probably restore me to Modesty.— — — —Southwell, I agree with your Brother, is a damned place, I have done with it, & shall see it no more, (at least in all probability) excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts, you were my only rational companion, & in plain truth I had more respect for you, than the whole Bevy, with whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with their prevailing properties, you gave yourself more trouble with me & my manu­scripts, than a thousand dolls would have done, believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature, in this Circle of Sin, & one day I trust shall be able to evince my gratitude.—As for the village “Lass’es” of every description, my Gratitude is also unbounded, to be equalled only by my contempt, I saw the designs of all parties, while they imagined me every thing to be wished, Adieu yours very truly Byron P.S.—Remembrance to Dr. Pigot.—

from Poems Original and Translated (1808)



Poems Original and Translated (1808)

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Song 1. When I rov’d, a young Highlander, o’er the dark heath,   And climb’d thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow,* To gaze on the torrent, that thunder’d beneath,   Or the mist of the tempest that gather’d below;† Untutor’d by science, a stranger to fear, 5   And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear,   Need I say, my sweet Mary, ’twas centred in you? 2. Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,   What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? 10 But, still, I perceive an emotion the same   As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-­cover’d wild: One image, alone, on my bosom imprest,   I lov’d my bleak regions, nor panted for new, And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest, 15   And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 3. I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,   From mountain to mountain I bounded along, I breasted‡ the billows of Dee’s§ rushing tide,   And heard, at a distance, the Highlander’s song: 20 At eve, on my heath-­cover’d couch of repose,   No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view, * Morven is a lofty Mountain in Aberdeenshire: “Gormal of Snow,” is an Expression frequently to be found in Ossian. †   This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the Mountains; it is by no means uncommon on attaining the top of Ben e vis, Ben y bourd, &c. to perceive, between the Summit and the Valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally, accompanied by lightning, while the Spectator, literally, looks down on the Storm, perfectly secure from its Effects. ‡   “Breasting the lofty surge.” Shakespeare. §   The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea, at New Aberdeen.

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lord byron And warm to the skies my devotions arose,   For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 4. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone, 25   The mountains are vanish’d, my youth is no more; As the last of my race, I must wither alone,   And delight but in days, I have witness’d before; Ah! splendor has rais’d, but embitter’d my lot,   More dear were the scenes, which my infancy knew; 30 Though my hopes may have fail’d, yet they are not forgot,   Tho’ cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 5. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,   I think of the rocks, that o’ershadow Colbleen;* When I see the soft blue of a love-­speaking eye, 35   I think of those eyes that endear’d the rude scene; When, haply, some light-­waving locks I behold,   That faintly resemble my Mary’s in hue, I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,   The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 40 6. Yet, the day may arrive, when the mountains, once more,   Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow: But, while these soar above me, unchang’d as before,   Will Mary be there to receive me? ah no! Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred, 45   Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu! No home in the forest shall shelter my head,   Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

Stanzas 1. I would I were a careless child,   Still dwelling in my Highland cave, *  Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.



Poems Original and Translated (1808)

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Or roaming through the dusky wild,   Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride, 5   Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,   And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 2. Fortune! take back these cultur’d lands,   Take back this name of splendid sound! 10 I hate the touch of servile hands,   I hate the slaves that cringe around: Place me among the rocks I love,   Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar, I ask but this—­again to rove 15   Through scenes my youth hath known before. 3. Few are my years, and, yet, I feel   The World was ne’er design’d for me: Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal   The hour when man must cease to be? 20 Once I beheld a splendid dream,   A visionary scene of bliss; Truth!—wherefore did thy hated beam   Awake me to a world like this? 4. I lov’d—­but those I lov’d, are gone, 25   Had friends—­my early friends are fled, How cheerless feels the heart alone,   When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions, o’er the bowl,   Dispel awhile the sense of ill, 30 Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,   The heart—­the heart ­is lonely still.

*  Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English.

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lord byron 5. How dull! to hear the voice of those   Whom Rank, or Chance, whom Wealth, or Power, Have made; though neither Friends nor Foes, 35   Associates of the festive hour; Give me again, a faithful few,   In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,   Where boist’rous Joy is but a name. 40 6. And Woman! lovely Woman, thou!   My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now,   When e’en thy smiles begin to pall. Without a sigh would I resign 45   This busy scene of splendid Woe; To make that calm Contentment mine,   Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. 7. Fain would I fly the haunts of men,   I seek to shun, not hate mankind, 50 My breast requires the sullen glen,   Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind; Oh! that to me the wings were given,   Which bear the Turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, 55   To flee away, and be at rest.*

*  Psalm 55, Verse 6.—“And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove, then would I fly away and be at rest.” This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

from Imitations and Translations (1809)



Imitations and Translations (1809)

31

Inscription on the Monument of a Favourite Dog When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory but upheld by birth, The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 5 Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master’s own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone; 10 Unhonour’d falls, unnotic’d all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 15 Debas’d by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! 20 By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on,—it honours none you wish to mourn; To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise, 25 I never knew but one unchang’d,—and here he lies.

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To *************** Well! thou art happy, and I feel   That I should thus be happy too, For still my heart regards thy weal,   Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband’s blest—­and ’twill impart 5   Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass—­oh! how my heart   Would hate him if he lov’d thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child,   I thought my jealous heart would break, 10 But when th’ unconscious infant smil’d,   I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake. I kiss’d it,—and represt my sighs,   Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother’s eyes, 15   And they were all to love and me. Mary adieu! I must away,   While thou art blest, I’ll not repine! But near thee I can never stay,   My heart would soon again be thine. 20 I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride,   Had quench’d at length my boyish flame, Nor knew till seated by thy side,   My heart in all,—save hope,—the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time 25   My breast would thrill before thy look, But now to tremble were a crime,   We met—­and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face,   Yet meet with no confusion there; 30 One only feeling couldst thou trace,   The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream   Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe’s fabled stream? 35   My foolish heart be still, or break.



Imitations and Translations (1809)

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A Love Song. To ******* Remind me not, remind me not,   Of those belov’d, those vanish’d hours,    When all my soul was given to thee; Hours that may never be forgot   Till Time unnerves our vital powers, 5    And thou and I shall cease to be. Can I forget? canst thou forget?   When playing with thy golden hair    How quick thy fluttering heart did move? Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet, 10   With eyes so languid, breast so fair,    And lips, though silent, breathing love. When thus reclining on my breast   Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,    As half reproach’d, yet rais’d desire, 15 And still we near, and nearer prest,   And still our glowing lips would meet,    As if in kisses to expire. And then those pensive eyes would close,   And bid their lids each other seek, 20    Veiling the azure orbs below; While their long lashes’ darkening gloss   Seemed stealing o’er thy brilliant cheek,    Like raven’s plumage smooth’d on snow. I dreamt last night our love return’d, 25   And sooth to say that very dream    Was sweeter in its phantasy Than if for other hearts I burn’d,   For eyes that ne’er like thine could beam    In rapture’s wild reality. 30 Then tell me not, remind me not   Of hours which, though for ever gone,    Can still a pleasing dream restore, Till thou and I shall be forgot;   And senseless as the mouldering stone, 35    Which tells that we shall be no more.

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To the Same And wilt thou weep when I am low?   Sweet lady! speak those words again; Yet if they grieve thee, say not so,   I would not give that bosom pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 5   My blood runs coldly thro’ my breast; And when I perish, thou alone   Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet methinks a gleam of peace   Doth thro’ my cloud of anguish shine, 10 And for awhile my sorrows cease,   To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessed be that tear,   It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear 15   To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm   With every feeling soft as thine, But beauty’s self hath ceas’d to charm   A wretch created to repine. 20 Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?   Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so,   I would not give that bosom pain.



Imitations and Translations (1809)

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Stanzas to ****** on Leaving England   ’Tis done—­and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o’er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast; And I must from this land begone, 5 Because I cannot love but one.   But could I be what I have been, And could I see what I have seen, Could I repose upon the breast Which once my warmest wishes blest, 10 I should not seek another zone Because I cannot love but one.   ’Tis long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, 15 Never to think of it again; For tho’ I fly from Albion I still can only love but one.   As some lone bird without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; 20 I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face; And e’en in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one.   And I will cross the whit’ning foam, 25 And I will seek a foreign home, Till I forget a false fair face, I ne’er shall find a resting place; My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one. 30   The poorest, veriest wretch on earth Still finds some hospitable hearth, Where friendship’s or love’s softer glow May smile in joy or soothe in woe; But friend or lover I have none, 35 Because I cannot love but one.

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lord byron   I go—­but wheresoe’er I flee There’s not an eye will weep for me; There’s not a kind, congenial heart Where I can claim the meanest part: 40 Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, Wilt sigh although I love but one.   To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we’ve been, Would whelm some softer hearts with woe, 45 But mine, alas! has stood the blow; Yet still beats on as it begun, And never truly loves but one.   And who that dear lov’d one may be Is not for vulgar eyes to see; 50 And why that early love was crost, Thou knowst the best, I feel the most; But few that dwell beneath the sun Have loved so long, and loved but one.   I’ve tried another’s fetters too, 55 With charms perchance as fair to view; And I would feign have lov’d as well, But some unconquerable spell Forbade my bleeding breast to own A kindred care for aught but one. 60   ’Twould soothe to take one lingering view, And bless thee in my last adieu; Yet wish I not those eyes to weep For him that wanders o’er the deep; Tho’ wheresoe’er my bark may run, 65 I love but thee, I love but one.

LETTER TO MRS. CATHERINE GORDON BYRON

Constantinople June 28th. 1810 My dear Mother,—I regret to perceive by your last letter, that several of mine have not arrived, particularly a very long one written in November last from Albania, when I was on a visit to the Pacha of that province.—Fletcher has also written to his spouse perpetually.—Mr. Hobhouse who will forward or deliver this and is on his return to England, can inform you of our different movements, but I am very uncertain as to my own return. He will probably be down in Notts some time or other, but Fletcher whom I send back as an Incumbrance, (English servants are sad travelers) will supply his place in the Interim, and describe our travels which have been tolerably extensive.—I have written twice briefly from this capital, from Smyrna, from Athens and other parts of Greece, from Albania, the Pacha of which province desired his respects to my mother, and said he was sure I was a man of high birth because I had “small ears, curling hair, and white hands”!!! He was very kind to me, begged me to consider him as a father, and gave me a guard of forty soldiers through the forests of Acarnania.—But of this and other circumstances I have written to you at large, and yet hope you receive my letters.—I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson of Ali Pacha at Yanina, (a little fellow of ten years of age, with large black eyes which our ladies would purchase at any price, and those regular features which distinguish the Turks) asked me how I came to travel about so young, without any body to take care of me, this question was put by the little man with all the gravity of threescore.—I cannot now write copiously, I have only time to tell you that I have passed many a fatiguing but never a tedious moment, and all that I am afraid of is, that I shall contract a Gipsy-­like wandering disposition, which will make home tiresome to me, this I am told is very common with men in the habit of peregrination, and indeed I feel it so.—On the third of May I swam from Sestos to Abydos, you know the story of Leander, but I had no Hero to receive me at landing.—I also passed a fortnight in the Troad, the tombs of Achilles and Æsietes [sic] &c. still exist in large barrows similar to those you have doubtless seen in the North.—The other day I was at Belgrade (a village in these environs) to see the house built on the same site as Lady Mary Wortley’s, by the bye, her Ladyship, as far as I can judge, has lied, but not half so much as any other woman would have done in the same situation.—I have been in all the principal Mosques by virtue of a firman, this is a favour rarely permitted to

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infidels, but the Ambassador’s departure obtained it for us. I have been up the Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the walls of the city, and indeed I know more of it by sight than I do of London.—I hope to amaze you some winter’s evening with the details but at present you must excuse me, I am not able to write long letters in June.—I return to spend my summer in Greece, I shall not proceed farther into Asia, as I have visited Smyrna, Ephesus, and the Troad.—I write often but you must not be alarmed when you do not receive my letters, consider we have no regular post farther than Malta where I beg you will in future send your letters, & not to this city.—Fletcher is a poor creature, and requires comforts that I can dispense with, he is very sick of his travels, but you must not believe his account of the country, he sighs for Ale, and Idleness, and a wife and the Devil knows what besides.—I have not been disappointed or disgusted, I have lived with the highest and lowest, I have been for days in a Pacha’s palace, and have passed many a night in a cowhouse, and I find the people inoffensive and kind, I have also passed some time with the principal Greeks in the Morea and Livadia, and though inferior to the Turks, they are better than Spaniards, who in their turn excel the Portuguese. Of Constantinople you will find many correct descriptions in different travels, but Lady Wortley errs strangely when she says “St. Paul’s would cut a poor figure by St. Sophia’s”. I have been in both, surveyed them inside & out attentively, St. Sophia’s is undoubtedly the most interesting from its immense antiquity, and the circumstance of all the Greek Emperors from Justinian having been crowned there, and several murdered at the Altar, besides the Turkish Sultans who attend it regularly, but it is inferior in beauty & size to some of the other Mosques, particularly “Soleyman Etc” and not be mentioned in the same page with St. P’s (I speak like a cockney) however, I prefer the Gothic Cathedral of Seville to St. P’s, St. Sophia’s and any other religious building I have ever seen.—The walls of the Seraglio are like the walls of Newstead Gardens only higher, and much in the same order, but the ride by the walls of the city on the land side is beautiful, imagine, four miles of immense triple battlements covered with Ivy, surmounted with 218 towers, and on the other side of the road Turkish burying grounds (the loveliest spots on earth) full of enormous cypresses, I have seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi, I have traversed great part of Turkey and many other parts of Europe and some of Asia, but I never behold a work of Nature or Art, which yielded an impression like the prospect on each side, from the Seven Towers to the End of the Golden Horn.—Now for England, you have not received my friend Hobhouse’s volume of Poesy, it has been published several months, you ought to read it.—I am glad to hear of the progress of E. Bards &c. of course you observed I have made great additions to the new Edition.—Have you received my picture from Sanders in Vigo lane London? it was finished and paid for long before I left England, pray send for it.—You seem to be a mighty reader of magazines, where do you pick up all this intelligence? quotations &c. &c.?—Though

LETTER TO MRS. CATHERINE GORDON BYRON, 28 Jun. 1810 39 I was happy to obtain my seat without Ld. C[arlisle]’s assistance, I had no measures to keep with a man who declined interfering as my relation on that occasion, and I have done with him, though I regret distressing Mrs. Leigh, poor thing! I hope she is happy.—It is my opinion that Mr. Bowman ought to marry Miss Rushton, our first duty is not to do evil, but alas! that is impossible, our next is to repair it, if in our power, the girl is his equal, if she were his inferior a sum of money and provision for a child would be some, though a poor compensation, as it is, he should marry her. I will have no gay decievers on my Estate, and I shall not allow my tenants a privilege I do not permit myself, viz—­that, of debauching each other’s daughters.—God knows, I have been guilty of many excesses, but as I have laid down a resolution to reform, and lately kept it, I expect this Lothario to follow the example, and begin by restoring this girl to society, or, by the Beard of my Father! he shall hear of it.—Pray, take some notice of Robert, who will miss his master, poor boy, he was very unwilling to return.—I trust you are well & happy, it will be a pleasure to hear from you, believe me yours ever sincerely Byron    P.S.—How is Joe Murray?— P.S.—July 6th. 1810 Dear M[othe]r,—I open my letter to tell you that Fletcher having petitioned [to] accompany me into the Morea, I have taken him with me contrary to the intention expressed in my letter.— yours ever Byron

AN ODE TO THE FRAMERS OF THE FRAME BILL

Oh well done Lord E——n! and better done R——r!   Britannia must prosper with councils like yours; Hawkesbury, Harrowby, help you to guide her,   Whose remedy only must kill ere it cures: Those villains, the Weavers, are all grown refractory, 5   Asking some succour for Charity’s sake— So hang them in clusters round each Manufactory,   That will at once put an end to mistake.* The rascals, perhaps, may betake them to robbing,   The dogs to be sure have got nothing to eat— 10 So if we can hang them for breaking a bobbin,   ’T will save all the Government’s money and meat: Men are more easily made than machinery—   Stockings fetch better prices than lives— Gibbets on Sherwood will heighten the scenery, 15   Shewing how Commerce, how Liberty thrives. Justice is now in pursuit of the wretches,   Grenadiers, Volunteers, Bow-­street Police, Twenty-­two Regiments, a score of Jack Ketches,   Three of the Quorum and two of the Peace; 20 Some Lords, to be sure, would have summoned the Judges,   To take their opinion, but that they ne’er shall, For Liverpool such a concession begrudges,   So now they’re condemned by no Judges at all. Some folks for certain have thought it was shocking, 25   When Famine appeals, and when Poverty groans: That life should be valued at less than a stocking,   And breaking of frames lead to breaking of bones. If it should prove so, I trust, by this token,   (And who will refuse to partake in the hope?) 30 That the frames of the fools may be first to be broken,   Who, when asked for a remedy, sent down a rope. *  Lord E, on Thursday night, said the riots at Nottingham arose from “a mistake.”

from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, A Romaunt: And Other Poems (1812)

Figure 2  Title page, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 7th edn. ( John Murray, 1814). The Byron Society Collection. Special Collections and Archives. Photograph by Candace Reilly. Image published with the permission of Drew University Library, Madison, New Jersey.

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage A Romaunt. [Cantos I–­II] L’univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n’a lu que la première page quand on n’a vu que son pays. J’en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j’ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m’a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j’ai vécu, m’ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n’aurais tiré d’autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-­là, je n’en regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE.

PREFACE The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author’s observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There for the present the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental. A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, “Childe Harold,” I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim— Harold is the child of imagination for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation “Childe,” as “Childe Waters,” “Childe Childers,” &c. is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The “Good Night,” in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by “Lord Maxwell’s Good Night,” in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a few ­concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant.

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The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation: “Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanzas of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition.”—Beattie’s Letters. Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie.

[ADDITION TO THE PREFACE] [1812; 4th edition] [I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object; it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the “vagrant Childe” (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated, that besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of love, honour, and so forth. Now it so happens that the good old times, when “l’amour du bon vieux tems, l’àmour antique” flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. page 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever, and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid.—The “Cours d’amour, parlemens d’amour ou de courtesie et de gentilesse” had much more of love than of courtesy or gentle­ness.—See Rolland on the same subject with St. Palaye.—Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes—“No waiter, but a knight templar.”*—By the by, I fear that Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no  better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights “sans peur,” though not “sans reproche.”—If the story of the institution of the “Garter” be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. *  The Rovers. Antijacobin.

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So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. [Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. [I now leave “Childe Harold” to live his day, such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the Poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco.]

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE A Romaunt CANTO I [TO IANTHE]  [Not in those climes where I have late been straying,   Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem’d;   Not in those visions to the heart displaying   Forms which it sighs but to have only dream’d,   Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem’d:5   Nor having seen thee shall I vainly seek   To paint those charms which varied as they beam’d,   To such as see thee not my words were weak, To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?            

[Ah! may’st thou ever be what now thou art,10 Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love’s image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears15

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lord byron   Thy youth, in thee thus hourly brightening,   Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.—   [Young Peri of the West!—’tis well for me   My years already doubly number thine;20   My loveless eye unmov’d may gaze on thee,   And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;   Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline,   Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed,   Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign,25   To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed.   [Oh! let that eye, which wild as the Gazelle’s,   Now brightly bold, or beautifully shy,   Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,30   Glance o’er this page; nor to my verse deny   That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,   Could I to thee be ever more than friend,   This much, dear maid, accord—­nor question why   To one so young my strain I would commend,35 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.   [Such is thy name with this my verse entwin’d;   And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast   On Harold’s page—­Ianthe’s here enshrin’d   Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last;40   My days once number’d—should this homage past   Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre   Of him who hail’d thee, loveliest as thou wast,   Such is the most my memory may desire, Though more than Hope can claim—­could Friendship less require?]45 ______________ I.            

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem’d of heavenly birth, Muse! form’d or fabled at the minstrel’s will, Since sham’d full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill; Yet there I’ve wander’d by thy vaunted rill,5 Yes! sigh’d o’er Delphi’s long-­deserted shrine,1



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  Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;   Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale—­this lowly lay of mine. II.   Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth10   Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight,   But spent his days in riot most uncouth;   And vex’d with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.   Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,   Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;15   Few earthly things found favour in his sight   Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III.   Childe Harold was he hight:—but whence his name   And lineage long, it suits me not to say;20   Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,   And had been glorious in another day:   But one sad losel soils a name for aye,   However mighty in the olden time;   Nor all that heralds rake from coffin’d clay,25   Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. IV.   Childe Harold bask’d him in the noon-­tide sun,   Disporting there like any other fly;   Nor deem’d before his little day was done30   One blast might chill him into misery.   But long ere scarce a third of his pass’d by,   Worse than adversity the Childe befell;   He felt the fulness of satiety:   Then loath’d he in his native land to dwell,35 Which seem’d to him more lone than Eremite’s sad cell. V.   For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run,   Nor made atonement when he did amiss,

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lord byron   Had sigh’d to many though he lov’d but one,   And that lov’d one, alas! could ne’er be his.40   Ah, happy she! to scape from him whose kiss   Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;   Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,   And spoil’d her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign’d to taste.45 VI.   And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,   And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;   ’Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,   But Pride congeal’d the drop within his ee:   Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,50   And from his native land resolv’d to go,   And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;   With pleasure drugg’d he almost longed for woe, And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII.   The Childe departed from his father’s hall,55   It was a vast and venerable pile;   So old, it seemed only not to fall,   Yet strength was pillar’d in each massy aisle.   Monastic dome! condemn’d to uses vile!   Where Superstition once had made her den60   Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;   And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII.   Yet oft-­times in his maddest mirthful mood   Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s brow,65   As if the memory of some deadly feud   Or disappointed passion lurk’d below.   But this none knew, or haply cared to know;   For his was not that open, artless soul   That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,70   Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

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IX.   And none did love him—­though to hall and bower   He gather’d revellers from far and near,   He knew them flatt’rers of the festal hour,75   The heartless parasites of present cheer.   Yea! none did love him—­not his lemans dear—   But pomp and power alone are woman’s care,   And where these are, light Eros finds a feere;   Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,80 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. X.   Childe Harold had a mother—­not forgot,   Though parting from that mother he did shun;   A sister whom he lov’d, but saw her not   Before his weary pilgrimage begun:85   If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.   Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;   Ye, who have known what ’tis to doat upon   A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.90 XI.   His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,   The laughing dames in whom he did delight,   Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,   Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,   And long had fed his youthful appetite;95   His goblets brimm’d with every costly wine,   And all that mote to luxury invite,   Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth’s central line. XII.            

The sails were fill’d, and fair the light winds blew,100 As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam: And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept105

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lord byron   The silent thought, nor from his lips did come   One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. XIII.   But when the sun was sinking in the sea   He seiz’d his harp, which he at times could string,110   And strike, albeit with untaught melody,   When deem’d he no strange ear was listening:   And now his fingers o’er it he did fling,   And tun’d his farewell in the dim twilight.   While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,115   And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he poured his last “Good Night.” 1. “Adieu, adieu! my native shore   Fades o’er the waters blue; The Night-­winds sigh, the breakers roar,120   And shrieks the wild seamew. Yon Sun that sets upon the sea   We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,   My native Land—­Good Night!125 2. “A few short hours and He will rise   To give the Morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies,   But not my mother Earth. Deserted is my own good hall,130   Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;   My dog howls at the gate. 3. “Come hither, hither, my little page!   Why dost thou weep and wail?135 Or dost thou dread the billows’ rage,   Or tremble at the gale?



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But dash the tear-­drop from thine eye;   Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly140   More merrily along.” 4. ‘Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,   I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I   Am sorrowful in mind;145 For I have from my father gone,   A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone,   But thee—­and one above. 5. ‘My father bless’d me fervently,150   Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh   Till I come back again.’— “Enough, enough, my little lad!   Such tears become thine eye;155 If I thy guileless bosom had   Mine own would not be dry. 6. “Come hither, hither my staunch yeoman,   Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman?160   Or shiv’rest at the gale?”— ‘Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?   Sir Childe, I’m not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife   Will blanch a faithful cheek.165 7. ‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,   Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call,   What answer shall she make?’—

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lord byron “Enough, enough, my yeoman good,170   Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,   Will laugh to flee away. 8. “For who would trust the seeming sighs   Of wife or paramour?175 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes   We late saw streaming o’er. For pleasures past I do not grieve,   Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave180   No thing that claims a tear. 9. “And now I’m in the world alone,   Upon the wide, wide sea: But why should I for others groan,   When none will sigh for me?185 Perchance my dog will whine in vain,   Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again,   He’d tear me where he stands. 10. “With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go190   Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,   So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!   And when you fail my sight,195 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!   My native Land—­Good Night!” XIV.          

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,200 New shores descried make every bosom gay: And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way,



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  And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,   His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;   And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,205 And steer ’twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. XV.   Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see   What heaven hath done for this delicious land!   What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!   What goodly prospects o’er the hills expand!210   But man would mar them with an impious hand:   And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge   ’Gainst those who most transgress his high command,   With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul’s locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.215 XVI.   What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!   Her image floating on the noble tide,   Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,   But now whereon a thousand keels did ride   Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,220   And to the Lusians did her aid afford:   A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,   Who lick yet loath the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul’s unsparing lord. XVII.   But whoso entereth within this town,225   That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,   Disconsolate will wander up and down,   Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;   For hut and palace show like filthily:   The dingy denizens are rear’d in dirt;230   Ne personage of high or mean degree   Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Though shent with Egypt’s plague, unkempt, unwash’d, unhurt. XVIII.   Poor, paltry slaves! yet born ’midst noblest scenes—   Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?235

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lord byron   Lo! Cintra’s glorious Eden intervenes   In variegated maze of mount and glen.   Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,   To follow half on which the eye dilates   Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken240   Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-­struck world unlock’d Elysium’s gates! XIX.   The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown’d,   The cork trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,   The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrown’d,245   The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,   The tender azure of the unruffled deep,   The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,   The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,   The vine on high, the willow branch below,250 Mix’d in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. XX.   Then slowly climb the many-­winding way,   And frequent turn to linger as you go,   From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,   And rest ye at our “Lady’s house of woe;”2255   Where frugal monks their little relics show,   And sundry legends to the stranger tell:   Here impious men have punish’d been, and lo!   Deep in yon cave Honorious long did dwell, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.260 XXI.   And here and there, as up the crags you spring,   Mark many rude-­carv’d crosses near the path:   Yet deem not these devotion’s offering—   These are memorials frail of murderous wrath:   For wheresoe’er the shrieking victim hath265   Pour’d forth his blood beneath the assassin’s knife,   Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath,   And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.3

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XXII.   On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,270   Are domes where whilome kings did make repair;   But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:   Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.   And yonder towers the Prince’s palace fair.   There thou too, Vathek! England’s wealthiest son,275   Once form’d thy Paradise, as not aware   When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. XXIII.   Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan,   Beneath yon mountain’s ever beauteous brow:280   But now, as if a thing unblest by Man,   Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!   Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow   To halls deserted, portals gaping wide:   Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how285   Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied, Swept into wrecks anon by Time’s ungentle tide! XXIV.   Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!4   Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!   With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,290   A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,   There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by   His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,   Where blazon’d glare names known to chivalry,   And sundry signatures adorn the roll,295 Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul. XXV.            

Convention is the dwarfish demon styl’d That foil’d the knights in Marialva’s dome: Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguil’d, And turn’d a nation’s shallow joy to gloom.300 Here Folly dash’d to earth the victor’s plume, And Policy regain’d what arms had lost:

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lord byron   For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!   Woe to the conqu’ring, not the conquer’d host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania’s coast!305 XXVI.   And ever since that martial synod met,   Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;   And folks in office at the mention fret,   And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.   How will posterity the deed proclaim!310   Will not our own and fellow-­nations sneer,   To view these champions cheated of their fame,   By foes in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII.   So deem’d the Childe, as o’er the mountains he315   Did take his way in solitary guise:   Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,   More restless than the swallow in the skies:   Though here awhile he learn’d to moralize,   For Meditation fix’d at times on him;320   And conscious Reason whisper’d to despise   His early youth, misspent in maddest whim; But as he gaz’d on truth his aching eyes grew dim. XXVIII.   To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits   A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:325   Again he rouses from his moping fits,   But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.   Onward he flies, nor fix’d as yet the goal   Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;   And o’er him many changing scenes must roll330   Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. XXIX.   Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay5   Where dwelt of yore the Lusian’s luckless queen;



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  And church and court did mingle their array,335   And mass and revel were alternate seen;   Lordlings and freres—­ill sorted fry I ween!   But here the Babylonian whore hath built   A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,   That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,340 And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. XXX.   O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,   (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!)   Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,   Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.345   Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chace,   And marvel men should quit their easy chair,   The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,   Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.350 XXXI.   More bleak to view the hills at length recede,   And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:   Immense horizon-­bounded plains succeed!   Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,   Spain’s realms appear whereon her shepherds tend355   Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows.   Now must the pastor’s arm his lambs defend:   For Spain is compass’d by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection’s woes. XXXII.   Where Lusitania and her sister meet,360   Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?   Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet,   Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?   Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride?   Or fence of art, like China’s vasty wall?—365   Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,   Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania’s land from Gaul:

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lord byron XXXIII.   But these between a silver streamlet glides,   And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,370   Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.   Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,   And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,   That peaceful still ’twixt bitterest foemen flow;   For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:375   Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know ’Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.6 XXXIV.   But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass’d,   Dark Guadiana rolls his power along   In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,380   So noted ancient roundelays among.   Whilome upon his banks did legions throng   Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest;   Here ceas’d the swift their race, here sunk the strong;   The Paynim turban and the Christian crest385 Mix’d on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress’d. XXXV.   Oh, lovely Spain! renown’d, romantic land!   Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,   When Cava’s* traitor-­sire first call’d the band   That dy’d thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?390   Where are those bloody banners which of yore   Wav’d o’er thy sons, victorious to the gale,   And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?   Red gleam’d the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric’s echoes thrill’d with Moorish matrons’ wail.395 XXXVI.   Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?   Ah! such, alas! the hero’s amplest fate!

*  Count Julian’s daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendents of his followers, after some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of Granada.



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  When granite moulders and when records fail   A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date.   Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate;400   See how the Mighty shrink into a song!   Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great?   Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong? XXXVII.   Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!405   Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,   But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,   Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:   Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,   And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar:410   In every peal she calls—“Awake! arise!”   Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-­song was heard on Andalusia’s shore? XXXVIII.   Hark!—heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?   Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?415   Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;   Nor sav’d your brethren e’re they sank beneath   Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves?—the fires of death,   The bale-­fires flash on high:—from rock to rock   Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;420   Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX.   Lo! where the Giant on the mountains stands,   His blood-­red tresses deep’ning in the sun,   With death-­shot glowing in his fiery hands,425   And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;   Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon   Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet   Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;   For on this morn three potent nations meet430 To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

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lord byron XL.   By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see   (For one who hath no friend, no brother there)   Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,   Their various arms that glitter in the air!435   What gallant war-­hounds rouse them from their lair,   And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!   All join the chase, but few the triumph share;   The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.440 XLI.   Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;   Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;   Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;   The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!   The foe, the victim, and the fond ally445   That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,   Are met—­as if at home they could not die—   To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLII.   There shall they rot—­Ambition’s honour’d fools!450   Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!*   Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,   The broken tools, that tyrants cast away   By myriads, when they dare to pave their way   With human hearts—­to what?—a dream alone.455   Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?   Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? XLIII.          

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! As o’er thy plain the pilgrim prick’d his steed,460 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Peace to the perish’d! may the warrior’s meed * Collins.



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  And tears of triumph their reward prolong!   Till others fall where other chieftains lead465   Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng; And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song! XLIV.   Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play   Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame;   Fame, that will scarce reanimate their clay,470   Though thousands fall to deck some single name.   In sooth ’twere sad to thwart their noble aim   Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country’s good,   And die, that living might have prov’d her shame;   Perished perchance in some domestic feud,475 Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine’s path pursu’d. XLV.   Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way   Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:   Yet is she free? the spoiler’s wish’d-­for prey!   Soon, soon shall Conquest’s fiery foot intrude,480   Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.   Inevitable hour! ’gainst fate to strive   Where Desolation plants her famish’d brood   Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.485 XLVI.   But all unconscious of the coming doom,   The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;   Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,   Nor bleed these patriots with their country’s wounds:   Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck sounds;490   Here Folly still his votaries enthralls;   And young-­eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds,   Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott’ring walls. XLVII.   Not so the rustic—­with his trembling mate495   He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,

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lord byron   Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,   Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.   No more beneath soft Eve’s consenting star   Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:500   Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,   Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet! XLVIII.   How carols now the lusty muleteer?   Of love, romance, devotion is his lay?505   As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,   His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?   No! as he speeds, he chaunts; “Vivā el Rey!”7   And checks his song to execrate Godoy,   The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day510   When first Spain’s queen beheld the black-­ey’d boy, And gore-­fac’d Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX.   On yon long, level plain at distance crown’d   With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,   Wide scatter’d hoof-­marks dint the wounded ground,515   And, scath’d by fire, the green sward’s darken’d vest   Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest:   Here was the camp, the watch-­flame, and the host,   Here the bold peasant storm’d the dragon’s nest;   Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,520 And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. L.                  

And whomsoe’er along the path you meet, Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,* Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet; Woe to the man that walks in public view525 Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre’s edge, or clear the cannon’s smoke.530 *  The red cockade with “Fernando Septimo” in the center.

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LI.   At every turn Morena’s dusky height   Sustains aloft the battery’s iron load;   And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,   The mountain-­howitzer, the broken road,   The bristling palisade, the fosse o’er-­flow’d,535   The station’d bands, the never-­vacant watch,   The magazine in rocky durance stow’d,   The holster’d steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-­pil’d pyramid, the ever-­blazing match,8 LII.   Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod540   Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway   A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;   A little moment deigneth to delay:   Soon will his legions sweep through these their way;   The West must own the Scourger of the world.545   Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-­day,   When soars Gaul’s Vulture, with his wings unfurl’d, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl’d. LIII.   And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave,   To swell one bloated Chief ’s unwholesome reign?550   No step between submission and a grave;   The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?   And doth the Power that man adores ordain   Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal?   Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?555   And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The Veteran’s skill, Youth’s fire, and Manhood’s heart of steel? LIV.            

Is it for this, the Spanish maid, arous’d, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And all unsex’d, the Anlace hath espous’d,560 Sung the loud song, and dar’d the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall’d, an owlet’s larum chill’d with dread,

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lord byron   Now views the column-­scattering bay’net jar,   The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead565 Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread. LV.   Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,   Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,   Mark’d her black eye that mocks her coal-­black veil,   Heard her light lively tones in Lady’s bower,570   Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,   Her fairy form, with more than female grace,   Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower   Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face, Thin the clos’d ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.575 LVI.   Her lover sinks—­she sheds no ill-­tim’d tear;   Her chief is slain—­she fills his fatal post;   Her fellows flee—­she checks their base career;   The foe retires—­she heads the sallying host:   Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?580   Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?   What maid retrieve when man’s flush’d hope is lost?   Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil’d by a woman’s hand, before a batter’d wall?* LVII.   Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,585   But form’d for all the witching arts of love:   Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,   And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,   ’Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove   Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate:590   In softness as in firmness far above   Remoter females, fam’d for sickening prate, Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

*  Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. When the author was at Seville she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta.

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LVIII.   The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impress’d,   Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch!*595   Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,   Bid man be valiant ere he merit such.   Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much   Hath Phœbus woo’d in vain to spoil her cheek,   Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!600   Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak! LIX.   Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;   Match me, ye harams of the land! where now   I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud605   Beauties that ev’n a cynic must avow;   Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow   To taste the gale, lest Love should ride the wind,   With Spain’s dark-­glancing daughters—­deign to know,   There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,610 His black-­eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX.                  

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer’s eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-­clad through thy native sky,615 In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.620 †

LXI.   Oft have I dream’d of Thee! whose glorious name   Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore; *  Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo   Vestigio demonstrant Mollitudinem. Aul. Gel. †  These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the foot of Parnassus, now called Λιακυρα — Liakura.

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lord byron   And now I view thee, ’tis, alas! with shame   That I in feeblest accents must adore.   When I recount thy worshippers of yore625   I tremble, and can only bend the knee;   Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,   But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! LXII.   Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,630   Whose fate to distant homes confin’d their lot,   Shall I unmov’d behold the hallow’d scene,   Which others rave of, though they know it not?   Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,   And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave!635   Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot,   Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious Wave. LXIII.   Of thee hereafter.—Ev’n amidst my strain   I turn’d aside to pay my homage here;640   Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;   Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear,   And hail’d thee, not perchance without a tear.   Now to my theme—­but from thy holy haunt   Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;645   Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant, Nor let thy votary’s hope be deem’d an idle vaunt. LXIV.   But ne’er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young,   See round thy giant base a brighter choir,   Nor e’er did Delphi, when her priestess sung650   The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,   Behold a train more fitting to inspire   The song of love, than Andalusia’s maids,   Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:—   Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades655 As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.

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LXV.   Fair is proud Seville, let her country boast   Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;9   But Cadiz rising on the distant coast   Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.660   Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!   While boyish blood is mantling who can scape   The fascination of thy magic gaze?   A Cherub-­hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.665 LXVI.   When Paphos fell by Time—­accursed Time!   The queen who conquers all must yield to thee—   The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;   And Venus, constant to her native sea,   To nought else constant, hither deign’d to flee;670   And fix’d her shrine within these walls of white:   Though not to one dome circumscribeth she   Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. LXVII.   From morn till night, from night till startled Morn675   Peeps blushing on the Revel’s laughing crew,   The song is heard, the rosy garland worn,   Devices quaint, and frolicks ever new,   Tread on each other’s kibes. A long adieu   He bids to sober joy that here sojourns:680   Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu   Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And Love and Prayer unite, or rule the hour in turns. LXVIII.            

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore?685 Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: Hark! heard you not the forest-­monarch’s roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o’erthrown beneath his horn;

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lord byron   The throng’d Arena shakes with shouts for more;690   Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev’n affects to mourn. LXIX.   The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.   London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer:   Then thy spruce citizen, wash’d artizan,695   And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:   Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-­horse chair,   And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl,   To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair;   Till the tir’d jade the wheel forgets to hurl,700 Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian Churl. LXX.   Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribbon’d fair,   Others along the safer Turnpike fly;   Some Richmond-­hill ascend, some scud to Ware,   And many to the steep of Highgate hie.705   Ask ye, Bœotian shades! the reason why?*   ’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,   Grasp’d in the holy hand of Mystery,   In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.710 LXXI.   All have their fooleries—­not alike are thine,   Fair Cadiz, rising o’er the dark blue sea!   Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,   Thy saint adorers count the rosary:   Much is the Virgin teaz’d to shrive them free715   (Well do I ween the only virgin there)   From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;   Then to the crowded circus forth they fare, Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

*  This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for asking and answering such a question; not as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the capital of Bœotia, where the first riddle was propounded and solved.

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LXXII.   The lists are op’d, the spacious area clear’d,720   Thousands on thousands pil’d are seated round;   Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard,   Ne vacant space for lated wight is found:   Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,   Skill’d in the ogle of a roguish eye,725   Yet ever well inclin’d to heal the wound;   None through their cold disdain are doom’d to die, As moon-­struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery. LXXIII.   Hush’d is the din of tongues—­on gallant steeds,   With milk-­white crest, gold spur, and light-­pois’d lance,730   Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,   And lowly bending to the lists advance;   Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:   If in the dangerous game they shine to-­day,   The crowds loud shout and ladies lovely glance,735   Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay. LXXIV.   In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array’d,   But all afoot, the light-­limb’d Matadore   Stands in the centre, eager to invade740   The lord of lowing herds; but not before   The ground, with cautious tread, is travers’d o’er,   Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:   His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more   Can man achieve without the friendly steed,745 Alas! too oft condemn’d for him to bear and bleed. LXXV.              

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent Circle’s loaded walls: Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,750 And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit

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lord byron   His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.755 LXXVI.   Sudden he stops—­his eye is fix’d—­away—   Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear:   Now is thy time, to perish, or display   The skill that yet may check his mad career!   With well-­tim’d croupe the nimble coursers veer;*760   On foams the bull, but not unscath’d he goes,   Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear;   He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. LXXVII.   Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,765   Nor the wild plunging of the tortur’d horse;   Though man and man’s avenging arms assail,   Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.   One gallant steed is stretch’d a mangled corse;   Another, hideous sight! unseam’d appears,770   His gory chest unveils life’s panting source,   Tho’ death-­struck still his feeble frame he rears, Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm’d he bears. LXXVIII.   Foil’d, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,   Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,775   Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,   And foes disabled in the brutal fray:   And now the Matadores around him play,   Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:   Once more through all he bursts his thundering way—780   Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye—’tis past—­he sinks upon the sand! LXXIX.   Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,   Sheath’d in his form, the deadly weapon lies.   He stops—­he starts—­disdaining to decline:785 * The croupe is a particular leap taught in the Manege.



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  Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,   Without a groan, without a struggle dies.   The decorated car appears—­on high   The corse is pil’d—­sweet sight for vulgar eyes—   Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,790 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. LXXX.   Such the ungentle sport that oft invites   The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain.   Nurtur’d in blood betimes, his heart delights   In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.795   What private feuds the troubled village stain!   Though now one phalanx’d host should meet the foe,   Enough, alas! in humble homes remain,   To meditate ’gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must flow.800 LXXXI.   But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,   His wither’d sentinel, Duenna sage!   And all whereat the generous soul revolts,   Which the stern dotard deem’d he could encage,   Have pass’d to darkness with the vanish’d age.805   Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen,   (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),   With braided tresses bounding o’er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-­loving Queen? LXXXII.   Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold lov’d,810   Or dream’d he lov’d, since Rapture is a dream;   But now his wayward bosom was unmov’d,   For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream;   And lately had he learn’d with truth to deem   Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:815   How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,   Full from the fount of Joy’s delicious springs Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.* *        “Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat.” Luc.

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lord byron LXXXIII.   Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,   Though now it mov’d him as it moves the wise;820   Not that Philosophy on such a mind   E’er deign’d to bend her chastely-­awful eyes:   But Passion raves herself to rest, or flies;   And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,   Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:825   Pleasure’s pall’d victim! life-­abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom. LXXXIV.   Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;   But view’d them not with misanthropic hate:   Fain would he now have join’d the dance, the song;830   But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?   Nought that he saw his sadness could abate;   Yet once he struggled ’gainst the demon’s sway,   And as in Beauty’s bower he pensive sate,   Pour’d forth this unpremeditated lay,835 To charms as fair as those that sooth’d his happier day.

TO INEZ. 1. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,   Alas! I cannot smile again; Yet heaven avert that ever thou   Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.840 2. And dost thou ask, what secret woe   I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know   A pang, ev’n thou must fail to soothe? 3. It is not love, it is not hate,845   Nor low Ambition’s honours lost,



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That bids me loathe my present state,   And fly from all I priz’d the most. 4. It is that weariness which springs   From all I meet, or hear, or see;850 To me no pleasure Beauty brings,   Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom   The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb,855   But cannot hope for rest before. 6. What Exile from himself can flee?   To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where e’er I be,   The blight of life—­the demon Thought.860 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,   And taste of all that I forsake; Oh! may they still of transport dream,   And ne’er, at least like me, awake! 8. Through many a clime ’tis mine to go865   With many a retrospection curst, And all my solace is to know,   Whate’er betides, I’ve known the worst. 9. What is that worst? nay do not ask,   In pity from the search forbear:870 Smile on—­nor venture to unmask   Man’s heart, and view the Hell that’s there!

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lord byron LXXXV.   Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!   Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?   When all were changing thou alone wert true,875   First to be free and last to be subdued;   And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,   Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye;   A traitor only fell beneath the feud:*   Here all were noble, save Nobility;880 None hugg’d a Conqueror’s chain, save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI.   Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!   They fight for freedom who were never free;   A Kingless people for a nerveless state,   Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,885   True to the veriest slaves of Treachery:   Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,   Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;   Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, “War even to the knife!”† 890 LXXXVII.   Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,   Go, read whate’er is writ of bloodiest strife:   Whate’er keen Vengeance urg’d on foreign foe   Can act, is acting there against man’s life:   From flashing scimitar to secret knife,895   War mouldeth there each weapon to his need:   So may he guard the sister and the wife,   So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! LXXXVIII.        

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?900 Look o’er the ravage of the reeking plain; Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,

*  Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz. †   “War to the knife.” Palafox’s answer to the French General at the siege of Saragoza.



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  Then to the vulture let each corse remain.   Albeit unworthy of the prey-­bird’s maw,905   Let their bleach’d bones, and blood’s unbleaching stain,   Long mark the battle-­field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! LXXXIX.   Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done,   Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees;910   It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,   Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees:   Fall’n nations gaze on Spain; if free’d, she frees   More than her fell Pizarros once enchain’d:   Strange retribution! now Columbia’s ease915   Repairs the wrongs that Quito’s sons sustain’d, While o’er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain’d. XC.   Not all the blood at Talavera shed,   Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight,   Not Albuera lavish of the dead,920   Have won for Spain her well asserted right.   When shall her Olive Branch be free from blight?   When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?   How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,   Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,925 And Freedom’s stranger tree grow native of the soil! XCI.   And thou, my friend!*—since unavailing woe   Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain—   Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,   Pride might forbid ev’n Friendship to complain:930   But thus unlaurel’d to descend in vain,   By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,   And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,   While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?935

*  These lines allude to a friend in the army, who died of a fever at Coimbra.10

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lord byron XCII.   Oh, known the earliest, and esteem’d the most!   Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!   Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,   In dreams deny me not to see thee here!   And Morn in secret shall renew the tear940   Of Consciousness, awaking to her woes,   And Fancy hover o’er thy bloodless bier,   Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourn’d and mourner lie united in repose. XCIII.   Here is one fytte of Harold’s pilgrimage:945   Ye who of him may further seek to know,   Shall find some tidings in a future page,   If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.   Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so:   Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld950   In other lands, where he was doom’d to go:   Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barb’rous hands were quell’d. END OF CANTO I.

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE A Romaunt CANTO II I.   Come, blue-­eyed maid of heaven!—but thou, alas!   Didst never yet one mortal song inspire—   Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,   And is, despite of war and wasting fire,*   And years, that bade thy worship to expire:5   But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,   Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire   Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish’d breasts bestow.1 *  Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege.



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II.   Ancient of days! august Athena! where,10   Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?   Gone—­glimmering through the dream of things that were,   First in the race that led to Glory’s goal,   They won, and pass’d away—­is this the whole?   A school-­boy’s tale, the wonder of an hour!15   The warrior’s weapon, and the sophist’s stole   Are sought in vain, and o’er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. III.   Son of the Morning, rise! approach you here!   Come—­but molest not yon defenceless urn:20   Look on this spot—­a nation’s sepulchre!   Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.   Even gods must yield—­religions take their turn:   ’Twas Jove’s—’tis Mahomet’s—­and other creeds   Will rise with other years, till man shall learn25   Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. IV.   Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven—   Is’t not enough, unhappy thing! to know   Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,30   That being, thou would’st be again, and go,   Thou know’st not, reck’st not to what region, so   On earth no more, but mingled with the skies?   Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?   Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:35 That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. V.   Or burst the vanish’d Hero’s lofty mound;   Far on the solitary shore he sleeps:* *  It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their dead; the greater Ajax in particular was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease, and he was indeed neglected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, &c. and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous.

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lord byron   He fell, and falling, nations mourn’d around;   But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,40   Nor warlike-­worshipper his vigil keeps   Where demi-­gods appear’d, as records tell.   Remove yon skull from out the scatter’d heaps:   Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Why ev’n the worm at last disdains her shatter’d cell!45 VI.   Look on its broken arch, its ruin’d wall,   Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:   Yes, this was once Ambition’s airy hall,   The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul:   Behold through each lack-­lustre, eyeless hole,50   The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit   And Passion’s host, that never brook’d control:   Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII.   Well didst thou speak, Athena’s wisest son!55   “All that we know is, nothing can be known.”   Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?   Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan   With brain-­born dreams of evil all their own.   Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best;60   Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron:   There no forc’d banquet claims the sated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. VIII.   Yet if, as holiest men have deem’d, there be   A land of souls beyond that sable shore,65   To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee   And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;   How sweet it were in concert to adore   With those who made our mortal labours light!   To hear each voice we fear’d to hear no more!70   Behold each mighty shade reveal’d to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!



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IX.   There, thou!—whose love and life together fled,   Have left me here to love and live in vain—   Twin’d with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,75   When busy Memory flashes on my brain?   Well—­I will dream that we may meet again,   And woo the vision to my vacant breast:   If aught of young Remembrance then remain,   Be as it may Futurity’s behest,80 For me ’twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! X.   Here let me sit upon this massy stone,   The marble column’s yet unshaken base;   Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav’rite throne:*   Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace85   The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place.   It may not be: nor ev’n can Fancy’s eye   Restore what Time hath labour’d to deface.   Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh, Unmov’d the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.90 XI.   But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane   On high—­where Pallas linger’d, loth to flee   The latest relic of her ancient reign—   The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?   Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be!95   England! I joy no child he was of thine:   Thy free-­born men should spare what once was free;   Yet they could violate each sadd’ning shrine, And bear these altars o’er the long-­reluctant brine.† XII.   But most the modern Pict’s ignoble boast,100   To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spar’d:2 *  The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen columns entirely of marble yet survive: originally there were 150. These columns, however, are by many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon. †   The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago.

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lord byron   Cold as the crags upon his native coast,   His mind as barren and his heart as hard,   Is he whose head conceiv’d, whose hand prepar’d,   Aught to displace Athena’s poor remains;105   Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,   Yet felt some portion of their mother’s pains, And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot’s chains. XIII.   What! shall it e’er be said by British tongue,   Albion was happy in Athena’s tears?110   Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,   Tell not the deed to blushing Europe’s ears;   The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears   The last poor plunder from a bleeding land:   Yes, she, whose gen’rous aid her name endears,115   Tore down those remnants with a Harpy’s hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. XIV.   Where was thine Ægis, Pallas! that appall’d   Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?   Where Peleus’ son? whom Hell in vain enthrall’d,120   His shade from Hades upon that dread day,   Bursting to light in terrible array!   What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,   To scare a second robber from his prey?   Idly he wander’d on the Stygian shore,125 Nor now preserv’d the walls he lov’d to shield before.* XV.          

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o’er the dust they lov’d; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defac’d, thy mouldering shrines remov’d130 By British hands, which it had best behov’d

* According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the Gothic King was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.—See Chandler.



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  To guard those relics ne’er to be restor’d.   Curst be the hour when from their isle they rov’d,   And once again thy hapless bosom gor’d, And snatch’d thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr’d!135 XVI.   But where is Harold? shall I then forget   To urge the gloomy wanderer o’er the wave?   Little reck’d he of all that men regret;   No lov’d-­one now in feign’d lament could rave;   No friend the parting hand extended gave,140   E’re the cold stranger pass’d to other climes:   Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave;   But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII.   He that has sail’d upon the dark blue sea,145   Has view’d at times, I ween, a full fair sight;   When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,   The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;   Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,   The glorious main expanding o’er the bow,150   The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,   The dullest sailor wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII.   And oh, the little warlike world within!   The well-­reev’d guns, the netted canopy,*155   The hoarse command, the busy humming din,   When, at a word, the tops are mann’d on high:   Hark to the Boatswain’s call, the cheering cry!   While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides;   Or school-­boy Midshipman that, standing by,160   Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

*  The netting to present blocks or splinters from falling on deck during action.

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lord byron XIX.   White is the glassy deck, without a stain,   Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks:   Look on that part which sacred doth remain165   For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks,   Silent and fear’d by all—­not oft he talks   With aught beneath him, if he would preserve   That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks   Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve170 From Law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. XX.   Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-­compelling gale!   Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;   Then must the pennant-­bearer slacken sail,   That lagging barks may make their lazy way.175   Ah, grievance sore! and listless dull delay,   To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!   What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,   Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul’d down to halt for logs like these!180 XXI.   The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!   Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;   Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:   Such be our fate when we return to land!   Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand185   Wakes the brisk Harmony that sailors love;   A circle there of merry listeners stand,   Or to some well-­known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. XXII.              

Through Calpe’s straits survey the steepy shore,190 Europe and Afric on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-­ey’d Maid and dusky Moor, Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate’s blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,195 Distinct though darkening with her waning phase;

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  But Mauritania’s giant shadows frown, From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre down. XXIII.   ’Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel   We once have lov’d, though love is at an end:200   The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,   Though friendless now will dream it had a friend.   Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,   When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?   Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,205   Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy? XXIV.   Thus bending o’er the vessel’s laving side,   To gaze on Dian’s wave-­reflected sphere;   The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,210   And flies unconscious o’er each backward year:   None are so desolate but something dear,   Dearer than self, possesses or possess’d   A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;   A flashing pang! of which the weary breast215 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. XXV.   To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,   To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,   Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,   And mortal foot hath ne’er, or rarely been;220   To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,   With the wild flock that never needs a fold;   Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean;   This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold Converse with Nature’s charms, and see her stores unroll’d.225 XXVI.        

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world’s tir’d denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

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lord byron   Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!230   None that, with kindred consciousness endued,   If we were not, would seem to smile the less   Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! [XXVII.]                  

[More blest the life of godly Eremite,235 Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, Watching at Eve upon the giant height, That looks o’er waves so blue,—skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow’d spot,240 Then slowly tear him from the ’witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.] XXVIII.

  Pass we the long unvarying course, the track   Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;245   Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,   And each well known caprice of wave and wind;   Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,   Coop’d in their winged sea-­girt citadel;   The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,250   As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn—­lo, land! and all is well. XXIX.   But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles,*   The sister tenants of the middle deep;   There for the weary still a haven smiles,255   Though the fair goddess long hath ceas’d to weep,   And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep   For him who dar’d prefer a mortal bride:   Here, too, his boy essay’d the dreadful leap,   Stern Mentor urg’d from high to yonder tide;260 While thus of both bereft, the nymph-­queen doubly sigh’d.

* Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso.

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XXX.   Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone,   But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!   A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne,   And thou may’st find a new Calypso there.265   Sweet Florence! could another ever share   This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine;   But check’d by every tie, I may not dare   To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.270 XXXI.   Thus Harold deem’d, as on that lady’s eye   He look’d, and met its beam without a thought,   Save Admiration glancing harmless by:   Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,   Who knew his votary often lost and caught,275   But knew him as his worshipper no more,   And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought:   Since now he vainly urg’d him to adore, Well deem’d the little God his ancient sway was o’er. XXXII.   Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,280   One who, ’twas said, still sigh’d to all he saw,   Withstand, unmov’d, the lustre of her gaze,   Which others hail’d with real, or mimic awe,   Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law;   All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:285   And much she marvell’d that a youth so raw   Nor felt, nor feign’d at least, the oft-­told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. XXXIII.              

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, Now mask’d in silence, or withheld by pride,290 Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art, And spread its snares licentious far and wide; Nor from the base pursuit had turn’d aside, As long as aught was worthy to pursue: But Harold on such arts no more relied;295

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lord byron   And had he doated on those eyes so blue, Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew. XXXIV.   Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast,   Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;   What careth she for hearts when once possess’d?300   Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes;   But not too humbly, or she will despise   Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes:   Disguise ev’n tenderness, if thou art wise;   Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;305 Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. XXXV.   ’Tis an old lesson—­Time approves it true,   And those who know it best, deplore it most;   When all is won that all desire to woo,   The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost;310   Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,   These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!   If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost,   Still to the last it rankles, a disease Not to be cur’d when Love itself forgets to please.315 XXXVI.   Away! nor let me loiter in my song,   For we have many a mountain path to tread,   And many a varied shore to sail along,   By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction led:   Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head320   Imagin’d in its little schemes of thought;   Or e’er in new Utopias were ared,   To teach man what he might be, or he ought, If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. XXXVII.        

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,325 Though alway changing, in her aspect mild; From her bare bosom let me take my fill, Her never wean’d, though not her favour’d child.

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  Oh! she is fairest in her features wild,   Where nothing polish’d dares pollute her path:330   To me by day or night she ever smil’d,   Though I have mark’d her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and lov’d her best in wrath. XXXVIII.   Land of Albania!* where Iskander rose,   Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,335   And he his name-­sake, whose oft ­baffled foes   Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize:   Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes   On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!3   The cross descends, thy minarets arise,340   And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city’s ken. XXXIX.   Childe Harold sail’d, and pass’d the barren spot,†   Where sad Penelope o’erlook’d the wave;   And onward view’d the mount not yet forgot,345   The lover’s refuge, and the Lesbian’s grave.   Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save   That breast imbued with such immortal fire?   Could she not live who life eternal gave?   If life eternal may await the lyre,350 That only Heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire. XL.          

’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve Childe Harold hail’d Leucadia’s cape afar; A spot he long’d to see, nor cared to leave: Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish’d war,355 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar,4

*  Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alexander; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not know whether I am correct in making Scanderbeg the countryman of Alexander, who was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list in speaking of his exploits. †  Ithaca.

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lord byron   Mark them unmov’d, for he would not delight   (Born beneath some remote inglorious star)   In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loath’d the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight.360 XLI.   But when he saw the evening star above   Leucadia’s far-­projecting rock of woe,   And hail’d the last resort of fruitless love,5   He felt, or deem’d he felt, no common glow:   And as the stately vessel glided slow365   Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,   He watch’d the billows’ melancholy flow,   And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seem’d his eye, and smooth his pallid front. XLII.   Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania’s hills,370   Dark Suli’s rocks, and Pindus’ inland peak,   Rob’d half in mist, bedew’d with snowy rills,   Array’d in many a dun and purple streak,   Arise; and as the clouds along them break,   Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer:375   Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,   Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. XLIII.   Now Harold felt himself at length alone,   And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu;380   Now he adventur’d on a shore unknown,   Which all admire, but many dread to view:   His breast was arm’d ’gainst fate, his wants were few;   Peril he sought not, but ne’er shrank to meet,   The scene was savage, but the scene was new;385   This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter’s blast, and welcom’d summer’s heat. XLIV.   Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,   Though sadly scoff ’d at by the circumcis’d,

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  Forgets that Pride to pamper’d priesthood dear;390   Churchman and votary alike despis’d.   Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguis’d,   Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,   For whatsoever symbol thou art priz’d,   Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!395 Who from true worship’s gold can separate thy dross? XLV.   Ambracia’s gulph behold, where once was lost   A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!   In yonder rippling bay, their naval host   Did many a Roman chief and Asian king*400   To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring:   Look where the second Cæsar’s trophies rose!† 6   Now, like the hands that rear’d them, withering:   Imperial Anarchs, doubling human woes! God! was thy globe ordain’d for such to win and lose?405 XLVI.   From the dark barriers of that rugged clime,   Ev’n to the centre of Illyria’s vales,   Childe Harold pass’d o’er many a mount sublime,   Through lands scarce notic’d in historic tales:   Yet in fam’d Attica such lovely dales410   Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast   A charm they know not; lov’d Parnassus fails,   Though classic ground and consecrated most, To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. XLVII.        

He pass’d bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake,‡415 And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take To greet Albania’s chief,§ whose dread command

*  It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of Actium Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. †   At Nicopolis, whose ruins are the most extensive. ‡   According to Pouqueville the lake of Yanina; but Pouqueville is always out. §  The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville’s Travels.

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lord byron   Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand   He sways a nation, turbulent and bold:420   Yet here and there some daring mountain band   Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold7 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. XLVIII.   Monastic Zitza!8 from thy shady brow,   Thou small, but favour’d spot of holy ground!425   Where’er we gaze, around, above, below,   What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!   Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,   And bluest skies that harmonize the whole:   Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound430   Tells where the volum’d cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. XLIX.   Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,   Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh   Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,435   Might well itself be deem’d of dignity,   The convent’s white walls glisten fair on high:   Here dwells the caloyer,* nor rude is he,   Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by   Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee440 From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see. L.   Here in the sultriest season let him rest,   Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;   Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,   From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:445   The plain is far beneath—­oh! let him seize   Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray   Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:   Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, And gaze, untir’d, the morn, the noon, the eve away.450

*  The Greek monks are so called.

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LI.   Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,   Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre,*   Chimæra’s alps extend from left to right:   Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;   Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir455   Nodding above: behold black Acheron!†   Once consecrated to the sepulchre.   Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, Close sham’d Elysium’s gates, my shade shall seek for none. LII.   Ne city’s towers pollute the lovely view;460   Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,   Veil’d by the screen of hills: here men are few,   Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;   But, peering down each precipice, the goat   Browseth; and, pensive o’er his scatter’d flock,465   The little shepherd in his white capote‡   Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, Or in his cave awaits the tempest’s short-­liv’d shock. LIII.   Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove,   Prophetic fount, and oracle divine!470   What valley echo’d the response of Jove?   What trace remaineth of the thunderer’s shrine?   All, all forgotten—­and shall man repine   That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke?   Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine:475   Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak? When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke! LIV.        

Epirus’ bounds recede, and mountains fail; Tir’d of up gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale480 As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye:

*  The Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. ‡   Albanese cloke.

  Now called Kalamas.

†

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lord byron   Ev’n on a plain no humble beauties lie,   Where some bold river breaks the long expanse,   And woods along the banks are waving high,   Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance,485 Or with the moon-­beam sleep in midnight’s solemn trance. LV.   The Sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,*   And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;9   The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,   When down the steep banks winding warily,490   Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,   The glittering minarets of Tepalen,   Whose walls o’erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,   He heard the busy hum of warrior-­men Swelling the breeze that sigh’d along the lengthening glen.495 LVI.   He pass’d the sacred Haram’s silent tower,   And underneath the wide o’erarching gate   Survey’d the dwelling of this chief of power,   Where all around proclaim’d his high estate.   Amidst no common pomp the despot sate,500   While busy preparation shook the court,   Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait;   Within, a palace, and without, a fort: Here men of every clime appear to make resort. LVII.   Richly caparison’d, a ready row505   Of armed horse, and many a warlike store   Circled the wide extending court below:   Above, strange groups adorn’d the corridore;   And oft-­times through the Area’s echoing door   Some high-­capp’d Tartar spurr’d his steed away;510   The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor   Here mingl’d in their many-­hued array, While the deep war-­drum’s sound announc’d the close of day.

*  Anciently Mount Tomarus.

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LVIII.                  

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, With shawl-­girt head and ornamented gun,515 And gold-­embroider’d garments, fair to see; The crimson-­scarfed men of Macedon; The Delhi with his cap of terror on, And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; And swarthy Nubia’s mutilated son;520 The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, Master of all around, too potent to be meek, LIX.

                 

Are mix’d conspicuous: some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,525 And some that smoke, and some that play, are found; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The Muezzin’s call doth shake the minaret,530 “There is no god but God!—to prayer—­lo! God is great!” LX.

                 

Just at this season Ramazani’s fast Through the long day its penance did maintain: But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assum’d the rule again:535 Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepar’d and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seem’d made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in.540 LXI.

             

Here woman’s voice is never heard: apart, And scarce permitted, guarded, veil’d, to rove, She yields to one her person and her heart, Tam’d to her cage, nor feels a wish to move: For, not unhappy in her master’s love,545 And joyful in a mother’s gentlest cares, Blest cares! all other feelings far above!

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lord byron   Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears,   Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. LXII.                  

In marble-­pav’d pavilion, where a spring550 Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breath’d repose, Ali reclin’d, a man of war and woes; Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,555 While Gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face, The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. LXIII.

                 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard Ill suits the passions which belong to youth;560 Love conquers age—­so Hafiz hath averr’d, So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth— But ’tis those ne’er forgotten acts of ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, that mark him with a tyger’s tooth;565 Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. LXIV.

                 

’Mid many things most new to ear and eye The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gaz’d around on Moslem luxury,570 Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat Of sated Grandeur from the city’s noise: And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; But Peace abhorreth artificial joys,575 And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys. LXV.

       

Fierce are Albania’s children, yet they lack Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. Where is the foe that ever saw their back? Who can so well the toil of war endure?580

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Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure, When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, Unshaken rushing on where’er their chief may lead.585 LXVI.

                 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain’s tower Thronging to war in splendour and success; And after view’d them, when, within their power, Himself awhile the victim of distress; That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press:590 But these did shelter him beneath their roof, When less barbarians would have cheer’d him less, And follow-­countrymen have stood aloof *— In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! LXVII.

  It chanc’d that adverse winds once drove his bark595   Full on the coast of Suli’s shaggy shore,   When all round was desolate and dark;   To land was perilous, to sojourn more;   Yet for a while the mariners forbore,   Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk:600   At length they ventur’d forth, though doubting sore   That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk Might once again renew their ancient butcher-­work. LXVIII.   Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch’d the welcome hand,   Led them o’er rocks and past the dangerous swamp,605   Kinder than polish’d slaves though not so bland,   And pil’d the hearth, and wrung their garments damp,   And fill’d the bowl, and trimm’d the cheerful lamp,   And spread their fare; though homely, all they had:   Such conduct bears Philanthropy’s rare stamp—610   To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad.

*  Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall.

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lord byron LXIX.   It came to pass, that when he did address   Himself to quit at length this mountain land,   Combin’d marauders half way barr’d egress,615   And wasted far and near with glaive and brand;   And therefore did he take a trusty band   To traverse Acarnania’s forest wide,   In war well season’d, and with labours tann’d,   Till he did greet white Achelous’ tide,620 And from his further bank Ætolia’s wolds espied. LXX.   Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,   And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,   How brown the foliage of the green hill’s grove,   Nodding at midnight o’er the calm bay’s breast,625   As winds come lightly whispering from the west,   Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep’s serene:—   Here Harold was receiv’d a welcome guest;   Nor did he pass unmov’d the gentle scene, For many a joy could he from Night’s soft presence glean.630 LXXI.   On the smooth shore the night-­fires brightly blaz’d,   The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,*   And he that unawares had there ygaz’d   With gaping wonderment had star’d aghast;   For ere night’s midmost, stillest hour was past635   The native revels of the troop began;   Each Palikar† his sabre from him cast,   And bounding hand in hand, man link’d to man, Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunc’d the kirtled clan. LXXII.   Childe Harold at a little distance stood640   And view’d, but not displeas’d, the revelrie,   Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude:

*  The Albanian Musselmans do not abstain from wine, and indeed very few of the others. †   Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, from Παλικαρι, a general name for a soldier amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic—­it means properly “a lad.”



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  In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see   Their barb’rous, yet their not indecent, glee;   And as the flames along their faces gleam’d,645   Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free,   The long wild locks that to their girdles stream’d, While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half scream’d.10 1.* Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy ’larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war;650 All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! †

2. Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock,655 And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 3. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe?660 4. Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarfs of blood-­red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheath’d and the battle is o’er. 5. Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves,665 And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. *  These stanzas are partly taken from different Albinese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposition of the Albinese in Romaic and Italian. †  Drummer.

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lord byron 6. I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy;670 Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 7. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth; Let her bring from the chamber her many-­ton’d lyre,675 And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 8. Remember the moment when Previsa fell,* The shrieks of the conquer’d, the conquerors’ yell; The roofs that we fir’d, and the plunder we shar’d, The wealthy we slaughter’d, the lovely we spar’d.680 9. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne’er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 10. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped,685 Let the yellow-­hair’d† Giaours‡ view his horse-­tail§ with dread; When his Delhis¶ come dashing in blood o’er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! 11. Selictar!# unsheathe then our chief ’s scimitār: Tambourgi! thy ’larum gives promise of war.690 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore! Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!

*  It was taken by storm from the French.    †  Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. ‡ §  Infidel.   Horse-­tails are the insignia of a Pacha. ¶   Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope.    #  Sword-­bearer.



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LXXIII.   Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!11   Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!   Who now shall lead thy scatter’d children forth,695   And long accustom’d bondage uncreate?   Not such thy sons who whilome did await,   The hopeless warriors of a willing doom,   In bleak Thermopylæ’s sepulchral strait—   Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume,700 Leap from Eurotas’ banks, and call thee from the tomb? LXXIV.   Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle’s brow*   Thou sat’st with Thrasybulus and his train,   Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now   Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?705   Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,   But every carle can lord it o’er thy land;   Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,   Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslav’d; in word, in deed unmann’d.710 LXXV.   In all save form alone, how chang’d! and who   That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye,   Who but would deem their bosoms burn’d anew   With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty!   And many dream withal the hour is nigh715   That gives them back their fathers’ heritage:   For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,   Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defil’d from Slavery’s mournful page. LXXVI.   Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not720   Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?   By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

*  Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has still considerable remains: it was seized by Thrasybulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty.

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lord byron   Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no!   True, they may lay your proud despoilers low,   But not for you will Freedom’s altars flame.725   Shades of the Helots! triumph o’er your foe!   Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o’er, but not thine years of shame. [LXXVII.]   [The city won for Allah from the Giaour,   The Giaour from Othman’s race again may wrest;730   And the Serai’s impenetrable tower   Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;   On Wahab’s rebel brood who dared divest   The prophet’s tomb of all its pious spoil,12   May wind their path of blood along the West;735   But ne’er will freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.] [LXXVIII.]   [Yet mark their mirth—­ere lenten days begin,   That penance which their holy rites prepare,   To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,740   By daily abstinence and nightly prayer;   But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,   Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,   To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,   In motley robe to dance at masking ball,745 And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.] [LXXIX.]   [And whose more rife with merriment than thine,   Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign?   Though turbans now pollute Sophia’s shrine,   And Greece her very altars eyes in vain,750   (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!)   Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,   All felt the common joy they now must feign,   Nor oft I’ve seen such sight, nor heard such song, As woo’d the eye—and thrill’d the Bosphorus along.]755

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[LXXX.]   [Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore,   Oft Music chang’d, but never ceas’d her tone,   And timely echo’d back the measur’d oar,   And rippling waters made a pleasant moan;   The Queen of tides on high consenting shone,760   And when a transient breeze swept o’er the wave,   ’Twas—­as if darting from her heavenly throne,   A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seem’d to light the banks they lave.] [LXXXI.]   [Glanc’d many a light caique along the foam,765   Danc’d on the shore the daughters of the land,   Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home,   While many a languid eye, and thrilling hand,   Exchang’d the look few bosoms may withstand,   Or gently prest, return’d the pressure still:770   Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band,   Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, These hours, and only these, redeem Life’s years of ill!] [LXXXII.]   [But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,   Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain?775   Even through the closest searment half betrayed?   To such the gentle murmurs of the main   Seem to re-­echo all they mourn in vain;   To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd   Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain:780   How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!] [LXXXIII.]            

[This must he feel—­the true-­born son of Greece, If Greece one true-­born patriot still can boast, Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace—785 The bondsman’s peace—­who sighs for all he lost, Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:

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lord byron   Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most—   Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record790 Of hero sires who shame thy now degenerate horde!] LXXXIV.   When riseth Lacedemon’s hardihood,   When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,   When Athens’ children are with arts endued,   When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,795   Then mayst thou be restor’d; but not till then.   A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;   An hour may lay it in the dust: and when   Can man its shatter’d splendour renovate, Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?800 LXXXV.   And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,   Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou!   Thy vales of ever-­g reen, thy hills of snow*   Proclaim thee Nature’s varied favourite now.   Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow,805   Commingling slowly with heroic earth,   Broke by the share of every rustic plough:   So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-­recorded Worth: LXXXVI.   Save where some solitary column mourns810   Above its prostrate brethren of the cave;†   Save where Tritonia’s airy shrine adorns   Colonna’s cliff, and gleams along the wave;   Save o’er some warrior’s half-­forgotten grave,   Where the grey stones and unmolested grass815   Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave,   While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh “Alas!”

* On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the intense heat of the Summer; but I never saw it lie on the plains even in Winter. †   Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till the end of time.



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LXXXVII.   Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild,   Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,820   Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smil’d,   And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields;   There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,   The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air;   Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,825   Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare: Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. LXXXVIII.   Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground,   No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould;   But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,830   And all the Muse’s tales seem truly told,   Till the sense aches with gazing to behold   The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:   Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold   Defies the power which crush’d thy temples gone:835 Age shakes Athena’s tower, but spares gray Marathon. [LXXXIX.]   [The sun—­the soil—­but not the slave the same,   Unchanged in all except its foreign lord,   Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame,   The Battle-­field—­where Persia’s victim horde840   First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas’ sword,   As on the morn to distant Glory dear,   When Marathon became a magic word13—   Which utter’d—­to the hearer’s eye appear The camp—­the host—­the fight—­the conqueror’s career!]845 [XC].   [The flying Mede—­his shaftless broken bow,   The fiery Greek—­his red pursuing spear,   Mountains above—­Earth’s—­Ocean’s plain below,   Death in the front—­Destruction in the rear!   Such was the scene—­what now remaineth here?850   What sacred trophy marks the hallow’d ground   Recording Freedom’s smile and Asia’s tear?—

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lord byron   The rifled urn—­the violated mound— The dust— thy courser’s hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.] XCI.   Long to the remnants of thy splendour past855   Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;   Long shall the voyager, with th’ Ionian blast,   Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;   Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue   Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;860   Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!   Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. XCII.   The parted bosom clings to wonted home,   If aught that’s kindred cheer the welcome hearth;865   He that is lonely hither let him roam,   And gaze complacent on congenial earth.   Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;   But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide,   And scarce regret the region of his birth,870   When wandering slow by Delphi’s sacred side, Or gazing o’er the plains where Greek and Persian died. XCIII.   Let such approach this consecrated land,   And pass in peace along the magic waste:   But spare its relics—­let no busy hand875   Deface the scenes, already how defac’d!   Not for such purpose were these altars plac’d;   Revere the remnants nations once rever’d:   So may our country’s name be undisgrac’d,   So may’st thou prosper where thy youth was rear’d,880 By every honest joy of love and life endear’d! XCIV.          

For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hast sooth’d thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days:885 To such resign the strife for fading bays—



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  Ill may such contest now the spirit move   Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise;   Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please when none are left to love.890 XCV.   Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!   Whom youth and youth’s affection bound to me;   Who did for me what none beside have done,   Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.   What is my being? thou hast ceas’d to be!895   Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home,   Who mourns o’er hours which we no more shall see—   Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne’er return’d to find fresh cause to roam! XCVI.   Oh! ever loving, lovely, and belov’d!900   How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,   And clings to thoughts now better far remov’d!   But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.—   All thou could’st have of mine, stern Death! thou hast;   The parent, friend, and now the more than friend:905   Ne’er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,   And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch’d the little joy that life had yet to lend. XCVII.   Then must I plunge again into the crowd,   And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?910   Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud,   False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,   To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak;   Still o’er the features, which perforce they cheer,   To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique,915   Smiles form the channel of a future tear, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-­dissembled sneer. XCVIII.   What is the worst of woes that wait on age?   What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?   To view each lov’d one blotted from life’s page,920

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lord byron   And be alone on earth, as I am now.   Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,   O’er hearts divided and o’er hopes destroy’d:   Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,   Since Time hath reft whate’er my soul enjoy’d,925 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy’d. ______________

NOTES TO CANTO I 1. Yes! sigh’d o’er Delphi’s long-­deserted shrine, Stanza I. line 6. The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock: “One,” said the guide, “of a king who broke his neck hunting.” His Majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-­house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the “Dews of Castalie.”

2. And rest ye at our “Lady’s house of woe;” Stanza XX. line 4. [l. 255] The Convent of “Our Lady of Punishment,” Nossa Señora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view.

3. Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. Stanza XXI. line last. [l. 269] It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen; but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o’clock in the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend; had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have adorned a tale instead of



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telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished!

4. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! Stanza XXIV. line 1. [l. 288] The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors.

5. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay Stanza XXIX. line 1. [l. 333] The extent of Mafra is prodigious; it contains a palace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld in point of decoration; we did not hear them, but were told that their tones were cor­res­pond­ent to their splendour. Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal.

6. Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know ’Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. Stanza XXXIII. lines 8 and 9. [ll. 376–7] As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized them. That they are since improved, at least in courage, is evident.

7. No! as he speeds, he chaunts; “Vivā el Rey!” Stanza XLVIII. line 5. [l. 508] “Vivā el Rey Fernando!”—Long Live King Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs: they are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them; some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the queen’s eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.

8. The ball-­pil’d pyramid, the ever-­blazing match, Stanza LI. line last. [l. 539] All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed on my way to Seville.

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lord byron 9. ———— her site of ancient days; Stanza LXV. line 2. [l. 658]

Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans.

10. And thou, my friend! &c. Stanza XCI. line 1. [l. 927n] The Honourable I.* W.** of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In the short space of one month I lost her who gave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction: “Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill’d her horn.” I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honours, against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired, while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority.

NOTES TO CANTO II. 1.   But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,   Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire   Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish’d breasts bestow. Stanza I. line 6. [ll. 6–9] We can all feel or imagine the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld; the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation.—But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the ­exaltation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and gentry. “The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Babylon,” were surely less degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in turn,



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according to the tenor of each succeeding firman! Sylla could but punish, Philip ­subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained for the paltry Antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its destruction in part by fire during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of regard; it changed its worshippers, but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion: its violation is a triple sacrilege. But         “Man, vain man, Drest in a little brief authority, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep.”

2. To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spar’d. Stanza XII. line 2. [l. 101] At this moment (January, 3, 1809 [i.e. 1810]), besides what has been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is in the Piræus to receive every portable relic. Thus, as I heard a young Greek observe in common with many of his countrymen—­ for, lost as they are, they yet feel on this occasion—­thus may Lord Elgin boast of ­having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, is the agent of devastation; and, like the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same profession, he has proved the able instrument of plunder. Between this artist and the French Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains for his own government, there is now a violent dispute concerning a car employed in their conveyance, the wheel of which—­I wish they were both broken upon it—­has been locked up by the Consul, and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the Waywode. Lord Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice of Signor Lusieri. During a residence of ten years in Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as Sunium,* till he accompanied

*  Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna:—to the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observation and design; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato’s conversations will not be unwelcome; and the traveller will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over “Isles that crown the Ægean deep.” But for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer’s Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten, in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell. “Here in the dead of night by Lonna’s steep, The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep.” This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance: in two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, was less striking than the approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a party of Mainnotes, concealed in the caverns beneath; we were told afterwards, by one of their prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians: conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates; there

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us in our second excursion. However, his works, as far as they go, are most beautiful; but they are almost all unfinished. While he and his patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening gems; their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox-­hunting, maiden-­speechifying, barouche-­driving, or any such pastime: but when they carry away three or four shiploads of the most valuable and massy relics that time and barbarism have left to the most injured and most celebrated of cities; when they destroy, in a vain attempt to tear down, those works which have been the admiration of ages, I know no motive which can excuse, no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The most unblushing impudence could hardly go farther than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of the Acropolis; while the wanton and useless defacement of the whole range of the basso-­ relievos, in one compartment of the temple, will never permit that name to be pronounced by an observer without execration. On this occasion I speak impartially: I am not a collector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival; but I have some early prepossession in favour of Greece, and do not think the honour of England advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. Another noble Lord has done better, because he has done less: but some others, more or less noble yet “all honourable men,” have done best, because, after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done nothing at all. We had such ink-­shed, and wine-­shed, which almost ended in bloodshed! Lord  E.’s “prig,”—see Jonathan Wylde for the definition of “priggism,”—quarrelled with Lord—’s collector, Gropius by name, a very good name too for his business, and muttered something about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prussian; this was stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to remember their squabble, for they wanted to make me the arbitrator.

3. Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! Stanza XXXVIII. line 5. [ll. 338–9] Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country “within sight of Italy is less known than the interior of America.” Circumstances, of little consequence to mention, led Mr. Hobhouse and myself into that country before we visited any other part of the Ottoman dominions; and with the exception of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the capital into the ­interior, as that gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (October, 1809) carrying on war against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong fortress which he was then besieging: on our arrival at Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, “The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, And makes degraded Nature picturesque.” (See Hodgson’s Lady Jane Grey, &c.) But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist; and hope to renew my acquaintance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances.



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his Highness’s birth-­place, and favourite Serai, only one day’s distance from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier had made it his head quarters. After some stay in the capital, we accordingly followed; but though furnished with every accommodation and escorted by one of the Vizier’s secretaries, we were nine days (on account of the rains) in accomplishing a journey which, on our return, barely occupied four. On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, the frontier village of Epirus and Albania proper. On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to descant, because this will be done so much better by my fellow-­traveller, in a work which may probably precede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow as I would to anticipate him. But some few observations are necessary to the text. The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very mountains seemed Caledonian with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white; the spare, active form; their dialect, Celtic in its sound; and their hardy h ­ abits, all carried me back to Morven. No nation are so detested and dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese: the Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as Moslems; and in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes neither. Their habits are predatory: all are armed; and the red s­ hawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, Chimariots, and Gegdes are treacherous; the others differ somewhat in garb and essentially in character. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of Turkey which came within my observation; and more faithful in peril or indefatigable in service are rarely to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Moslem, Dervish Tahiri; the former a man of middle age, and the latter about my own. Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pacha in person to attend us; and Dervish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalunghi in Ætolia. There I took him into my own service, and never had occasion to repent it till the moment of my departure. When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. H[obhouse] for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away my Physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I was not cured within a given time. To this consolatory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli’s prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining English servant at Athens; my dragoman was as ill as myself, and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention which would have done honour to civilization. They had a variety of adventures; for the Moslem, Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was always squabbling with the husbands of Athens; insomuch that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his having taken a woman from the bath—­whom he had lawfully bought however—­a thing quite contrary to etiquette. Basili also was extremely gallant amongst his own persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the church, mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most heterodox manner. Yet he never passed a church without crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on his

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inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, “our church is holy, our priests are thieves;” and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the first “papas” who refused to assist in any required operation, as was always found to be necessary where the priest had any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. Indeed a more abandoned race of miscreants cannot exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. When preparations were made for my return, my Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at my intended ­departure, and marched away to his quarters with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for some time he was not to be found; at last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, father to the ci-­devant Anglo-­consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek acquaintances paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it to the ground; and clasping his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour of my embarkation he continued his lamentations, and all our efforts to console him only produced this answer, “Μ’αφεινει,” He leaves me. Signor Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing less than the loss of a para,* melted; the padre of the convent, my attendants, my visitors; and I verily believe that even “Sterne’s foolish fat scullion” would have left her “fish-­kettle,” to sympathize with the unaffected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. For my own part, when I remembered that, a short time before my de­part­ure from England, a noble and most intimate associate had excused himself from taking leave of me because he had to attend a relation “to a milliner’s,” I felt no less surprised than humiliated by the present occurrence and the past recollection. That Dervish would leave me with some regret was to be expected: when master and man have been scrambling over the mountains of a dozen provinces together, they are unwilling to separate; but his present feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my service gave him a push in some dispute about the baggage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow; he spoke not, but sat down leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to explain away the affront, which produced the following answer:—“I have been a robber, I am a soldier; no captain ever struck me; you are my master, I have eaten your bread, but by that bread! (a usual oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog your servant, and gone to the mountains.” So the affair ended, but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjectured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull roundabout of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party had so many specimens last winter. The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultivators of the earth in the provinces, who have also that appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of countenance; and the most beautiful women I ever beheld, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly theatrical; but this strut is probably the effect of the capote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their courage in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good Arnaout horseman: my own *  Para, about the fourth of a farthing.



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preferred the English saddles, which, however, they could never keep. But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue.

4. Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar, Stanza XL. line 5. [l. 356] Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable but less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras; here the author of Don Quixote lost his left hand.

5. And hail’d the last resort of fruitless love. Stanza XLI. line 3. [l. 363] Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory (the Lover’s Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself.

6. Look where the second Cæsar’s trophies rose! Stanza XLV. line 6. [l. 402] Nicopolis is at some distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome ­survives in a few fragments.

7. Yet here and there some daring mountain band Disdain his power—— Stanza XLVII. line 7. [ll. 421–2] Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen years: the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of Greece.

8. Monastic Zitza! &c. Stanza XLVIII. line 1. [l. 424] The convent and village of Zitza are four hours journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pachalick. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and Ætolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Ionia, or theTroad: I am almost inclined to add the approach to Constantinople; but from the different features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made.

9. And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; Stanza LV. line 2. [l. 488] The river Laos was full at the time the author passed it; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster; at least in the

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opinion of the author and his fellow traveller, Mr. Hobhouse. In the summer it must be much narrower. It certainly is the finest river in the Levant; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, approached it in breadth or beauty.

10. While thus in concert, &c. Stanza LXXII. line last. [l. 648] As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of the Illyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral songs, which are generally chaunted in dancing by men or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely a kind of chorus without meaning, like some in our own and all other languages. 1. Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Naciarura, popuso. 2. Naciarura na civin Ha pe nderini ti hin. 3. Ha pe uderi escrotini Ti vin ti mar servetini. 4. Caliriote me surme Ea ha pe se dua tive. 5. Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Gi egem spirta esimiro. 6. Caliriote vu le funde Ede vete tunde tunde. 7. Caliriote me surme. Ti mi put e poi mi le. 8. Se ti puta citi mora Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 9. Val le ni il che cadale Celo more, more celo. 10. Plu hari ti tirete Plu huron cia pra seti.

1. Lo, Lo, I come, I come; be thou silent. 2. I come, I run; open the door that I may enter. 3. Open the door by halves, that I may take my turban. 4. Caliriotes* with the dark eyes, the gate that I may enter. 5. Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my soul. 6. An Arnaout girl, in costly garb, walks with graceful pride. 7. Caliriot maid of the dark eyes, give me a kiss. 8. If I have kissed thee, what hast thou gained? My soul is consumed with fire. 9. Dance lightly, more gently, and gently still. 10. Make not so much dust to destroy your embroidered hose.

*  The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed ‘Caliriotes,’ for what reason I inquired in vain.



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The last stanza would puzzle a commentator: the men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots and slippers but a well-­turned and sometimes very white ancle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. They preserve their shape much longer also, from being always in the open air. It is to be observed, that the Arnaout is not a written language; the words of this song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 1. Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 2. Ah vaisisso mi privy lofse Si mi rini mi la vosse. 3. Uti tasa roba stua Sitti eve tulati dua. 4. Roba stinori ssidua Qu mi sini vetti dua. 5. Qurmini dua civileni Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 6. Utara pisa vaisisso me simi rin ti hapti Eti mi bire a piste si gui dendroi tiltati. 7. Udi vura udorini udiri cicova cilti mora Udorini talti hollna u ede caimoni mora.

1. I am wounded by thy love, and have loved but to scorch myself. 2. Thou hast consumed me! Ah, maid! thou hast struck me to the heart 3. I have said I wish no dowry, but thine eyes and eyelashes. 4. The accursed dowry I want not, but only thee. 5. Give me thy charms, and let the portion feed the flames. 6. I have loved thee, maid, with a sincere soul, but thou hast left me like a withered tree. 7. If I have placed my hand on thy bosom, what have I gained? my hand is withdrawn, but retains the flame.

I believe the last two stanzas, as they are in a different measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An idea something similar to the thought in the last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in contact with one of his “ύποχολπιοι,” Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and therefore very properly resolved to teach his ­disciples in future without touching them.

11. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! &c. Stanza LXXIII. line 1. [l. 693] Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the following papers written at Athens.

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Before I say any thing about a city of which every body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of gentleman than a “Disdar Aga,” (who by the by is not an Aga) the most impolite of petty officers, the greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw, (except Lord E[lgin]) and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of 150 piastres (eight pounds sterling) out of which he has only to pay his garrison, the most ill-­regulated corps in the ill-­regulated Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was once the cause of the husband of “Ida of Athens” nearly suffering the bas­tin­ ado; and because the said “Disdar” is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf of “Ida.” Having premised thus much, on a matter of such import to the readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention her birth-­place. Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those associations which it would be pedantic and superfluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would render it the favourite of all who have eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a perpetual spring; during eight months I never passed a day without being as many hours on horseback: rain is extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and every part of the east which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate to our own; and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, and part of July, (1810) you might “damn the climate, and complain of spleen” five days out of seven. The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of a Bœotian winter. We found at Livadia, an “Esprit fort” in a Greek bishop, of all free-­thinkers! This worthy hypocrite rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not before his flock) and talked of a mass as a “Coglioneria.” It was impossible to think better of him for this; but, for a Bœotian, he was brisk with all his absurdity. This phenomenon, (with the exception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chæronea, the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius), was the only remarkable thing we saw before we passed Mount Cithæron. The fountain of Dirce turns a mill: at least, my companion (who resolving to be at once cleanly and classical bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, probably from the snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the Ægean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or Islambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior in extent. I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting the view from the monastery of Megaspelion (which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country) and the descent



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from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond the name. “Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.” Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an Argive; and (with reverence be it spoken) it does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Statius who, “In mediis audit duo litora campis” did actually hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had better ears than have ever been worn in such a journey since. “Athens,” says a celebrated topographer, “is still the most polished city of Greece.” Perhaps it may of Greece, but not of the Greeks; for Joannina in Epirus is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be superior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for their cunning; and the lower orders are not improperly characterized in that proverb, which classes them with “the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negropont.” Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c. there was never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, though on all other topics they disputed with great acrimony. Mr. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an artist and manners as a gentleman none who have known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated; reasoning on the grounds of their “national and individual depravity,” while he forgot that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. Mr. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gravity; “Sir, they are the same Canaille that existed in the days of Themistocles!” an alarming remark to the “Laudator temporis acti.” The ancients banished Themistocles; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque: thus great men have ever been treated! In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c. of passage, came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwomen. Certainly it was not a little staggering when the Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues of the day, who divide between them the power of Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter condemnation, “nulla virtute redemptum,” of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in particular. For my own humble opinion, I am loath to hazard it, knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by persons of wit, and honour, and regular common-­ place books: but, if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so positively and pertinaciously, as almost every body has declared, that the Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their panegyrics and projects; but, on the other hand, De Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their demerits. The Greeks will never be independent; they will never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they ever should! but they may be subjects without being slaves.

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Our colonies are not independent, but they are free and industrious, and such may Greece be hereafter. At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a struggle against truth; they are vicious in their own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that when they occasionally meet with it they look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers if you attempt to caress him. “They are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrateful!”— this is the general cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis! for what are they to be grateful? Where is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? They are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and the Franks for their broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them away; to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them! This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. II. Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist in different countries; whose inhabitants, however divided in religion and manners, almost all agree in oppression. The English have at last compassionated their Negroes, and under a less bigoted government may probably one day release their Catholic brethren: but the interpos­ ition of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have from mankind in ­general. Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough; at least the younger men of Europe devote much of their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, which would be more usefully spent in mastering their own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful than they deserve; and while every man of any pretensions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study of the language and of the harangues of the Athenian dem­agogues in favour of freedom, the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, although a very slight effort is required to strike off their chains. To talk, as the Greek themselves do, of their rising again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous; as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, after re-­asserting the sovereignty of Greece; but there seems to be no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their becoming an useful dependency, or even a free state with a proper guarantee;—under correction, however, be it spoken, for many and well-­informed men doubt the practicability even of this. The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians; but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they received after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been forgotten. The French they dislike; although the subjugation of the rest of Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliverance of continental Greece. The islanders look to the



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English for succour, as they have very lately possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever shall appear with arms in their hands will be welcome; and when that day arrives, heaven have mercy on the Ottomans, they cannot expect it from the Giaours. But instead of considering what they have been, and speculating on what they may be, let us look at them as they are. And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of opinions: some, particularly the merchants, decrying the Greeks in the strongest language; others, generally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and publishing very curious speculations grafted on their former state, which can have no more effect on their present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. One very ingenious person terms them the “natural allies” of Englishmen; another, no less ingenious, will not allow them to be the allies of any body, and denies their very descent from the ancients; a third, more ingenious than either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the question of their descent, what can it import whether the Mainnotes are the lineal Laconians or not? or the present Athenians as indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they once likened themselves? What Englishman cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan blood? or who, except a Welchman, is afflicted with a desire of being descended from Caractacus? The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good things of this world, as to render even their claims to antiquity an object of envy; it is very cruel then, in Mr. Thornton, to disturb them in the possession of all that time has left them: viz. their pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their own. It would be worth while to publish together, and compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, Eton and Leckie; paradox on one side, and prejudice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public confidence from a fourteen years’ residence at Pera; perhaps he may on the subject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, than as many years spent in Wapping into that of the Western Highlands. The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal; and if Mr. T. did not oftener cross the Golden Horn than his brother traders are accustomed to do, I should place no great reliance on his information. I actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their little general intercourse with the city, and assert of himself with an air of triumph, that he had been but four times in Constantinople in as many years. As to Mr. T.’s voyages in the Black Sea with Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny Grot’s house. Upon what grounds then does he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a body of men, of whom he can know little? It is rather a curious circumstance that Mr. T., who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion of mentioning the Turks, yet has recourse to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as little entitled to that appellation, as Mr. T. to confer it on him. The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their literature, nor is there any probability of our being better acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more intimate or their independence ­confirmed; the relations of passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the

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invectives of angry factors; but till something more can be attained, we must be ­content with the little to be acquired from similar sources.* However defective these may be, they are preferable to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such as De Pauw; who, when he asserts that the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal knowledge of English horses and Spartan men. His “philosophical observations” have a much better claim to the title of “poetical.” It could not be expected that he who so liberally condemns some of the most celebrated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on the modern Greeks; and it fortunately happens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers, refutes his sentence on themselves. Let us trust then, that in spite of the prophecies of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and policy, have been amply punished by three centuries and a half of captivity. III. Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. “I must have some talk with this learned Theban.” Some time after my return from Constantinople to this city I received the thirty-­first number of the Edinburgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this distance an acceptable one, from the captain of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3. containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a short account of Coray, a co-­translator in the French version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few observations, and the spot where I now write will I hope be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree connected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated

*  A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqueville; who have been guilty between them of sadly clipping the Sultan’s Turkish. Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive sublimate in such quantities that he acquired the name of “Suleyman Yeyen,” i.e. quoth the Doctor, “Suleyman, the eater of corrosive sublimate.” “Aha,” thinks Mr. T. (angry with the Doctor for the fiftieth time) “have I caught you?”—Then, in a note, twice the thickness of the Doctor’s anecdote, he questions the Doctor’s proficiency in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own.—“For,” observes Mr. T. (after inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb), it means nothing more than “Suleyman the eater,” and quite cashiers the supplementary sublimate. Now both are right and both are wrong. If Mr. T. when he next resides “fourteen years in the factory,” will consult his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will discover that “Suleyma’n yeyen,” put together discreetly, mean the “Swallower of sublimate,” without any “Suleyman” in the case; “Suleyma” signifying “corrosive sublimate,” and not being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an orthodox name enough with the addition of n. After Mr. T.’s frequent hints of profound Orientalism, he might have found this out before he sang such pæans over Dr. Pouqueville. After this, I think “Travellers versus Factors” shall be our motto, though the above Mr. T. has condemned “hoc genus omne,” for mistake and misrepresentation. “Ne Sutor ultra crepidam,” “No merchant beyond his bales.” N.B. For the benefit of Mr. T. “Sutor” is not a proper name.



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of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was born at Scio (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, incorrectly), and, besides the translation of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived from Paris; but the latest we have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloou.* Coray has recently been involved in an unpleasant controversy with M. Gail,† a Parisian commentator and editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute having awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates “Περὶ ὑδάτων,” &c. to the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions literary and patriotic great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado (merchants settled in Leghorn) who sent him to Paris, and maintained him, for the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the modern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two last centuries; more particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that Miletius terms him, “Μἐτὰ τὸν Θουκύδίδην καὶ Ξενοφωντα ἀρίστος Ἑλλήνων.” (p. 224. Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.) Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, and Kamrases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. The last-­mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin a work on “True Happiness,” dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be the only modern except Coray who has distinguished himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less than an itinerant vender of books; with the contents of which he had no concern beyond his name on the title page, placed there to secure his property in the publication; and he was, moreover, a man utterly destitute of scholastic aquirements. As the name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aristænetus. It is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade has closed the few channels through which the Greeks received their publications, particularly Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for children are become too dear for the lower orders. Amongst their original works the Geography of Meletius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theological quartos, and poetical pamphlets are to be met with: their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and four languages are numerous and excellent. Their poetry is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, English, and French traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia (or Blackbey, as they term him), an archbishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in succession; to all of whom under the Turks the writer attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank: the best is the famous “Δεύτε παῖδες *  I have in my possession an excellent Lexicon “τρίγλωσσον,” which I received in exchange from S. G——, Esq. for a small gem: my antiquarian friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. †   In Gail’s pamphlet against Coray he talks of “throwing the insolent Helleniste out of the windows.” On this a French critic exclaims, “Ah, my God! throw an Helleniste out of the window! what sacrilege!” It certainly would be a serious business for those authors who dwell in the attics: but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity of style among the controversialists of all polished countries; London or Edinburgh could hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition.

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τῶν Ἑλλήνων,” by the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now before me, only fifteen can be found who have touched on any theme except theology. I am entrusted with a commission by a Greek of Athens named Marmavatouri to make arrangements, if possible, for printing in London a translation of Barthelemi’s Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, unless he dispatches the MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. The reviewer mentions a school established at Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebastiani: he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali; a town on the continent where that institution for a hundred students and three professors still exists. It is true that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were constructing a fort­ress instead of a college; but on investigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, it has been permitted to continue. The principal professor, named Veniamin (i.e. Benjamin), is stated to be a man of talent, but a free-­thinker. He was born in Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin, and some Frank languages; besides a smattering of the sciences. Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot but observe that the reviewer’s lamentation over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with these words: “the change is to be attributed to their misfortunes rather than to any ‘physical degradation.’ ” It may be true that the Greeks are not physically degenerated, and that Constantinople contained on the day when it changed masters as many men of six feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity; but ancient history and modern politics instruct us that something more than physical perfection is necessary to preserve a state in vigour and independence; and the Greeks in particular are a melancholy example of the near connection between moral degradation and national decay. The reviewer mentions a plan “we believe” by Potemkin for the purification of the Romaic, and I have endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of its existence. There was an academy in St. Petersburgh for the Greeks; but it was suppressed by Paul, and has not been revived by his successor. There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip of the pen, in p. 58. No. 31. of the Edinburgh Review, where these words occur:—“We are told that when the capital of the East yielded to Solyman”—It may be presumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II.* The “ladies of Constantinople,” it seems, at that *  In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is observed: “Lord B. passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.” Query,—Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review learned that Solyman means Mahomet II. any more than criticism means infallibility?—but thus it is, “Cædimus inque vicem præbemus crura sagittis.” The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great similarity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and syllables are subjects of disquisition and transposition; and the abovementioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for the present.



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period spoke a dialect, “which would not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian.” I do not know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much altered; being far from choice either in their dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a proverb:  “Ω Αθηνα προτη χωρα Τι γαιδαρους τρεφεις τωρα.” In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161. is the following sentence:—“The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, though the compositions of the church and palace sometimes affected to copy the purity of the Attic models.” Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult to conceive that the “ladies of Constantinople,” in the reign of the last Cæsar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Comnena wrote three centuries before: and those royal pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, although the princess “γλωτταν ειχεν ΑΚΡΙΒΩΣ Αττικιρουσαν.” In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek is spoken: in the latter there is a flourishing school under the direction of Psalida. There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida’s, who is making a tour of observation through Greece: he is intelligent, and better educated than a fellow-­commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the spirit of enquiry is not dormant amongst the Greeks. The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of the beautiful poem “Horæ Ionicæ,” as qualified to give details of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, and also of their language: but Mr. Wright, though a good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where he states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approximate nearest to the Hellenic; for the Albanians speak a Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, next to the Fanal, the Greek is purest) although the capital of Ali Pacha’s dominions, is not in Albania but Epirus: and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which I did not advance) they speak worse Greek than even the Athenians. I  was attended for a year and a half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount of twenty thousand in the army of Vely Pacha) praised for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. I have in my possession about twenty-­five letters, amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to me by Notara, the Cogia Bachi, and ­others by the dragoman of Caimacam of the Morea (which last governs in Vely Pacha’s absence) are said to be favourable specimens of their epistolary style. I also received some at Constantinople from private persons, written in a most hyperbolic style, but in the true antique character. The reader will find a fac simile of the handwriting of a good scribe, with specimens of the Romaic, in an appendix at the end of the volume. The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 59) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely to understand the ancient Greek, because he is perfect master of the modern! This observation follows a paragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of the Romaic, as “a powerful auxiliary,” not only to the traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the classical scholar; in short, to every body except the only person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its

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uses: and by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured to be probably more attainable by “foreigners” than by ourselves! Now I am inclined to think, that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon blood) would be sadly perplexed with “Sir Tristrem,” or any other given “Auchinlech MS.” with or without a grammar or ­glossary; and to most apprehensions it seems evident, that none but a native can acquire a competent, far less a complete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do Smollet’s Lismahago, who maintains that the purest English is spoken in Edinburgh. That Coray may err is very possible; but if he does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native student.—Here the Reviewer proceeds to business on Stabo’s translators, and here I close my remarks. Sir  W.  Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole, and many others now in England, have all the requisites to furnish details of this fallen people. The few observations I have offered I should have left where I made them, had not the article in question, and above all the spot where I  read it, induced me to advert to those pages which the advantage of my present ­situation enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. I have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings, which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of the Edinburgh Review; not from a wish to conciliate the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resentments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more particularly at this distance of time and place.

ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TURKS. The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to voyagers. It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks and Turkey; since it is possible to live amongst them twenty years without acquiring information, at least from themselves. As far as my own slight experience carried me I have no complaint to make; but am indebted for many civilities (I might almost say for friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as social a being as ever sat cross-­legged at a tray or a  table. During the carnival, when our English party were masquerading, both ­himself and his successor were more happy to “receive masks” than any dowager in Grosvenor-­Square. On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom; while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed in his fall. In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever found the strictest ­honour, the highest disinterestedness. In transacting business with them, there are none of those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, difference of exchange, commission, &c. &c. uniformly found in applying to a Greek consul in cash bills, even on the first Houses in Pera.



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With regard to presents, an established custom in the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one worth acceptance is generally returned by another of similar value—­a horse, or a shawl. In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers are formed in the same school with those of Christianity; but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, and high-­spirited character than the true Turkish provincial Aga, or Moslem country ­gentleman. It is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses of more or less extent in Greece and Asia Minor. The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country-­towns, would be more incommoded in England than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regimentals are the best travelling dress. The best accounts of the religion, and different sects of Islamism, may be found in D’Olisson’s French; of their manners, &c. perhaps in Thornton’s English. The Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what they are, we can at least say what they are not: they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, they do not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout to their God without an inquisition. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-­morrow, and the French or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange? England would certainly be the loser. With regard to that ignorance of which they are so generally, and sometimes justly, accused, it may be doubted, always excepting France and England, in what useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other nations. Is it in the common arts of life? in their manufactures? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo? or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Spaniard? Are their Pachas worse educated than a Grandee? or an Effendi than a Knight of St. Jago? I think not. I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, asking whether my fellow-­ traveller and myself were in the upper or lower House of Parliament? Now this question from a boy of ten years old proved that his education had not been neglected. It may be doubted if an English boy at that age knows the difference of the Divan from a College of Dervises; but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, surrounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had learned that there was such a thing as a parliament it were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose that his instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. In all the mosques there are schools established, which are very regularly attended; and the poor are taught without the church of Turkey being put into peril. I believe the system is not yet printed (though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books printed on the late military institution of the Nizam Gedidd), nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the Tefterdars taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous youth of the turban should be taught not to “pray to God their way.” The Greeks also—­a kind of Eastern Irish papists—­have a college of their own at Maynooth—­no, at Haivali; where the heterodox receive much the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college from the English legislature. Who shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant

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bigots, when they thus evince the exact proportion of Christian charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous and orthodox of all possible kingdoms? But, though they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to participate in their privileges: no, let them fight their battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in this world, and damned in the next. And shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots? Mahomet forbid! We should then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Christians; at present we unite the best of both—­jesuitical faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish toleration.

[12.] [The prophet’s tomb of all its pious spoil. Stanza lxxvii. line 6. [l. 734] Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing.]

[13.] [When Marathon became a magic word— Stanza lxxxix. line 7. [l. 843] “Siste Viator—heroa calcas!” was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci;—what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The principal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel; few or no relics, as vases, &c. were found by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen hundred piastres, about nine hundred pounds! Alas!— “Expende—quot libras in duo esummo—invenies?” [Juvenal, Satires, 10.147–8]—was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight.]



Childe Harold ’ s PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT: POEMS 127

Written in an Album 1. As o’er the cold sepulchral stone   Some name arrests the passer-­by; Thus when thou view’st this page alone   May mine attract thy pensive eye! 2. And when by thee that name is read,5   Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead,   And think my heart is buried here. September 14th, 1809.

Stanzas Composed October 11th 1809, during the night; in a thunder storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. 1. Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,   Where Pindus’ mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast   The vengeance of the skies. 2. Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,5   And lightnings as they play, But show where rocks our path have crost,   Or gild the torrent’s spray. 3. Is yon a cot I saw, though low?   When lightning broke the gloom—10 How welcome were its shade!—ah, no!   ’Tis but a Turkish tomb.

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lord byron 4. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls   I hear a voice exclaim— My way-­worn countryman, who calls15   On distant England’s name. 5. A shot is fir’d—­by foe or friend?   Another—’tis to tell The mountain peasants to descend,   And lead us where they dwell.20 6. Oh! who in such a night will dare   To tempt the wilderness? And who ’mid thunder peals can hear   Our signal of distress? 7. And who that heard our shouts would rise25   To try the dubious road? Nor rather deem from nightly cries   That outlaws were abroad. 8. Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!   More fiercely pours the storm!30 Yet here one thought has still the power   To keep my bosom warm. 9. While wand’ring through each broken path,   O’er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath,35   Sweet Florence, where art thou? 10. Not on the sea, not on the sea,   Thy bark hath long been gone: Oh, may the storm that pours on me,   Bow down my head alone!40



Childe Harold ’ s PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT: POEMS 129 11. Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,   When last I pressed thy lip; And long ere now with foaming shock   Impell’d thy gallant ship. 12. Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now45   Hast trod the shore of Spain; ’Twere hard if aught so fair as thou   Should linger on the main. 13. And since I now remember thee   In darkness and in dread,50 As in those hours of revelry   Which mirth and music sped; 14. Do thou amidst the fair white walls,   If Cadiz yet be free, At times from out her lattic’d halls55   Look o’er the dark blue sea; 15. Then think upon Calypso’s isles,   Endear’d by days gone by, To others give a thousand smiles,   To me a single sigh.60 16. And when the admiring circle mark   The paleness of thy face, A half-­form’d tear, a transient spark   Of melancholy grace, 17. Again thou’lt smile, and blushing shun65   Some coxcomb’s raillery; Nor own for once thou thought’st of one,   Who ever thinks on thee.

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lord byron 18. Though smile and sigh alike are vain,   When sever’d hearts repine,70 My spirit flies o’er mount and main,   And mourns in search of thine.

Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos. May 9, 1810.* 1. If in the month of dark December   Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?)   To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! 2. If when the wintry tempest roar’d,5   He sped to Hero, nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour’d,   Fair Venus! how I pity both!

*  On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette frigate (Captain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic—­by-the-bye, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place where we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was extremely cold from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as above stated; entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and Olivier mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette’s crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance, and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability



Childe Harold ’ s PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT: POEMS 131 3. For me, degenerate modern wretch,   Though in the genial month of May,10 My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,   And think I’ve done a feat to-­day. 4. But since he cross’d the rapid tide,   According to the doubtful story, To woo,—and—­Lord knows what beside,15   And swam for Love, as I for Glory; 5. ’Twere hard to say who fared the best:   Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you! He lost his labour, I my jest;   For he was drown’d, and I’ve the ague.20

Song. Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.* Athens, 1810. 1. Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear me vow before I go,5 Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. 2. By those tresses unconfin’d, Woo’d by each Ægean wind; *  Zoe mou, sas agapo, or Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ, a Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem I supposed they could not; and if I do not I may affront the ladies: for fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, “My life, I love you!” which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions were all Hellenized.

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lord byron By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;10 By those wild eyes like the roe, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. 3. By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-­encircl’d waist; By all the token-­flowers* that tell15 What words can never speak so well; By Love’s alternate joy and woe, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. 4. Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone.20 Though I fly to Islambol,† Athens holds my heart and soul. Can I cease to love thee? No, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Written beneath a Picture 1. Dear object of defeated care!   Though now of Love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair   Thine image and my tears are left. 2. ’Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope:5   But this I feel can ne’er be true: For by the death-­blow of my Hope   My Memory immortal grew. *  In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, &c. convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury—­an old woman. A cinder says, “I burn for thee;” a bunch of flowers tied with hair, “Take me and fly;” but a pebble declares—­what nothing else can. †  Constantinople.



Childe Harold ’ s PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT: POEMS 133

To Thyrza Without a stone to mark the spot,   And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,   Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea5   Divided, yet belov’d in vain; The past, the future fled to thee   To bid us meet—­no—­ne’er again! Could this have been—­a word—­a look   That softly said, “We part in peace,”10 Had taught my bosom how to brook,   With fainter sighs, thy soul’s release. And didst thou not—­since Death for thee   Prepar’d a light and pangless dart— Once long for him thou ne’er shalt see,15   Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watch’d thee here?   Or sadly mark’d thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear,   When silent Sorrow fears to sigh,20 Till all was past? But when no more   ’Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection’s heartdrops, gushing o’er,   Had flow’d as fast—­as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day25   In these, to me, deserted towers, Ere call’d but for a time away,   Affection’s mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside;   The smile none else might understand;30 The whisper’d thought of hearts allied,   The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss so guiltless and refin’d,   That Love each warmer wish forbore— Those eyes proclaim’d so pure a mind,35   Ev’n passion blush’d to plead for more— The tone, that taught me to rejoice,   When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice,   But sweet to me from none but thine;40

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lord byron The pledge we wore—­I wear it still,   But where is thine?—ah, where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,   But never bent beneath till now! Well hast thou left in life’s best bloom45   The cup of woe for me to drain; If rest alone be in the tomb,   I would not wish thee here again: But if in worlds more blest than this   Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,50 Impart some portion of thy bliss   To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me—­too early taught by thee!—   To bear, forgiving and forgiv’n: On earth thy love was such to me;55   It fain would form my hope in heav’n!

To Thyrza 1. One struggle more, and I am free   From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,   Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now5   With things that never pleas’d before: Though every joy is fled below,   What future grief can touch me more? 2. Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;   Man was not form’d to live alone:10 I’ll be that light unmeaning thing   That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,   It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;15   Thou’rt nothing, all are nothing now.



Childe Harold ’ s PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT: POEMS 135 3. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!   The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,   Like roses o’er a sepulchre.20 Though gay companions o’er the bowl   Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure fires the madd’ning soul:   The heart—­the heart is lonely still! 4. On many a lone and lovely night25   It sooth’d to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem’d the heav’nly light   Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia’s noon,   When sailing o’er the Ægean wave,30 “Now Thyrza gazes on that moon—”   Alas, it gleam’d upon her grave! 5. When stretch’d on fever’s sleepless bed,   And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, “ ’Tis comfort still,” I faintly said,35   “That Thyrza cannot know my pains:” Like freedom to the time-­worn slave,   A boon ’tis idle then to give; Relenting nature vainly gave   My life, when Thyrza ceas’d to live!40 6. My Thyrza’s pledge in better days,   When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet’st my gaze!   How ting’d by time with sorrow’s hue! The heart that gave itself with thee45   Is silent—­ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e’en the dead can be,   It feels, it sickens with the chill.

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lord byron 7. Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!   Though painful, welcome to my breast!50 Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,   Or break the heart to which thou’rt prest! Time tempers love, but not removes,   More hallow’d when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves55   To that which cannot quit the dead?

LETTER TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB

4 Bennet Street April 29th. 1813 If you still persist in your intention of meeting me in opposition to the wishes of your own friends & of mine—­it must even be so—­I regret it & acquiesce with reluctance.———I am not ignorant of the very extraordinary language you have held not only to me but others—& your avowal of your de­ter­min­ ation to obtain what you are pleased to call “revenge”—nor have I now to learn that an incensed woman is a dangerous enemy.—Undoubtedly those against whom we can make no defence—­whatever they say or do—­must be formidable—­your words & actions have lately been tolerably portentous—& might justify me in avoiding the demanded interview—­more especially as I  believe you fully capable of performing all your menaces—­but as I once hazarded every thing for you—­I will not shrink from you—­perhaps I deserve punishment—­if so—­you are quite as proper a person to inflict it as any other. You say you will “ruin me”—I thank you—­but I have done that for myself already—­you say you will “destroy me” perhaps you will only save me the trouble.—It is useless to reason with you—­to repeat what you already know—­ that I have in reality saved you from utter & impending ­destruction.—Every one who knows you—­knows this also—­but they do not know as yet what you may & will tell them as I now tell you—­that it is in a great measure owing to this persecution—­to the accursed things you have said—­to the extravagances you have committed—­that I again adopt the resolution of quitting this country—­In your assertions—­you have either belied or betrayed me—­take your choice—­in your actions—­you have hurt only yourself—­but is that nothing to one who wished you well?—— I have only one request to make—­ which is not to attempt to see Ly. O[xford]—on her you have no claim.—You will settle—­as you please—­the arrangement of this conference—­I do not leave England till June—­but the sooner it is over the ­better—­I once wished for your own sake Ly. M[elbourne] to be present—­but if you are to fulfil any of your threats in word or deed—­we had better be alone— yrs. ever B

LETTER TO ANNABELLA MILBANKE

Septr 6th 1813 Agreed—­I will write to you occasionally & you shall answer at your leisure & discretion.—You must have deemed me very vain & selfish to imagine that your candour could offend—­I see nothing that “could hurt my feelings” in your correspondence—­you told me you declined me as a lover but wished to retain me as a friend—­now as one may meet with a good deal of what is called love in this best of all possible worlds—& very rarely with friendship I could not find fault—­upon calculation at least.—I am afraid my first letter was written during some of those moments which have induced your belief in my general despondency—­now in common I believe with most of mankind—­ I have in the course of a very useless & ill regulated life encountered events which have left a deep impression—­perhaps something at the time recalled this so forcibly as to make it apparent in my answer—­but I am not conscious of any habitual or at least long continued pressure on my spirits.—On the contrary—­with the exception of an occasional spasm—­I look upon myself as a very facetious personage—& may safely appeal to most of my acquaintance (Ly. M.  for instance) in proof of my assertion.—Nobody laughs more—& though your friend Joanna Baillie says somewhere that “Laughter is the child of Misery” yet I don’t believe her—(unless indeed in a hysteric)—though I think it is sometimes the Parent.—Nothing would do me more honour than the acquaintance of that Lady—­who does not possess a more enthusiastic admirer than myself—­she is our only dramatist since Otway & Southerne—­ I don’t except Home—­With all my presumed prejudice against your sex or rather the perversion of manners & principle in many which you admit in some circles—­I think the worst woman that ever existed would have made a man of very passable reputation—­they are all better than us—& their faults such as they are must originate with ourselves.—Your sweeping sentence “in the circles where we have met” amuses me much when I recollect some of those who constituted that society—­after all bad as it is it has its agremens.— The great object of life is Sensation—­to feel that we exist—­even though in pain—­it is this “craving void” which drives us to Gaming—­to Battle—­to Travel—­to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.— —I am but an awkward dissembler—­as my friend you will bear with my faults—­I shall have the less constraint in what I say to you—­firstly because I may derive some benefit from your observations— & next because I am very



Letter to Annabella Milbanke, 6 Sept. 1813

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sure you can never be perverted by any paradoxes of mine.—You have said a  good deal & very well too—­on the subject of Benevolence systematically exerted—­two lines of Pope will explain mine (if I have any) and that of half mankind— “Perhaps Prosperity becalmed his breast Perhaps the Wind just shifted from ye. East.—”

By the bye you are a bard also—­have you quite given up that pursuit?—is your friend Pratt one of your critics?—or merely one of your “systematic benevolents?[”] You were very kind to poor Blackett which he requited by falling in love rather presumptuously to be sure like Metastasio with the Empress Maria Theresa.—When you can spare an instant I shall of course be delighted to hear from or of you—­but do not let me encroach a moment on better avocations— Adieu ever yrs. B

LETTER TO LADY MELBOURNE

[Aston Hall, Yorkshire] Octr. 8th. 1813 My dear Ly. M[elbourn]e—­I have volumes—­but neither time nor space—­I have already trusted too deeply to hesitate now—­besides for certain reasons you will not be sorry to hear that I am anything but what I was.—Well then—­to begin—& first a word of mine host—­he has lately been talking at me rather than to me before the party (with the exception of the women) in a tone—­which as I never use it myself I am not particularly disposed to tolerate in others—­what he may do with impunity—­it seems—­but not suffer—­till at last I told him that the whole of his argument involved the interesting contradiction that “he might love where he liked but that no one else might like what he ever thought proper to love” a doctrine which as the learned Partridge observed—­contains a “non sequitur” from which I for one begged leave as a general proposition to dissent.—This nearly produced a scene—­with me as well as another guest who seemed to admire my sophistry the most of the two—& as it was after dinner & debating time— might have ended in more than wineshed—­but that the Devil for some wise purpose of his own thought proper to restore good humour—­which has not as yet been further infringed.— — — — —In these last few days I have had a good deal of conversation with an amiable person—­whom (as we deal in letters—& initials only) we will denominate Ph.[Frances]—well—­ these things are dull in detail—­take it once—­I have made love—& if I am to believe mere words (for there we have hitherto stopped) it is returned.—I must tell you the place of declaration however—­a billiard room!—I did not as C[aroline] says “kneel in the middle of the room” but like Corporal Trim to the Nun—“I made a speech”—which as you might not listen to it with the same patience—­I shall not transcribe.—We were before on very amiable terms—& I remembered being asked an odd question—“how a woman who liked a man could inform him of it—­when he did not perceive it”—I also observed that we went on with our game (of billiards) without counting the hazards—& supposed that—­as mine certainly were not—­the thoughts of the other party also were not exactly occupied by what was our ostensible pursuit.—Not quite though pretty well satisfied with my progress—­I took a very imprudent step—­with pen & paper—­in tender & tolerably turned prose periods (no poetry even when in earnest) here were risks certainly—­first how to convey—­then how it would be received—­it was received however & deposited not very far from the heart which I wished it to reach—­when who would enter the room but the



Letter to Lady Melbourne, 8 Oct. 1813

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person who ought at that moment to have been in the Red sea if Satan had any civility—­but she kept her countenance & the paper—& I my composure as well as I could.—It was a risk—& all had been lost by failure—­but then recollect—­how much more I had to gain by the reception—­if not declined—& how much one always hazards to obtain anything worth having.—My billet prospered—­it did more—­it even (I am this moment interrupted by the Marito—& write this before him—­he has brought me a political pamphlet in M.S. to decypher & applaud—­I shall content myself with the last—­Oh—­he is gone again)—my billet produced an answer—­a very unequivocal one too—­ but a little too much about virtue—& indulgence of attachment in some sort of etherial process in which the soul is principally concerned—­which I don’t very well understand—­being a bad metaphysician—­but one generally ends & begins with Platonism—& as my proselyte is only twenty—­there is time enough to materialize—­I hope nevertheless this spiritual system won’t last long—& at any rate must make the experiment.—I remember my last case was the reverse—­as Major O’Flaherty recommends “we fought first & explained afterwards.”—This is the present state of things—­much mutual profession—­a good deal of melancholy—­which I am sorry to say was remarked by “the Moor” & as much love as could well be made considering the time place & circumstances.— —I need not say that the folly & petulance of —— [J.W. Webster] have tended to all this—­if a man is not contented with a pretty woman & not only runs after any little country girl he meets with but absolutely boasts of it—­he must not be surprised if others admire that which he knows not how to value--besides he literally provoked & goaded me into it—­ by something not unlike bullying—­indirect to be sure—­but tolerably obvious— “he would do this—& he would do that—­if any man[”] &c. &c.—& he thought that every woman “was his lawful prize nevertheless[”]—Oons! who is this strange monopolist?—it is odd enough but on other subjects he is like other people but on this he seems infatuated—­if he had been rational—& not prated of his pursuits—­I should have gone on very well—­as I did at Middleton—­ even now I shan’t quarrel with him—­if I can help it—­but one or two of his speeches has blackened the blood about my heart—& curdled the milk of kindness—­if put to the proof—­I shall behave like other people I presume.— I have heard from A[nnabella]—but her letter to me is melancholy—­about her old friend Miss M[ontgomer]y’s departure &c.—&c.—I wonder who will have her at last—­her letter to you is gay—­you say—­that to me must have been written at the same time—­the little demure Nonjuror!— — — — I wrote to C[aroline] the other day—­for I was afraid she might repeat the last year’s epistle & make it circular among my friends.— — —Good evening—­ I am now going to billiards.— ever yrs, B

lord byron 142 P.S. 6 o’clock—­This business is growing serious—& I think Platonism in some peril—­There has been very nearly a scene—­almost an hysteric & really without cause for I was conducting myself with (to me) very irksome decorum—­her expressions astonish me—­so young & cold as she appeared—­ but these professions must end as usual—& would—­I think—­now—­had “l’occasion” been not wanting—­had any one come in during the tears & ­consequent consolation all had been spoiled—­we must be more cautious or less larmoyante.— — — P.S. second—10 o’clock—­I write to you just escaped from Claret & vo­cif­ er­ation—­on G—­d knows what paper—­my Landlord is a rare gentleman—­he has just proposed to me a bet “that he for a certain sum wins any given woman—­against any given homme including all friends present[”]—which I declined with becoming deference to him & the rest of the company—­is not this at this moment a perfect comedy?—I forgot to mention that on his entrance yesterday during the letter scene—­it reminded me so much of an  awkward passage in “The Way to keep Him” between Lovemore—­Sir Bashful—& my Lady—­that embarrassing as it was I could hardly help ­laughing—­I hear his voice in the passage—­he wants me to go to a ball at Sheffield—& is talking to me as I write—­Good Night. I am in the act of praising his pamphlet.—I don’t half like your story of Corinne—­some day I will tell you why—­If I can—­but at present—­Good Night.

The Giaour (1813; 7th edition)

Figure 3  Title page, The Giaour. 7th edn. ( John Murray, 1813). *76-­1013. Houghton Library, Harvard University.

The Giaour, a fragment of A TURKISH TALE [7th edition; December 1813]

“One fatal remembrance—­one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes— To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, For which joy hath no balm—­and affliction no sting.” to SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. as a slight but most sincere token of admiration of his genius; respect for his character, and gratitude for his friendship; this production is inscribed by his obliged and affectionate servant,

Moore

BYRON.

ADVERTISEMENT The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the “olden time;” or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprize. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprize, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruel­ty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.

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lord byron No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian’s grave, That tomb which, gleaming o’er the cliff,1 First greets the homeward-­veering skiff, High o’er the land he saved in vain—5 When shall such hero live again? * * * * * * * *   Fair clime! where every season smiles Benignant o’er those blessed isles, Which seen from far Colonna’s height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight,10 And lend to loneliness delight. There mildly dimpling—­Ocean’s cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the eastern wave;15 And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue chrystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air, That wakes and wafts the odours there!20 For there—­the Rose o’er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale,2   The maid for whom his melody—   His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale;25 His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchill’d by snows, Far from the winters of the west By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given30 In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share,35 And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest; Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, Till the gay mariner’s guitar340 Is heard, and seen the evening star; Then stealing with the muffled oar,



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Far shaded by the rocky shore, Rush the night-­prowlers on the prey, And turn to groans his roundelay.45 Strange—­that where Nature lov’d to trace, As if for Gods, a dwelling-­place, And every charm and grace hath mixed Within the paradise she fixed— There man, enamour’d of distress,50 Should mar it into wilderness, And trample, brute-­like, o’er each flower That tasks not one laborious hour; Nor claims the culture of his hand To bloom along the fairy land,55 But springs as to preclude his care, And sweetly woos him—­but to spare! Strange—­that where all is peace beside There passion riots in her pride, And lust and rapine wildly reign,60 To darken o’er the fair domain. It is as though the fiends prevail’d Against the seraphs they assail’d, And fixed, on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of hell—65 So soft the scene, so form’d for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy!   He who hath bent him o’er the dead, Ere the first day of death is fled; The first dark day of nothingness,70 The last of danger and distress; (Before Decay’s effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark’d the mild angelic air— The rapture of repose that’s there—75 The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And—­but for that sad shrouded eye,   That fires not—­wins not—­weeps not—­now—   And but for that chill changeless brow,80 Where cold Obstruction’s apathy4 Appals the gazing mourner’s heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon— Yes—­but for these and these alone,85

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Some moments—­aye—­one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant’s power, So fair—­so calm—­so softly seal’d The first—­last look—­by death reveal’d!5 Such is the aspect of this shore—90 ’Tis Greece—­but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start—­for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath;95 But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb— Expression’s last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away!100     Spark of that flame—­perchance of heavenly birth—     Which gleams—­but warms no more its cherish’d earth!   Clime of the unforgotten brave!— Whose land from plain to mountain-­cave Was Freedom’s home or Glory’s grave—105 Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee? Approach thou craven crouching slave— Say, is not this Thermopylæ? These waters blue that round you lave110 Oh servile offspring of the free— Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis! These scenes—­their story not unknown— Arise, and make again your own;115 Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires, And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear, That Tyranny shall quake to hear,120 And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame; For Freedom’s battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won.125 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age!



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While kings in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes—­though the general doom130 Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land! There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye, The graves of those that cannot die!135 ’Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendour to disgrace, Enough—­no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell, Yes! Self-­abasement pav’d the way140 To vilain-­bonds and despot-­sway. What can he tell who treads thy shore?   No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore,145   When man was worthy of thy clime. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery souls that might have led   Thy sons to deeds sublime; Now crawl from cradle to the grave,150 Slaves—­nay the bondsmen of a slave,6   And callous, save to crime; Stain’d with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes; Without even savage virtue blest,155 Without one free or valiant breast. Still to the neighbouring ports they waft Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft, In this the subtle Greek is found, For this, and this alone, renown’d.160 In vain might Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke, Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: No more her sorrows I bewail, Yet this will be a mournful tale,165 And they who listen may believe, Who heard it first had cause to grieve. * * * * * * *   Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,

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lord byron The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher’s eye like boat170 Of island-­pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caique He shuns the near but doubtful creek, Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber’d with his scaly spoil,175 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone’s safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night. * * * * * * * *   Who thundering comes on blackest steed?180 With slacken’d bit and hoof of speed, Beneath the clattering iron’s sound The cavern’d echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser’s side,185 Seems gather’d from the ocean-­tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There’s none within his rider’s breast, And though to-­morrow’s tempest lower, ’Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!7190 I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface; Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scath’d by fiery passion’s brunt,195 Though bent on earth thine evil eye As meteor like thou glidest by, Right well I view, and deem thee one Whom Othman’s sons should slay or shun.   On—­on he hastened—­and he drew200 My gaze of wonder as he flew: Though like a demon of the night He passed and vanished from my sight; His aspect and his air impressed A troubled memory on my breast;205 And long upon my startled ear Rung his dark courser’s hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed—­he nears the steep, That jutting shadows o’er the deep—



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He winds around—­he hurries by—210 The rock relieves him from mine eye— For well I ween unwelcome he Whose glance is fixed on those that flee; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight.215 He wound along—­but ere he passed One glance he snatched—­as if his last— A moment checked his wheeling steed— A moment breathed him from his speed— A moment on his stirrup stood—220 Why looks he o’er the olive wood?— The crescent glimmers on the hill, The Mosque’s high lamps are quivering still; Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike,8225 The flashes of each joyous peal Are seen to prove the Moslem’s zeal. To-­night—­set Rhamazani’s sun— To-­night—­the Bairam feast’s begun— To-­night—­but who and what art thou230 Of foreign garb and fearful brow? And what are these to thine or thee, That thou should’st either pause or flee? He stood—­some dread was on his face— Soon Hatred settled in its place—235 It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient Anger’s hasty blush, But pale as marble o’er the tomb, Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. His brow was bent—­his eye was glazed—240 He raised his arm, and fiercely raised; And sternly shook his hand on high, As doubting to return or fly;— Impatient of his flight delayed Here loud his raven charger neighed—245 Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade— That sound had burst his waking dream, As Slumber starts at owlet’s scream.— The spur hath lanced his courser’s sides— Away—­away—­for life he rides—250 Swift as the hurled on high jerreed,9 Springs to the touch his startled steed,

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lord byron The rock is doubled—­and the shore Shakes with the clattering tramp no more— The crag is won—­no more is seen255 His Christian crest and haughty mien.— ’Twas but an instant—­he, restrained That fiery barb so sternly reined— ’Twas but a moment that he stood, Then sped as if by death pursued;260 But in that instant, o’er his soul Winters of Memory seemed to roll; And gather in that drop of time A life of pain, an age of crime. O’er him who loves, or hates, or fears,265 Such moment pours the grief of years— What felt he then—­at once opprest By all that most distracts the breast? That pause—­which pondered o’er his fate, Oh, who its dreary length shall date!270 Though in Time’s record nearly nought, It was Eternity to Thought! For infinite as boundless space The thought that Conscience must embrace, Which in itself can comprehend275 Woe without name—­or hope—­or end.—   The hour is past, the Giaour is gone, And did he fly or fall alone? Woe to that hour he came or went, The curse for Hassan’s sin was sent280 To turn a palace to a tomb; He came, he went, like the Simoom,10 That harbinger of fate and gloom, Beneath whose widely-­wasting breath The very cypress droops to death—285 Dark tree—­still sad, when others’ grief is fled, The only constant mourner o’er the dead!   The steed is vanished from the stall, No serf is seen in Hassan’s hall; The lonely Spider’s thin grey pall290 Waves slowly widening o’er the wall; The Bat builds in his Haram bower; And in the fortress of his power The Owl usurps the beacon-­tower;



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The wild-­dog howls o’er the fountain’s brim,295 With baffled thirst, and famine, grim, For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. ’Twas sweet of yore to see it play And chase the sultriness of day—300 As springing high the silver dew In whirls fantastically flew, And flung luxurious coolness round The air, and verdure o’er the ground.— ’Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,305 To view the wave of watery light, And hear its melody by night.— And oft had Hassan’s Childhood played Around the verge of that cascade; And oft upon his mother’s breast310 That sound had harmonized his rest; And oft had Hassan’s Youth along Its bank been sooth’d by Beauty’s song; And softer seemed each melting tone Of Music mingled with its own.—315 But ne’er shall Hassan’s Age repose Along the brink at Twilight’s close— The stream that filled that font is fled— The blood that warmed his heart is shed!— And here no more shall human voice320 Be heard to rage—­regret—­rejoice— The last sad note that swelled the gale Was woman’s wildest funeral wail— That quenched in silence—­all is still, But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill—325 Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, No hand shall close its clasp again. On desart sands ’twere joy to scan The rudest steps of fellow man, So here the very voice of Grief330 Might wake an Echo like relief— At least ’twould say, “all are not gone; There lingers Life, though but in one”— For many a gilded chamber’s there, Which Solitude might well forbear;335 Within that dome as yet Decay Hath slowly worked her cankering way—

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lord byron But Gloom is gathered o’er the gate, Nor there the Fakir’s self will wait; Nor there will wandering Dervise stay,340 For Bounty cheers not his delay; Nor there will weary stranger halt To bless the sacred “bread and salt.”11 Alike must Wealth and Poverty Pass heedless and unheeded by,345 For Courtesy and Pity died With Hassan on the mountain side.— His roof—­that refuge unto men— Is Desolation’s hungry den.— The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour,350 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel’s sabre!12 * * * * * * * *   I hear the sound of coming feet, But not a voice mine ear to greet— More near—­each turban I can scan, And silver-­sheathed ataghan;13355 The foremost of the band is seen An Emir by his garb of green:14 “Ho! who art thou?”—“this low salam15 Replies of Moslem faith I am.” “The burthen ye so gently bear,360 Seems one that claims your utmost care, And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, My humble bark would gladly wait.”   “Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore;365 Nay, leave the sail still furl’d, and ply The nearest oar that’s scatter’d by, And midway to those rocks where sleep The channel’d waters dark and deep.— Rest from your task—­so—­bravely done,370 Our course has been right swiftly run, Yet ’tis the longest voyage, I trow, That one of— * * * * * * * * * * * * *   Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, The calm wave rippled to the bank;375 I watch’d it as it sank, methought Some motion from the current caught



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Bestirr’d it more,—’twas but the beam That chequer’d o’er the living stream— I gaz’d, till vanishing from view,380 Like lessening pebble it withdrew; Still less and less, a speck of white That gemm’d the tide, then mock’d the sight; And all its hidden secrets sleep, Known but to Genii of the deep,385 Which, trembling in their coral caves, They dare not whisper to the waves. * * * * * * * *   As rising on its purple wing The insect-­queen16 of eastern spring, O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer390 Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high With panting heart and tearful eye:395 So Beauty lures the full-­g rown child With hue as bright, and wing as wild; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed,400 Woe waits the insect and the maid, A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant’s play, or man’s caprice: The lovely toy so fiercely sought Has lost its charm by being caught,405 For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brush’d the brightest hues away Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, ’Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,410 Ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower?415 No: gayer insects fluttering by Ne’er droop the wing o’er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shewn To every failing but their own,

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lord byron And every woe a tear can claim420 Except an erring sister’s shame. * * * * * * * * The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes,   Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, In circle narrowing as it glows The flames around their captive close,425 Till inly search’d by thousand throes,   And maddening in her ire, One sad and sole relief she knows, The sting she nourish’d for her foes, Whose venom never yet was vain,430 Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain.— So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;17 So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,435 Unfit for earth, undoom’d for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death!— * * * * * * * *   Black Hassan from the Haram flies, Nor bends on woman’s form his eyes,440 The unwonted chase each hour employs, Yet shares he not the hunter’s joys. Not thus was Hassan wont to fly When Leila dwelt in his Serai. Doth Leila there no longer dwell?445 That tale can only Hassan tell: Strange rumours in our city say Upon that eve she fled away; When Rhamazan’s last sun was set,18 And flashing from each minaret450 Millions of lamps proclaim’d the feast Of Bairam through the boundless East. ’Twas then she went as to the bath, Which Hassan vainly search’d in wrath, But she was flown her master’s rage455 In likeness of a Georgian page; And far beyond the Moslem’s power Had wrong’d him with the faithless Giaour. Somewhat of this had Hassan deem’d,



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But still so fond, so fair she seem’d,460 Too well he trusted to the slave Whose treachery deserv’d a grave: And on that eve had gone to mosque, And thence to feast in his kiosk. Such is the tale his Nubians tell,465 Who did not watch their charge too well; But others say, that on that night, By pale Phingari’s trembling light,19 The Giaour upon his jet-­black steed Was seen—­but seen alone to speed470 With bloody spur along the shore, Nor maid nor page behind him bore. * * * * * * *   Her eye’s dark charm ’twere vain to tell, But gaze on that of the Gazelle, It will assist thy fancy well,475 As large, as languishingly dark, But Soul beam’d forth in every spark That darted from beneath the lid, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.20 Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say480 That form was nought but breathing clay, By Alla! I would answer nay; Though on Al-­Sirat’s arch I stood,21 Which totters o’er the fiery flood, With Paradise within my view,485 And all his Houris beckoning through. Oh! who young Leila’s glance could read And keep that portion of his creed22 Which saith, that woman is but dust, A soulless toy for tyrant’s lust?490 On her might Muftis gaze, and own That through her eye the Immortal shone— On her fair cheek’s unfading hue, The young pomegranate’s blossoms strew23 Their bloom in blushes ever new—495 Her hair in hyacinthine flow24 When left to roll its folds below; As midst her handmaids in the hall She stood superior to them all, Hath swept the marble where her feet500

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lord byron Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet Ere from the cloud that gave it birth, It fell, and caught one stain of earth. The cygnet nobly walks the water— So moved on earth Circassia’s daughter—505 The loveliest bird of Franguestan!25 As rears her crest the ruffled Swan,   And spurns the wave with wings of pride, When pass the steps of stranger man   Along the banks that bound her tide;510 Thus rose fair Leila’s whiter neck:— Thus armed with beauty would she check Intrusion’s glance, till Folly’s gaze Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. Thus high and graceful was her gait;515 Her heart as tender to her mate— Her mate—­stern Hassan, who was he? Alas! that name was not for thee! * * * * * * * *   Stern Hassan hath a journey ta’en With twenty vassals in his train,520 Each arm’d as best becomes a man With arquebuss and ataghan; The chief before, as deck’d for war Bears in his belt the scimitar Stain’d with the best of Arnaut blood,525 When in the pass the rebels stood, And few return’d to tell the tale Of what befell in Parne’s vale. The pistols which his girdle bore Were those that once a pasha wore,530 Which still, though gemm’d and boss’d with gold, Even robbers tremble to behold.— ’Tis said he goes to woo a bride More true than her who left his side; The faithless slave that broke her bower,535 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour!— * * * * * * * *   The sun’s last rays are on the hill, And sparkle in the fountain rill, Whose welcome waters cool and clear, Draw blessings from the mountaineer;540



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Here may the loitering merchant Greek Find that repose ’twere vain to seek In cities lodg’d too near his lord, And trembling for his secret hoard— Here may he rest where none can see,545 In crowds a slave, in deserts free; And with forbidden wine may stain The bowl a Moslem must not drain.— * * * * * * * *   The foremost Tartar’s in the gap, Conspicuous by his yellow cap,550 The rest in lengthening line the while Wind slowly through the long defile; Above, the mountain rears a peak, Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, And theirs may be a feast to-­night,555 Shall tempt them down ere morrow’s light. Beneath, a river’s wintry stream Has shrunk before the summer beam, And left a channel bleak and bare, Save shrubs that spring to perish there.560 Each side the midway path there lay Small broken crags of granite gray, By time or mountain lightning riven, From summits clad in mists of heaven; For where is he that hath beheld565 The peak of Liakura unveil’d? * * * * * * * *   They reach the grove of pine at last, “Bismillah! now the peril’s past;26 For yonder view the opening plain, And there we’ll prick our steeds amain:”570 The Chiaus spake, and as he said, A bullet whistled o’er his head; The foremost Tartar bites the ground!   Scarce had they time to check the rein Swift from their steeds the riders bound,575   But three shall never mount again; Unseen the foes that gave the wound,   The dying ask revenge in vain. With steel unsheath’d, and carbine bent, Some o’er their courser’s harness leant,580

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lord byron   Half shelter’d by the steed, Some fly beneath the nearest rock, And there await the coming shock,   Nor tamely stand to bleed Beneath the shaft of foes unseen,585 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. Stern Hassan only from his horse Disdains to light, and keeps his course, Till fiery flashes in the van Proclaim too sure the robber-­clan590 Have well secur’d the only way Could now avail the promis’d prey; Then curl’d his very beard with ire,27 And glared his eye with fiercer fire. “Though far and near the bullets hiss,595 I’ve scaped a bloodier hour than this.” And now the foe their covert quit, And call his vassals to submit; But Hassan’s frown and furious word Are dreaded more than hostile sword,600 Nor of his little band a man Resign’d carbine or ataghan— Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!28 In fuller sight, more near and near, The lately ambush’d foes appear,605 And issuing from the grove advance, Some who on battle charger prance.— Who leads them on with foreign brand, Far flashing in his red right hand? “ ’Tis he—’tis he—­I know him now,610 I know him by his pallid brow; I know him by the evil eye29 That aids his envious treachery; I know him by his jet-­black barb, Though now array’d in Arnaut garb,615 Apostate from his own vile faith, It shall not save him from the death; ’Tis he, well met in any hour, Lost Leila’s love—­accursed Giaour!”   As rolls the river into ocean,620 In sable torrent wildly streaming;   As the sea-­tide’s opposing motion In azure column proudly gleaming,



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Beats back the current many a rood, In curling foam and mingling flood;625 While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, Roused by the blast of winter rave; Through sparkling spray in thundering clash, The lightnings of the waters flash In awful whiteness o’er the shore,630 That shines and shakes beneath the roar; Thus—­as the stream and ocean greet, With waves that madden as they meet— Thus join the bands whom mutual wrong, And fate and fury drive along.635 The bickering sabres’ shivering jar   And pealing wide—­or ringing near   Its echoes on the throbbing ear The deathshot hissing from afar— The shock—­the shout—­the groan of war—640   Reverberate along that vale,   More suited to the shepherd’s tale: Though few the numbers—­theirs the strife, That neither spares nor speaks for life! Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,645 To seize and share the dear caress; But Love itself could never pant For all that Beauty sighs to grant, With half the fervour Hate bestows Upon the last embrace of foes,650 When grappling in the fight they fold Those arms that ne’er shall lose their hold: Friends meet to part—­Love laughs at faith;— True foes, once met, are joined till death! * * * * * * * * With sabre shiver’d to the hilt,655 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; Yet strain’d within the sever’d hand Which quivers round that faithless brand; His turban far behind him roll’d, And cleft in twain its firmest fold;660 His flowing robe by falchion torn, And crimson as those clouds of morn That streak’d with dusky red, portend The day shall have a stormy end;

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lord byron A stain on every bush that bore665 A fragment of his palampore,30 His breast with wounds unnumber’d riven, His back to earth, his face to heaven, Fall’n Hassan lies—­his unclos’d eye Yet lowering on his enemy,670 As if the hour that seal’d his fate, Surviving left his quenchless hate; And o’er him bends that foe with brow As dark as his that bled below.— * * * * * * * *   “Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,675 But his shall be a redder grave; Her spirit pointed well the steel Which taught that felon heart to feel. He call’d the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour:680 He call’d on Alla—­but the word Arose unheeded or unheard. Thou Paynim fool!—could Leila’s prayer Be pass’d, and thine accorded there? I watch’d my time, I leagu’d with these,685 The traitor in his turn to seize; My wrath is wreak’d, the deed is done, And now I go—­but go alone.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * *   The browzing camels’ bells are tinkling— His Mother looked from her lattice high,690   She saw the dews of eve besprinkling The pasture green beneath her eye,   She saw the planets faintly twinkling, “ ’Tis twilight—­sure his train is nigh.”— She could not rest in the garden-­bower,695 But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower— “Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrink they from the summer heat; Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift, Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift?700 Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now Has gained our nearest mountain’s brow, And warily the steep descends,



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And now within the valley bends; And he bears the gift at his saddle bow—705 How could I deem his courser slow? Right well my largess shall repay His welcome speed, and weary way.”— The Tartar lighted at the gate, But scarce upheld his fainting weight;710 His swarthy visage spake distress, But this might be from weariness; His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, But these might be from his courser’s side;— He drew the token from his vest—715 Angel of Death! ’tis Hassan’s cloven crest! His calpac rent—­his caftan red—31 “Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed— Me, not from mercy, did they spare, But this empurpled pledge to bear.720 Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt— Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.” * * * * * * *   A turban carv’d in coarsest stone,32 A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown, Whereon can now be scarcely read725 The Koran verse that mourns the dead; Point out the spot where Hassan fell A victim in that lonely dell. There sleeps as true an Osmanlie As e’er at Mecca bent the knee;730 As ever scorn’d forbidden wine, Or pray’d with face towards the shrine, In orisons resumed anew At solemn sound of “Alla Hu!”33 Yet died he by a stranger’s hand,735 And stranger in his native land— Yet died he as in arms he stood, And unaveng’d, at least in blood. But him the maids of Paradise   Impatient to their halls invite,740 And the dark heaven of Houri’s eyes   On him shall glance for ever bright; They come—­their kerchiefs green they wave,34 And welcome with a kiss the brave!

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lord byron Who falls in battle ’gainst a Giaour,745 Is worthiest an immortal bower. * * * * * * *   But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe;35 And from its torment ’scape alone To wander round lost Eblis’ throne;36750 And fire unquench’d, unquenchable— Around—­within—­thy heart shall dwell, Nor ear can hear, nor tongue can tell The tortures of that inward hell!— But first, on earth as Vampire sent,37755 Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race, There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life;760 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse; Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the dæmon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them,765 Thy flowers are wither’d on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall— The youngest—­most belov’d of all, Shall bless thee with a father’s name— That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!770 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark, And the last glassy glance must view Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue; Then with unhallowed hand shalt tear775 The tresses of her yellow hair, Of which in life a lock when shorn, Affection’s fondest pledge was worn; But now is borne away by thee, Memorial of thine agony!780 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip,38 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; Then stalking to thy sullen grave— Go—­and with Gouls and Afrits rave; Till these in horror shrink away785 From spectre more accursed than they!



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* * * * * * * * “How name ye yon lone Caloyer?   His features I have scann’d before In mine own land—’tis many a year,   Since, dashing by the lonely shore,790 I saw him urge as fleet a steed As ever serv’d a horseman’s need. But once I saw that face—­yet then It was so mark’d with inward pain I could not pass it by again;795 It breathes the same dark spirit now, As death were stamped upon his brow.” “ ’Tis twice three years at summer tide   Since first among our freres he came; And here it soothes him to abide800   For some dark deed he will not name. But never at our vesper prayer, Nor e’er before confession chair Kneels he, nor recks he when arise Incense or anthem to the skies,805 But broods within his cell alone, His faith and race alike unknown. The sea from Paynim land he crost, And here ascended from the coast, Yet seems he not of Othman race,810 But only Christian in his face: I’d judge him some stray renegade, Repentant of the change he made, Save that he shuns our holy shrine, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.815 Great largess to these walls he brought, And thus our abbot’s favour bought; But were I Prior, not a day Should brook such stranger’s further stay, Or pent within our penance cell820 Should doom him there for aye to dwell. Much in his visions mutters he Of maiden ’whelmed beneath the sea; Of sabres clashing—­foemen flying, Wrongs aveng’d—­and Moslem dying.825 On cliff he hath been known to stand, And rave as to some bloody hand

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lord byron Fresh sever’d from its parent limb, Invisible to all but him, Which beckons onward to his grave,830 And lures to leap into the wave.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dark and unearthly is the scowl That glares beneath his dusky cowl— The flash of that dilating eye Reveals too much of times gone by—835 Though varying—­indistinct its hue, Oft will his glance the gazer rue— For in it lurks that nameless spell Which speaks—­itself unspeakable— A spirit yet unquelled and high840 That claims and keeps ascendancy, And like the bird whose pinions quake— But cannot fly the gazing snake— Will others quail beneath his look, Nor ’scape the glance they scarce can brook.845 From him the half-­affrighted Friar When met alone would fain retire— As if that eye and bitter smile Transferred to others fear and guile— Not oft to smile descendeth he,850 And when he doth ’tis sad to see That he but mocks at Misery. How that pale lip will curl and quiver! Then fix once more as if for ever— As if his sorrow or disdain855 Forbade him e’er to smile again.— Well were it so—­such ghastly mirth From joyaunce ne’er deriv’d its birth.— But sadder still it were to trace What once were feelings in that face—860 Time hath not yet the features fixed, But brighter traits with evil mixed— And there are hues not always faded, Which speak a mind not all degraded Even by the crimes through which it waded—865 The common crowd but see the gloom Of wayward deeds—­and fitting doom—



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The close observer can espy A noble soul, and lineage high.— Alas! though both bestowed in vain,870 Which Grief could change—­and Guilt could stain— It was no vulgar tenement To which such lofty gifts were lent, And still with little less than dread On such the sight is riveted.—875 The roofless cot decayed and rent,   Will scarce delay the passer by— The tower by war or tempest bent, While yet may frown one battlement,   Demands and daunts the stranger’s eye—880 Each ivied arch—­and pillar lone, Pleads haughtily for glories gone! “His floating robe around him folding,   Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle— With dread beheld—­with gloom beholding885   The rites that sanctify the pile. But when the anthem shakes the choir, And kneel the monks—­his steps retire— By yonder lone and wavering torch His aspect glares within the porch;890 There will he pause till all is done— And hear the prayer—­but utter none. See—­by the half-­illumin’d wall His hood fly back—­his dark hair fall— That pale brow wildly wreathing round,895 As if the Gorgon there had bound The sablest of the serpent-­braid That o’er her fearful forehead strayed. For he declines the convent oath, And leaves those locks unhallowed growth—900 But wears our garb in all beside; And—­not from piety but pride Gives wealth to walls that never heard Of his one holy vow nor word.— Lo!—mark ye—­as the harmony905 Peals louder praises to the sky— That livid cheek—­that stoney air Of mixed defiance and despair! Saint Francis! keep him from the shrine! Else may we dread the wrath divine910

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lord byron Made manifest by awful sign.— If ever evil angel bore The form of mortal, such he wore— By all my hope of sins forgiven Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!”

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To love the softest hearts are prone, But such can ne’er be all his own; Too timid in his woes to share, Too meek to meet, or brave, despair; And sterner hearts alone may feel920 The wound that time can never heal. The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine, But plung’d within the furnace-­flame, It bends and melts—­though still the same; 925 Then tempered to thy want, or will, ’Twill serve thee to defend or kill; A breast-­plate for thine hour of need, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; But if a dagger’s form it bear,930 Let those who shape its edge, beware! Thus passion’s fire, and woman’s art, Can turn and tame the sterner heart; From these its form and tone are ta’en, And what they make it, must remain, 935 But break—­before it bend again. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * If solitude succeed to grief, Release from pain is slight relief; The vacant bosom’s wilderness Might thank the pang that made it less. We loathe what none are left to share— Even bliss—’twere woe alone to bear; The heart once left thus desolate, Must fly at last for ease—­to hate. It is as if the dead could feel The icy worm around them steal, And shudder, as the reptiles creep To revel o’er their rotting sleep Without the power to scare away

940

945



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The cold consumers of their clay!950 It is as if the desart-­bird,39   Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream   To still her famish’d nestlings’ scream, Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d, Should rend her rash devoted breast,955 And find them flown her empty nest. The keenest pangs the wretched find   Are rapture to the dreary void— The leafless desart of the mind—   The waste of feelings unemploy’d—960 Who would be doom’d to gaze upon A sky without a cloud or sun? Less hideous far the tempest’s roar, Than ne’er to brave the billows more— Thrown, when the war of winds is o’er,965 A lonely wreck on fortune’s shore, ’Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, Unseen to drop by dull decay;— Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!970 * * * * * * * * “Father! thy days have pass’d in peace,   ’Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; To bid the sins of others cease,   Thyself without a crime or care, Save transient ills that all must bear,975 Has been thy lot, from youth to age, And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Of passions fierce and uncontroul’d, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest980 Within thy pure and pitying breast. My days, though few, have pass’d below In much of joy, but more of woe; Yet still in hours of love or strife, I’ve scap’d the weariness of life;985 Now leagu’d with friends, now girt by foes, I loath’d the languor of repose; Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate; I’d rather be the thing that crawls990

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lord byron Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemn’d to meditate and gaze— Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest—­but not to feel ’tis rest—995 Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;   And I shall sleep without the dream Of what I was, and would be still,   Dark as to thee my deeds may seem— My memory now is but the tomb1000 Of joys long dead—­my hope—­their doom— Though better to have died with those Than bear a life of lingering woes— My spirit shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain;1005 Nor sought the self-­accorded grave Of ancient fool, and modern knave: Yet death I have not fear’d to meet, And in the field it had been sweet Had danger wooed me on to move1010 The slave of glory, not of love. I’ve brav’d it—­not for honour’s boast; I smile at laurels won or lost.— To such let others carve their way, For high renown, or hireling pay;1015 But place again before my eyes Aught that I deem a worthy prize;— The maid I love—­the man I hate — And I will hunt the steps of fate, (To save or slay—­as these require)1020 Through rending steel, and rolling fire; Nor need’st thou doubt this speech from one Who would but do—­what he hath done. Death is but what the haughty brave— The weak must bear—­the wretch must crave—1025 Then let Life go to him who gave: I have not quailed to danger’s brow— When high and happy—­need I now?” * * * * * * “I lov’d her, friar! nay, adored—   But these are words that all can use—1030 I prov’d it more in deed than word—



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There’s blood upon that dinted sword—   A stain its steel can never lose: ’Twas shed for her, who died for me,   It warmed the heart of one abhorred:1035 Nay, start not—­no—­nor bend thy knee,   Nor midst my sins such act record, Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, For he was hostile to thy creed! The very name of Nazarene1040 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen, Ungrateful fool! since but for brands, Well wielded in some hardy hands; And wounds by Galileans given, The surest pass to Turkish heav’n;1045 For him his Houris still might wait Impatient at the prophet’s gate. I lov’d her—­love will find its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, And if it dares enough, ’twere hard1050 If passion met not some reward— No matter how—­or where—­or why, I did not vainly seek—­nor sigh: Yet sometimes with remorse in vain I wish she had not lov’d again.1055 She died—­I dare not tell thee how, But look—’tis written on my brow! There read of Cain the curse and crime, In characters unworn by time: Still, ere thou dost condemn me—­pause—1060 Not mine the act, though I the cause; Yet did he but what I had done Had she been false to more than one; Faithless to him—­he gave the blow, But true to me—­I laid him low;1065 Howe’er deserv’d her doom might be, Her treachery was truth to me; To me she gave her heart, that all Which tyranny can ne’er enthrall; And I, alas! too late to save,1070 Yet all I then could give—­I gave— ’Twas some relief—­our foe a grave. His death sits lightly; but her fate Has made me—­what thou well may’st hate.

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lord byron His doom was seal’d—­he knew it well, 1075 Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer, Deep in whose darkly boding ear40 The deathshot peal’d of murder near— As filed the troop to where they fell! He died too in the battle broil—1080 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil— One cry to Mahomet for aid, One prayer to Alla—­all he made: He knew and crossed me in the fray— I gazed upon him where he lay,1085 And watched his spirit ebb away; Though pierced like Pard by hunters’ steel, He felt not half that now I feel. I search’d, but vainly search’d to find, The workings of a wounded mind;1090 Each feature of that sullen corse Betrayed his rage, but no remorse. Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace Despair upon his dying face! The late repentance of that hour,1095 When Penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave— And will not soothe, and can not save!” * * * * * * “The cold in clime are cold in blood,   Their love can scarce deserve the name;1100 But mine was like the lava flood   That boils in Ætna’s breast of flame. I cannot prate in puling strain Of ladye-­love, and beauty’s chain; If changing cheek, and scorching vein—1105 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain— If bursting heart, and mad’ning brain— And daring deed, and vengeful steel— And all that I have felt—­and feel— Betoken love—­that love was mine,1110 And shewn by many a bitter sign. ’Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, I knew but to obtain or die. I die—­but first I have possest, And come what may, I have been blest;1115



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Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? No—­reft of all—­yet undismay’d But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again.1120 I grieve, but not, my holy guide! For him who dies, but her who died; She sleeps beneath the wandering wave, Ah! had she but an earthly grave, This breaking heart and throbbing head1125 Should seek and share her narrow bed. She was a form of life and light— That seen—­became a part of sight, And rose—­where’er I turned mine eye— The Morning-­star of Memory!”1130 “Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven—   A spark of that immortal fire With angels shar’d—­by Alla given,   To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above,1135 But Heaven itself descends in love— A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought— A Ray of him who form’d the whole— A Glory circling round the soul!1140 I grant my love imperfect—­all That mortals by the name miscall— Then deem it evil—­what thou wilt— But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! She was my life’s unerring light—1145 That quench’d—­what beam shall break my night? Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Although to death or deadliest ill!— Why marvel ye? if they who lose   This present joy, this future hope,1150   No more with sorrow meekly cope— In phrenzy then their fate accuse— In madness do those fearful deeds   That seem to add but guilt to woe. Alas! the breast that inly bleeds1155   Hath nought to dread from outward blow— Who falls from all he knows of bliss,

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lord byron Cares little into what abyss.— Fierce as the gloomy vulture’s now   To thee, old man, my deeds appear—1160 I read abhorrence on thy brow,   And this too was I born to bear! ’Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, With havock have I mark’d my way— But this was taught me by the dove—1165 To die—­and know no second love. This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn— The bird that sings within the brake, The swan that swims upon the lake,1170 One mate, and one alone, will take. And let the fool still prone to range, And sneer on all who cannot change— Partake his jest with boasting boys, I envy not his varied joys—1175 But deem such feeble, heartless man, Less than yon solitary swan— Far—­far beneath the shallow maid He left believing and betray’d. Such shame at least was never mine—1180 Leila—­each thought was only thine!— My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, My hope on high—­my all below. Earth holds no other like to thee, Or if it doth, in vain for me—1185 For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same. The very crimes that mar my youth, This bed of death—­attest my truth— ’Tis all too late—­thou wert—­thou art1190 The cherished madness of my heart!” “And she was lost—­and yet I breathed,   But not the breath of human life— A serpent round my heart was wreathed,   And stung my every thought to strife.—1195 Alike all time—­abhorred all place, Shuddering I shrunk from Nature’s face, Where every hue that charmed before The blackness of my bosom wore:—



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The rest—­thou do’st already know,1200 And all my sins and half my woe— But talk no more of penitence, Thou see’st I soon shall part from hence— And if thy holy tale were true— The deed that’s done can’st thou undo?1205 Think me not thankless—­but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.41 My soul’s estate in secret guess— But would’st thou pity more—­say less— When thou can’st bid my Leila live,1210 Then will I sue thee to forgive; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace— Go—­when the hunter’s hand hath wrung From forest-­cave her shrieking young,1215 And calm the lonely lioness— But soothe not—­mock not my distress!” “In earlier days, and calmer hours,   When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley’s bowers—1220   I had—­Ah! have I now?—a friend!— To him this pledge I charge thee send— Memorial of a youthful vow; I would remind him of my end,—   Though souls absorbed like mine allow1225 Brief thought to distant friendship’s claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name. ’Tis strange—­he prophesied my doom,   And I have smil’d—(I then could smile—) When Prudence would his voice assume,1230   And warn—­I reck’d not what—­the while— But now remembrance whispers o’er Those accents scarcely mark’d before. Say—­that his bodings came to pass,   And he will start to hear their truth,1235   And wish his words had not been sooth. Tell him—­unheeding as I was—   Through many a busy bitter scene   Of all our golden youth had been— In pain, my faltering tongue had tried1240 To bless his memory ere I died;

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lord byron But heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame— Too gentle he to wound my name;1245 And what have I to do with fame? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn; And what than friendship’s manly tear May better grace a brother’s bier?1250 But bear this ring—­his own of old— And tell him—­what thou dost behold! The wither’d frame, the ruined mind, The wrack by passion left behind— A shrivelled scroll, a scatter’d leaf,1255 Sear’d by the autumn blast of grief!” * * * * * * “Tell me no more of fancy’s gleam, No, father, no,’twas not a dream; Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watch’d, and wish’d to weep;1260 But could not, for my burning brow Throbb’d to the very brain as now. I wish’d but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear; I wish’d it then—­I wish it still,1265 Despair is stronger than my will. Waste not thine orison—­despair Is mightier than thy pious prayer; I would not, if I might, be blest, I want no paradise—­but rest.1270 ’Twas then, I tell thee, father! then I saw her—­yes—­she liv’d again; And shining in her white symar,42 As through yon pale grey cloud—­the star Which now I gaze on, as on her1275 Who look’d and looks far lovelier; Dimly I view its trembling spark— To-­morrow’s night shall be more dark— And I—­before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear.1280 I wander, father! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal;



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I saw her, friar! and I rose, Forgetful of our former woes; And rushing from my couch, I dart,1285 And clasp her to my desperate heart; I clasp—­what is it that I clasp? No breathing form within my grasp, No heart that beats reply to mine, Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!1290 And art thou, dearest, chang’d so much, As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? Ah! were thy beauties e’er so cold, I care not—­so my arms enfold The all they ever wish’d to hold.1295 Alas! around a shadow prest, They shrink upon my lonely breast; Yet still—’tis there—­in silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands! With braided hair, and bright-­black eye—1300 I knew ’twas false—­she could not die! But he is dead—­within the dell I saw him buried where he fell; He comes not—­for he cannot break From earth—­why then art thou awake?1305 They told me, wild waves roll’d above The face I view, the form I love; They told me—’twas a hideous tale! I’d tell it—­but my tongue would fail— If true—­and from thine ocean-­cave1310 Thou com’st to claim a calmer grave, Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o’er This brow that then will burn no more; Or place them on my hopeless heart— But, shape or shade!—whate’er thou art,1315 In mercy, ne’er again depart— Or farther with thee bear my soul, Than winds can waft—­or waters roll!—” * * * * * * “Such is my name, and such my tale,   Confessor—­to thy secret ear,1320 I breathe the sorrows I bewail,   And thank thee for the generous tear This glazing eye could never shed.

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lord byron Then lay me with the humblest dead, And save the cross above my head,1325 Be neither name nor emblem spread— By prying stranger to be read, Or stay the passing pilgrim’s tread.” He pass’d—­nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace,1330 Save what the father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day; This broken tale was all we knew Of her he lov’d, or him he slew.43

BYRON’S NOTES TO THE GIAOUR Note 1, [line 3]. That tomb, which, gleaming o’er the cliff. A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. Note 2, [line 22]. Sultana of the Nightingale. The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-­known Persian fable—­if I mistake not, the “Bulbul of a thousand tales” is one of his appellations. Note 3, [line 40]. Till the gay mariner’s guitar. The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night, with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. Note 4, [line 81]. Where cold Obstruction’s apathy. “Aye, but to die and go we know not where, To lie in cold obstruction.” Measure for Measure, Act III. 130. Sc. 2. Note 5, [line 89]. The first—­last look—­by death reveal’d. I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description, but those who have will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the fea-

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tures of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours after “the spirit is not there.” It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gun-­shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer’s character; but in death from a stab the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last. Note 6, [line 151]. Slaves—­nay the bondsmen of a slave. Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints the Waywode.—A pandar and eunuch—­these are not polite yet true appellations—­now governs the governor of Athens! Note 7, [line 190]. ’Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. Infidel. Note 8, [line 225]. In echoes of the far tophaike. “Tophaike,” musquet.—The Bairam is announced by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the Mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night. Note 9, [line 251]. Swift as the hurled on high jerreed. Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish Javelin, which is darted from horseback with great force and precision. It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I know not if it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the art are the Black Eunuchs of Constantinople.—I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that came within my observation. Note 10, [line 282]. He came, he went, like Simoom. The blast of the desart, fatal to every thing living, and often alluded to in eastern poetry. Note 11, [line 343]. To bless the sacred “bread and salt.” To partake of food— to break bread and taste salt with your host—­ensures the safety of the guest, even though an enemy; his person from that moment becomes sacred. Note 12, [line 351]. Since his turban was cleft by the infidel’s sabre. I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet; and to say truth, very generally practised by his dis­ciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty; the next, on his valour.

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Note 13, [l. 355]. And silver-­sheathed ataghan. The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. Note 14, [line 357]. An Emir by his garb of green. Green is the privileged colour of the prophet’s numerous pretended descendants; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good works; they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. Note 15, [line 358]. Ho! who art thou?—this low salam. Salam aleikoum! aleikoum salam! peace be with you; be with you peace—­the salutation reserved for the faithful;— to a Christian, “Urlarula,” a good journey; or saban hiresem, saban serula; good morn, good even; and sometimes, “may your end be happy;” are the usual salutes. Note 16, [line 389]. The insect-­queen of eastern spring. The blue-­winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species. Note 17, [line 434]. Or live like Scorpion girt by fire. Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement; but others have actually brought in the verdict “Felo de se.” The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the question; as, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as long as they think proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis. Note 18, [line 449]. When Rhamazan’s last sun was set. The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan; see note 8. Note 19, [line 468]. By pale Phingari’s trembling light. Phingari, the moon. Note 20, [line 479]. Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendour, named Schebgerag, “the torch of night;” also, “the cup of the



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sun,” &c.—In the first editions “Giamschid” was written as a word of three syllables, so D’Herbelot has it; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes “Jamshid.” I have left in the text the orthography of the one with the pronunciation of the other. Note 21, [line 483]. Though on Al-­Sirat’s arch I stood. Al-­Sirat, the bridge of breadth less than the thread of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must skate into Paradise, to which it is the only entrance; but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a “facilis descensus Averni,” not very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. Note 22, [line 488]. And keep that portion of his creed. A vulgar error; the Koran allots at least a third of Paradise to well-­behaved women; but by far the greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, and exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern “any fitness of things” in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the Houris. Note 23, [line 494]. The young pomegranate’s blossoms strew. An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, be deemed “plus Arabe qu’en Arabie.” Note 24, [line 496]. Her hair in hyacinthine flow. Hyacinthine, in Arabic, “Sunbul,” as common a thought in the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. Note 25, [line 506]. The loveliest bird of Franguestan. “Franguestan,” Circassia. Note 26, [line 568]. Bismillah! now the peril’s past. Bismillah—“In the name of God;” the commencement of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. Note 27, [line 593]. Then curl’d his very beard with ire. A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha’s whiskers at a diplomatic audience were no less lively with indignation than a

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tiger cat’s, to the horror of all the dragomans; the por­tent­ous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment to change their colour, but at last condescended to subside, which, probably, saved more heads than they contained hairs. Note 28, [line 603]. Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!

“Amaun,” quarter, pardon. Note 29, [line 612]. I know him by the evil eye. The “evil eye,” a common superstition in the Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very singular on those who conceive themselves affected. Note 30, [line 666]. A fragment of his palampore.

The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. Note 31, [line 717]. His calpac rent—­his caftan red. The “Calpac” is the solid cap or centre part of the head-­dress; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. Note 32, [line 723]. A turban carv’d in coarsest stone. The turban—­pillar—­and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar mementos; and on inquiry you are informed that they record some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. Note 33, [line 734]. At solemn sound of “Alla Hu!” “Alla Hu!” the concluding words of the Muezzin’s call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice (which they frequently have) the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. Note 34, [line 743]. They come—­their kerchiefs green they wave. The following is part of a battle song of the Turks:—“I see—­I see a dark-­eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee,” &c.



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Note 35, [line 748]. Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe. Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red hot mace till properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no sinecure; there are but two; and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are always full. Note 36, [line 750]. To wander round lost Eblis’ throne. Eblis the Oriental Prince of Darkness. Note 37, [line 755]. But first, on earth as Vampire sent. The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these “Vroucolochas,” as he calls them. The Romaic term is “Vardoulacha.” I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that “Broucolokas” is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation—­at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil.— The moderns, however, use the word I mention. Note 38, [line 781]. Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, are the never-­ failing signs of a Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. Note 39, [line 951]. It is as if the desart-­bird. The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. Note 40, [line 1077]. Deep in whose darkly boding ear. This superstition of a second-­hearing (for I never met with downright second-­sight in the East) fell once under my own observation.—On my third journey to Cape Colonna early in 1811, as we passed through the defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain.—I rode up and inquired. “We are in peril,” he answered. “What peril? we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to

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Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have not courage to be thieves?”—“True, Affendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears.”—“The shot!—not a tophaike has been fired this morning.”— “I hear it notwithstanding—­ Bom— Bom—­ as plainly as I hear your voice.”— “Psha.”—“As you please, Affendi; if it is written, so will it be.”—I left this quick­eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot; whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means relished the intelligence.—We all arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned leis­ure­ly, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns.—I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a “Palao-­castro” man: “No,” said he, “but these pillars will be useful in making a stand;” and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-­hearing.—On our return to Athens, we heard from Leoné (a prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harolde, Canto [II, st. 12].—I was at some pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his having been in “villanous company,” and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood.—Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more musquetry than ever will be fired, to the great refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native mountains.—I shall mention one trait more of this singular race.—In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the 50th on the same errand), to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined: “Well, Affendi,” quoth he, “may you live!—you would have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the hills to-­morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive me.”—Dervish, who was present, remarked as a thing of course, and of no consequence, “in the mean time he will join the Klephtes,” (robbers), which was true to the letter.—If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some town, where they are often as well known as their exploits. Note 41, [line 1207] Looks not to priesthood for relief. The monk’s sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), and was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. Note 42, [line 1273] And shining in her white symar. “Symar”—Shroud. Note 43, [lines 1–1334]. [Of her he lov’d, or him he slew.] The circumstance to which the above story relates was not very uncommon in



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Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son’s supposed infidelity; he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or shewed a symptom of terror at so sudden a “wrench from all we know, from all we love.” The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten.— I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-­house story-­tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives.— The additions and in­ter­pol­ations by the translator will be easily distinguished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D’Herbelot, and partly to that most eastern, and, as Mr Weber justly entitles it, “sublime tale,” the “Caliph Vathek.” I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials; some of his incidents are to be found in the “Bibliothèque Orientale;” but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and power of ­imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears such marks of ­originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; his “Happy Valley” will not bear a comparison with the “Hall of Eblis.”

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE

“Expende Annibalem:—quot libras in duce summo Invenies?—” Juvenal, Sat. X. “The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government, announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. *  *  *  *  *  * *  *  *  *  *  * By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till——” Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, vol 6. p. 220. ____________________ I. ’Tis done—­but yesterday a King!   And arm’d with Kings to strive— And now thou art a nameless thing   So abject—­yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones,5 Who strew’d our Earth with hostile bones,   And can he thus survive? Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fall’n so far. II. Ill-­minded man! why scourge thy kind10   Who bow’d so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind,   Thou taught’st the rest to see.



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With might unquestion’d,—power to save— Thine only gift hath been the grave15   To those that worshipp’d thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition’s less than littleness! III. Thanks for that lesson—­it will teach   To after-­warriors more20 Than high Philosophy can preach,   And vainly preached before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again,   That led them to adore25 Those Pagod things of sabre-­sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. IV. The triumph, and the vanity,   The rapture of the strife*— The earthquake voice of Victory,30   To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seem’d made but to obey,   Wherewith renown was rife— All quell’d!—Dark Spirit! what must be35 The madness of thy memory! V. The Desolator desolate!   The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others’ fate   A Suppliant for his own!40 Is it some yet imperial hope

* Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus.

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lord byron That with such change can calmly cope?   Or dread of death alone? To die a prince—­or live a slave— Thy choice is most ignobly brave!45 VI. He who of old would rend the oak,   Dreamed not of the rebound; Chained by the trunk he vainly broke—   Alone—­how looked he round? Thou in the sternness of thy strength50 An equal deed hast done at length,   And darker fate hast found: He fell, the forest-­prowlers’ prey; But thou must eat thy heart away! VII. The Roman, when his burning heart55   Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger—­dared depart,   In savage grandeur, home.— He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne,60   Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-­upheld abandon’d power. VIII. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway   Had lost its quickening spell,65 Cast crowns for rosaries away,   An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds,   His dotage trifled well:70 Yet better had he neither known A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne.



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IX. But thou—­from thy reluctant hand   The thunderbolt is wrung— Too late thou leav’st the high command75   To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart,   To see thine own unstrung; To think that God’s fair world hath been80 The footstool of a thing so mean; X. And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,   Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb,   And thanked him for a throne!85 Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear   In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind!90 XI. Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,   Nor written thus in vain— Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,   Or deepen every stain— If thou hadst died as honour dies,95 Some new Napoleon might arise,   To shame the world again— But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night? XII. Weigh’d in the balance, hero dust100   Is vile as vulgar clay; Thy scales, Mortality! are just   To all that pass away;

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lord byron But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate,105   To dazzle and dismay; Nor deem’d Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. XIII. And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower,   Thy still imperial bride;110 How bears her breast the torturing hour?   Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair,   Thou throneless Homicide?115 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, ’Tis worth thy vanished diadem! XIV. Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,   And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile,120   It ne’er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all idle hand In loitering mood upon the sand   That Earth is now as free! That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now125 Transferred his bye-­word to thy brow. XV. Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage   What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prisoned rage?   But one—“The world was mine;”130 Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone,   Life will not long confine That spirit poured so widely forth— So long obeyed—­so little worth!135



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XVI. Or like the thief of fire from heaven,   Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven,   His vulture and his rock! Foredoomed by God—­by man accurst,140 And that last act, though not thy worst,   The very Fiend’s arch mock;* He in his fall preserv’d his pride, And if a mortal, had as proudly died!

*        “The fiend’s arch mock. To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste.”— Shakespeare.

from Hebrew Melodies (1815)



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She Walks in Beauty I. She walks in beauty, like the night   Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright   Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light5   Which heaven to gaudy day denies. II. One shade the more, one ray the less,   Had half impair’d the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,   Or softly lightens o’er her face;10 Where thoughts serenely sweet express   How pure, how dear their dwelling place. III. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,15   But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below,   A heart whose love is innocent!

My Soul is Dark I. My soul is dark—­Oh! quickly string   The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling   Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear,5   That sound shall charm it forth again;

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lord byron If in these eyes there lurk a tear,   ’Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain: II. But bid the strain be wild and deep,   Nor let thy notes of joy be first:10 I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,   Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nurst,   And ach’d in sleepless silence long; And now ’tis doom’d to know the worst,15   And break at once—­or yield to song.

Sun of the Sleepless! Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, That show’st the darkness thou canst not dispel, How like art thou to joy remembered well! So gleams the past, the light of other days,5 Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays; A night-­beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, Distinct, but distant—­clear—­but, oh how cold!

The Destruction of Semnacherib I. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. II. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,5 That host with their banners at sunset were seen;



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Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. III. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;10 And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! IV. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 And cold as the spray of the rock-­beating surf. V. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.20 VI. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LETTER TO LADY BYRON

February 8th, 1816— All I can say seems useless—­ and all I could say—­ might be no less unavailing—­yet I still cling to the wreck of my hopes—­before they sink for­ ever.— —Were you then never happy with me?—did you never at any time or times express yourself so?—have no marks of affection—­of the warmest & most reciprocal attachment passed between us?—or did in fact hardly a day go down without some such on one side and generally on both?—do not mis­ take me—[xxxxx 2 lines] I have not denied my state of mind—­but you know its causes—& were those deviations from calmness never followed by acknowledgement & repentance?—was not the last which occurred more par­ ticularly so?—& had I not—­had we not—­the days before & on the day when we parted—­every reason to believe that we loved each other—­that we were to meet again—­were not your letters kind?—had I not acknowledged to you all my faults & follies—& assured you that some had not—& would not be repeated?—I do not require these questions to be answered to me—­but to your own heart.— — — —The day before I received your father’s letter—­I had fixed a day for rejoining you—­If I did not write lately—­Augusta did—­and as you had been my proxy in correspondence with her—­so did I imagine—­she might be the same for me to you.—Upon your letter to me—­this day—­ I surely may remark—­that its expressions imply a treatment which I am in­cap­ able of inflicting—& you of imputing to me—­if aware of their latitude—& the extent of the inferences to be drawn from them.—This is not just— — but I have no reproaches—nor the wish to find cause for them.— — — —Will you see me?—when & where you please—­in whose presence you please:—the interview shall pledge you to nothing—& I will say & do nothing to agitate either—­it is torture to correspond thus—& there are things to be settled & said which cannot be written.— —You say “it is my disposition to deem what I have worthless”—did I deem you so?—did I ever so express myself to you—­or of you—­to others?— —You are much changed within these twenty days or you would never have thus poisoned your own better feelings—­and trampled upon mine.— — ever yrs. most truly & affectionately B

from Poems (1816)

Figure 4  Title page, Poems. 1st edn. (John Murray, 1816). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.



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Stanzas 1. Bright be the place of thy soul!   No lovelier spirit than thine E’er burst from its mortal control,   In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine,5   As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine,   When we know that thy God is with thee. 2. Light be the turf of thy tomb!   May its verdure like emeralds be:10 There should not be the shadow of gloom   In aught that reminds us of thee: Young flowers, and an evergreen tree   May spring from the spot of thy rest; But not cypress nor yew let us see;15   For why should we mourn for the blest?

[“When we two parted” ] 1. When we two parted   In silence and tears, Half broken-­hearted   To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold,5   Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold   Sorrow to this. 2. The dew of the morning   Sunk chill on my brow—10 It felt like the warning

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lord byron   Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,   And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,15   And share in its shame. 3. They name thee before me,   A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o’er me—   Why wert thou so dear?20 They know not I knew thee,   Who knew thee too well:— Long, long shall I rue thee,   Too deeply to tell. 4. In secret we met—25   In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget,   Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee   After long years,30 How should I greet thee?—   With silence and tears. 1808.

Stanzas for Music There be none of Beauty’s daughters   With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters   Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing5 The charmed ocean’s pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming And the midnight moon is weaving   Her bright chain o’er the deep;10 Whose breast is gently heaving,   As an infant’s asleep.



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So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion,15 Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

Fare Thee Well! Alas! they had been friends in Youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And Life is thorny; and youth is vain: And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain: *   *   *   *   * But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining— They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. Coleridge’s Christabel.

Fare thee well! and if for ever—   Still for ever, fare thee well— Even though unforgiving, never   ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.— Would that breast were bared before thee5   Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o’er thee   Which thou ne’er canst know again: Would that breast by thee glanc’d over,   Every inmost thought could show!10 Then, thou would’st at last discover   ’Twas not well to spurn it so.— Though the world for this commend thee—   Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,15   Founded on another’s woe— Though my many faults defaced me,   Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me,

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lord byron   To inflict a cureless wound!20 Yet—­oh, yet—­thyself deceive not—   Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not,   Hearts can thus be torn away; Still thine own its life retaineth—25   Still must mine—­though bleeding—­beat, And the undying thought which paineth   Is—­that we no more may meet.— These are words of deeper sorrow   Than the wail above the dead,30 Both shall live—­but every morrow   Wake us from a widowed bed.— And when thou wouldst solace gather—   When our child’s first accents flow— Wilt thou teach her to say—“Father!”35   Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee—   When her lip to thine is prest— Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee—   Think of him thy love had blessed.40 Should her lineaments resemble   Those thou never more may’st see— Then thy heart will softly tremble   With a pulse yet true to me.— All my faults—­perchance thou knowest—45   All my madness—­none can know; All my hopes—­where’er thou goest—   Wither—­yet with thee they go.— Every feeling hath been shaken,   Pride—­which not a world could bow—50 Bows to thee—­by thee forsaken   Even my soul forsakes me now.— But ’tis done—­all words are idle—   Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle55   Force their way without the will.— Fare thee well!—thus disunited—   Torn from every nearer tie— Seared in heart—­and lone—­and blighted—   More than this, I scarce can die.60

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Canto the Third (1816)

Figure 5  Title page, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: Canto the Third. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1816). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE Canto III

“Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose; il n’y a en vérité de remède que celui-­là et le temps.” Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D’Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776. ___________ I.   Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!   Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?   When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,   And then we parted,—not as now we part,   But with a hope.—          Awaking with a start,5   The waters heave around me; and on high   The winds lift up their voices: I depart,   Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by, When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. II.   Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 10   And the waves bound beneath me as a steed   That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar!   Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!   Though the strain’d mast should quiver as a reed,   And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,15   Still must I on; for I am as a weed,   Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail. III.        

In my youth’s summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;20 Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind

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lord byron   Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find   The furrows of long thought, and dried-­up tears,   Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,25   O’er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life,—where not a flower appears. IV.   Since my young days of passion—­joy, or pain,   Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,   And both may jar: it may be, that in vain30   I would essay as I have sung to sing.   Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;   So that it wean me from the weary dream   Of selfish grief or gladness—­so it fling   Forgetfulness around me—­it shall seem35 To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. V.   He, who grown aged in this world of woe,   In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,   So that no wonder waits him; nor below   Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,40   Cut to his heart again with the keen knife   Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell   Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife   With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair’d, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell.45 VI.   ’Tis to create, and in creating live   A being more intense, that we endow   With form our fancy, gaining as we give   The life we image, even as I do now.   What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou,50   Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,   Invisible but gazing, as I glow   Mix’d with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush’d feelings’ dearth. VII.   Yet must I think less wildly:—I have though55   Too long and darkly, till my brain became,   In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought,



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  A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:   And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,   My springs of life were poison’d. ’Tis too late!60   Yet am I chang’d; though still enough the same   In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. VIII.   Something too much of this:—but now ’tis past,   And the spell closes with its silent seal.65   Long absent Harold re-appears at last;   He of the breast which fain no more would feel,   Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne’er heal;   Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him   In soul and aspect as in age: years steal70   Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. IX.   His had been quaff ’d too quickly, and he found   The dregs were wormwood; but he fill’d again,   And from a purer fount, on holier ground,75   And deem’d its spring perpetual; but in vain!   Still round him clung invisibly a chain   Which gall’d for ever, fettering though unseen,   And heavy though it clank’d not; worn with pain,   Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,80 Entering with every step, he took, through many a scene. X.   Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix’d   Again in fancied safety with his kind,   And deem’d his spirit now so firmly fix’d   And sheath’d with an invulnerable mind,85   That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk’d behind;   And he, as one, might midst the many stand   Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find   Fit speculation! such as in strange land He found in wonder-­works of God and Nature’s hand.90 XI.   But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek   To wear it? who can curiously behold

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lord byron   The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek,   Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?   Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold95   The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb?   Harold, once more within the vortex, roll’d   On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime. XII.   But soon he knew himself the most unfit100   Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held   Little in common; untaught to submit   His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell’d,   In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell’d,   He would not yield dominion of his mind105   To spirits against whom his own rebell’d;   Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. XIII.   Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;   Where roll’d the ocean, thereon was his home;110   Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,   He had the passion and the power to roam;   The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam,   Were unto him companionship; they spake   A mutual language, clearer than the tome115   Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature’s pages glass’d by sunbeams on the lake. XIV.   Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,   Till he had peopled them with beings bright   As their own beams; and earth, and earth-­born jars,120   And human frailties, were forgotten quite:   Could he have kept his spirit to that flight   He had been happy; but this clay will sink   Its spark immortal, envying it the light   To which it mounts, as if to break the link125 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.

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XV.   But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing   Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,   Droop’d as a wild-­born falcon with clipt wing,   To whom the boundless air alone were home:130   Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome,   As eagerly the barr’d-­up bird will beat   His breast and beak against his wiry dome   Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.135 XVI.   Self-­exiled Harold wanders forth again,   With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom;   The very knowledge that he lived in vain,   That all was over on this side the tomb,   Had made Despair a smilingness assume,140   Which, though ’twere wild,—as on the plundered wreck   When mariners would madly meet their doom   With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII.   Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire’s dust!145   An Earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below!   Is the spot mark’d with no colossal bust?   Nor column trophied for triumphal show?   None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so,   As the ground was before, thus let it be;—150   How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!   And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-­making Victory? XVIII.            

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!155 How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! In “pride of place” here last the eagle flew,1 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,

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lord byron   Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through;160   Ambition’s life and labours all were vain; He wears the shattered links of the world’s broken chain. XIX.   Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit   And foam in fetters;—but is Earth more free?   Did nations combat to make One submit;165   Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?   What! shall reviving Thraldom again be   The patched-­up idol of enlightened days?   Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we   Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze170 And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! XX.   If not, o’er one fallen despot boast no more!   In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears   For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before   The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years175   Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,   Have all been borne, and broken by the accord   Of roused-­up millions: all that most endears   Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant lord.2180 XXI.   There was a sound of revelry by night,   And Belgium’s capital had gathered then   Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright   The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;   A thousand hearts beat happily; and when185   Music arose with its voluptuous swell,   Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again,   And all went merry as a marriage-­bell;3 But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! XXII.   Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,190   Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;

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On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet— But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,195 As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is—­it is—­the cannon’s opening roar! XXIII.

  Within a windowed niche of that high hall   Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear200   That sound the first amidst the festival,   And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;   And when they smiled because he deem’d it near,   His heart more truly knew that peal too well   Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier,205   And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. XXIV.   Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,   And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,   And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago210   Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness;   And there were sudden partings, such as press   The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs   Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess   If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,215 Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise? XXV.   And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,   The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,   Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,   And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;220   And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;   And near, the beat of the alarming drum   Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;   While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! They come! they come!”225

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lord byron XXVI.   And wild and high the “Cameron’s gathering” rose!   The war-­note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills   Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—   How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,   Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills230   Their mountain-­pipe, so fill the mountaineers   With the fierce native daring which instils   The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!4 XXVII.   And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,5235   Dewy with nature’s tear-­drops, as they pass,   Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,   Over the unreturning brave,—alas!   Ere evening to be trodden like the grass   Which now beneath them, but above shall grow240   In its next verdure, when this fiery mass   Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. XXVIII.   Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,   Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay,245   The midnight brought the signal-­sound of strife,   The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day   Battle’s magnificently-­stern array!   The thunder-­clouds close o’er it, which when rent   The earth is covered thick with other clay,250   Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent! XXIX.   Their praise is hymn’d by loftier harps than mine;   Yet one I would select from that proud throng,   Partly because they blend me with his line255   And partly that I did his sire some wrong,   And partly that bright names will hallow song;   And his was of the bravest, and when shower’d   The death-­bolts deadliest the thinn’d files along,   Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lower’d,260 They reach’d no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!



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XXX.   There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,   And mine were nothing, had I such to give;   But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,   Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,265   And saw around me the wild field revive   With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring   Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,   With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn’d from all she brought to those she could not bring.6270 XXXI.   I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each   And one as all a ghastly gap did make   In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach   Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;   The Archangel’s trump, not Glory’s, must awake275   Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame   May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake   The fever of vain longing, and the name So honoured but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. XXXII.   They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:280   The tree will wither long before it fall;   The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;   The roof-­tree sinks, but moulders on the hall   In massy hoariness; the ruined wall   Stands when its wind-­worn battlements are gone;285   The bars survive the captive they enthrall;   The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: XXXIII.   Even as a broken mirror, which the glass   In every fragment multiplies; and makes290   A thousand images of one that was,   The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;   And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,   Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,   And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,295   Yet withers on till all without is old, Shewing no visible sign, for such things are untold.

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lord byron XXXIV.   There is a very life in our despair,   Vitality of poison,—a quick root   Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were300   As nothing did we die; but Life will suit   Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit,   Like to the apples on the Dead Sea’s shore,7   All ashes to the taste: Did man compute   Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er305 Such hours ’gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore? XXXV.   The Psalmist numbered out the years of man:   They are enough; and if thy tale be true,   Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,   More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!310   Millions of tongues record thee, and anew   Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say—   “Here, where the sword united nations drew,   Our countrymen were warring on that day!” And this is much, and all which will not pass away.315 XXXVI.   There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,   Whose spirit antithetically mixt   One moment of the mightiest, and again   On little objects with like firmness fixt,   Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,320   Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;   For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st   Even now to re-­assume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! XXXVII.            

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!325 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert330



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  A god unto thyself; nor less the same   To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem’d thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert. XXXVIII.   Oh, more or less than man—­in high or low,   Battling with nations, flying from the field;335   Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now   More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield;   An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,   But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,   However deeply in men’s spirits skill’d,340   Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX.   Yet well thy soul hath brook’d the turning tide   With that untaught innate philosophy,   Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,345   Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.   When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,   To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled   With a sedate and all-­enduring eye;—   When Fortune fled her spoil’d and favourite child,350 He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. XL.   Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them   Ambition steel’d thee on too far to show   That just habitual scorn which could contemn   Men and their thoughts; ’twas wise to feel, not so355   To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,   And spurn the instruments thou wert to use   Till they were turn’d unto thine overthrow:   ’Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.360 XLI.   If, like a tower upon a headland rock,   Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,

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lord byron   Such scorn of man had help’d to brave the shock;   But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,   Their admiration thy best weapon shone;365   The part of Philip’s son was thine, not then   (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)   Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.8 XLII.   But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,370  And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire   And motion of the soul which will not dwell   In its own narrow being, but aspire   Beyond the fitting medium of desire;   And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,375   Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire   Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. XLIII.   This makes the madmen who have made men mad   By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings,380   Founders of sects and systems, to whom add   Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things   Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs,   And are themselves the fools to those they fool;   Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings385   Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: XLIV.   Their breath is agitation, and their life   A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,   And yet so nurs’d and bigotted to strife,390   That should their days, surviving perils past,   Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast   With sorrow and supineness, and so die;   Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste   With its own flickering, or a sword laid by395 Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

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XLV.   He who ascends to mountain-­tops, shall find   The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;   He who surpasses or subdues mankind,   Must look down on the hate of those below.400   Though high above the sun of glory glow,   And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,   Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow   Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.405 XLVI.   Away with these! true Wisdom’s world will be   Within its own creation, or in thine,   Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,   Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?   There Harold gazes on a work divine,410   A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,   Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine,   And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. XLVII.   And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,415   Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,   All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,   Or holding dark communion with the cloud.   There was a day when they were young and proud,   Banners on high, and battles pass’d below;420   But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,   And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. XLVIII.            

Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state425 Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have9

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lord byron   But History’s purchased page to call them great?430   A wider space, an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. XLIX.   In their baronial feuds and single fields,   What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!   And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,435   With emblems well devised by amorous pride,   Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide;   But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on   Keen contest and destruction near allied,   And many a tower for some fair mischief won,440 Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run. L.   But Thou, exulting and abounding river!   Making thy waves a blessing as they flow   Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever   Could man but leave thy bright creation so,445   Nor its fair promise from the surface mow   With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see   Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know   Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me Even now what wants thy stream?—that it should Lethe be.450 LI.   A thousand battles have assail’d thy banks,   But these and half their fame have pass’d away,   And Slaughter heap’d on high his weltering ranks;   Their very graves are gone, and what are they?   Thy tide wash’d down the blood of yesterday,455   And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream   Glass’d with its dancing light the sunny ray;   But o’er the blackened memory’s blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. LII.        

Thus Harold inly said, and pass’d along,460 Yet not insensibly to all which here Awoke the jocund birds to early song In glens which might have made even exile dear:



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  Though on his brow were graven lines austere,   And tranquil sternness which had ta’en the place465   Of feelings fierier far but less severe,   Joy was not always absent from his face, But o’er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. LIII.   Nor was all love shut from him, though his days   Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.470   It is in vain that we would coldly gaze   On such as smile upon us; the heart must   Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust   Hath wean’d it from all worldlings: thus he felt,   For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust475   In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. LIV.   And he had learn’d to love,—I know not why,   For this in such as him seems strange of mood,—   The helpless looks of blooming infancy,480   Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,   To change like this, a mind so far imbued   With scorn of man, it little boots to know;   But thus it was; and though in solitude   Small power the nipp’d affections have to grow,485 In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow. LV.   And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,   Which unto his was bound by stronger ties   Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,   That love was pure, and, far above disguise,490   Had stood the test of mortal enmities   Still undivided, and cemented more   By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;   But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!495 1.   The castled crag of Drachenfels10   Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine,

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lord byron                

Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees,500 And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me!505 2.

                   

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o’er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of grey,510 And many a rock which steeply lours, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o’er this vale of vintage-­bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!515 3.

                   

I send the lilies given to me; Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must withered be, But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherish’d them as dear,520 Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold’st them drooping nigh, And knowst them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!525 4.

               

The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound530 Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear,

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  Could thy dear eyes in following mine   Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!535 LVI.   By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,   There is a small and simple pyramid,   Crowning the summit of the verdant mound;   Beneath its base are heroes’ ashes hid,   Our enemy’s,—but let not that forbid540   Honour to Marceau! o’er whose early tomb   Tears, big tears, gush’d from the rough soldier’s lid,   Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. LVII.   Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,—545   His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;   And fitly may the stranger lingering here   Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose;   For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those,   The few in number, who had not o’erstept550   The charter to chastise which she bestows   On such as wield her weapons; he had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.11 LVIII.   Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall12   Black with the miner’s blast, upon her height555   Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball   Rebounding idly on her strength did light;   A tower of victory! from whence the flight   Of baffled foes was watch’d along the plain:   But Peace destroy’d what War could never blight,560   And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer’s rain— On which the iron shower for years had pour’d in vain. LIX.          

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way! Thine is a scene alike where souls united565 Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey

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lord byron   On self-­condemning bosoms, it were here,   Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay,   Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,570 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. LX.   Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!   There can be no farewell to scene like thine;   The mind is coloured by thy every hue;   And if reluctantly the eyes resign575   Their cherish’d gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!   ’Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise;   More mighty spots may rise—­more glaring shine,   But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft,—the glories of old days,580 LXI.   The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom   Of coming ripeness, the white city’s sheen,   The rolling stream, the precipice’s gloom,   The forest’s growth, and Gothic walls between,   The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been585   In mockery of man’s art; and these withal   A race of faces happy as the scene,   Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o’er thy banks, though Empires near them fall. LXII.   But these recede. Above me are the Alps,590   The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls   Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,   And throned Eternity in icy halls   Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls   The avalanche—­the thunderbolt of snow!595   All that expands the spirit, yet appals,   Gather around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. LXIII.   But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,   There is a spot should not be pass’d in vain,—600



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  Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man   May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,   Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain;   Here Burgundy bequeath’d his tombless host,   A bony heap, through ages to remain,605   Themselves their monument;—the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam’d, and shriek’d each wandering ghost.13 LXIV.   While Waterloo with Cannæ’s carnage vies,   Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;   They were true Glory’s stainless victories,610   Won by the unambitious heart and hand   Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,   All unbought champions in no princely cause   Of vice-­entail’d Corruption; they no land   Doom’d to bewail the blasphemy of laws615 Making kings’ rights divine, by some Draconic clause. LXV.   By a lone wall a lonelier column rears   A grey and grief-­worn aspect of old days,   ’Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,   And looks as with the wild-­bewildered gaze620   Of one to stone converted by amaze,   Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands   Making a marvel that it not decays,   When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell’d Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.14625 LXVI.   And there—­oh! sweet and sacred be the name!—   Julia—­the daughter, the devoted—­g ave   Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim   Nearest to Heaven’s, broke o’er a father’s grave.   Justice is sworn ’gainst tears, and hers would crave630   The life she lived in; but the judge was just,   And then she died on him she could not save.   Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.15

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lord byron LXVII.   But these are deeds which should not pass away,635   And names that must not wither, though the earth   Forgets her empires with a just decay,   The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;   The high, the mountain-­majesty of worth   Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,640   And from its immortality look forth   In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow,16 Imperishably pure beyond all things below. LXVIII.   Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,   The mirror where the stars and mountains view645   The stillness of their aspect in each trace   Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:   There is too much of man here, to look through   With a fit mind the might which I behold;   But soon in me shall Loneliness renew650   Thoughts hid, but not less cherish’d than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penn’d me in their fold. LXIX.   To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;   All are not fit with them to stir and toil,   Nor is it discontent to keep the mind655   Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil   In the hot throng, where we become the spoil   Of our infection, till too late and long   We may deplore and struggle with the coil,   In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong660 ’Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX.            

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night;665 The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea,



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  The boldest steer but where their ports invite,   But there are wanderers o’er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne’er shall be.670 LXXI.   Is it not better, then, to be alone,   And love Earth only for its earthly sake?   By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,[17]   Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,   Which feeds it as a mother who doth make675   A fair but froward infant her own care,   Kissing its cries away as these awake;—   Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom’d to inflict or bear? LXXII.   I live not in myself, but I become680   Portion of that around me; and to me,   High mountains are a feeling, but the hum   Of human cities torture: I can see   Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be   A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,685   Class’d among creatures, when the soul can flee,   And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXIII.   And thus I am absorb’d, and this is life:   I look upon the peopled desart past,690   As on a place of agony and strife,   Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,   To act and suffer, but remount at last   With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring,   Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast695   Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-­cold bonds which round our being cling. LXXIV.   And when, at length, the mind shall be all free   From what it hates in this degraded form,

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lord byron   Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be700   Existent happier in the fly and worm,—   When elements to elements conform,   And dust is as it should be, shall I not   Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?   The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?705 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? LXXV.   Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part   Of me and of my soul, as I of them?   Is not the love of these deep in my heart   With a pure passion? should I not contemn710   All objects, if compared with these? and stem   A tide of suffering, rather than forgo   Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm   Of those whose eyes are only turn’d below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?715 LXXVI.   But this is not my theme; and I return   To that which is immediate, and require   Those who find contemplation in the urn,   To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,   A native of the land where I respire720   The clear air for awhile—­a passing guest,   Where he became a being,—whose desire   Was to be glorious; ’twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. LXXVII.   Here the self-­torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,725   The apostle of affliction, he who threw   Enchantment over passion, and from woe   Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew   The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew   How to make madness beautiful, and cast730   O’er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue   Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

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LXXVIII.   His love was passion’s essence—­as a tree   On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame735   Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be   Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.   But his was not the love of living dame,   Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,   But of ideal beauty, which became740   In him existence, and o’erflowing teems Along his burning page, distempered though it seems. LXXIX.   This breathed itself to life in Júlie, this   Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet;   This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss745   Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,   From hers, who but with friendship his would meet;   But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast   Flash’d the thrill’d spirit’s love-­devouring heat;   In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,750 Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.18 LXXX.   His life was one long war with self-­sought foes,   Or friends by him self-­banish’d; for his mind   Had grown Suspicion’s sanctuary, and chose   For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,755   ’Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.   But he was phrenzied,—wherefore, who may know?   Since cause might be which skill could never find;   But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.760 LXXXI.            

For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France? which lay before765 Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years?

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lord byron   Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,   Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o’ergrown fears? LXXXII.   They made themselves a fearful monument!770   The wreck of old opinions—­things which grew   Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,   And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.   But good with ill they also overthrew,   Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild775   Upon the same foundation, and renew   Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-­fill’d, As heretofore, because ambition was self-­will’d. LXXXIII.   But this will not endure, nor be endured!   Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.780   They might have used it better, but, allured   By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt   On one another; pity ceased to melt   With her once natural charities. But they,   Who in oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt,785   They were not eagles, nourish’d with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? LXXXIV.   What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?   The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear   That which disfigures it; and they who war790   With their own hopes, and have been vanquish’d, bear   Silence, but not submission: in his lair   Fix’d Passion holds his breath, until the hour   Which shall atone for years; none need despair:   It came, it cometh, and will come,—the power795 To punish or forgive—­in one we shall be slower. LXXXV.        

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.800



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  This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing   To waft me from distraction; once I loved   Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring   Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.805 LXXXVI.   It is the hush of night, and all between   Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,   Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen,   Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appear   Precipitously steep; and drawing near,810   There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,   Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear   Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-­night carol more; LXXXVII.   He is an evening reveller, who makes815   His life an infancy, and sings his fill;   At intervals, some bird from out the brakes,   Starts into voice a moment, then is still.   There seems a floating whisper on the hill,   But that is fancy, for the starlight dews820   All silently their tears of love instil,   Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues. LXXXVIII.   Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!   If in your bright leaves we would read the fate825   Of men and empires,—’tis to be forgiven,   That in our aspirations to be great,   Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,   And claim a kindred with you; for ye are   A beauty and a mystery, and create830   In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. LXXXIX.   All heaven and earth are still—­though not in sleep,   But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;

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lord byron   And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:—835   All heaven and earth are still: From the high host   Of stars, to the lull’d lake and mountain-­coast,   All is concentred in a life intense,   Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,   But hath a part of being, and a sense840 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. XC.   Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt   In solitude, where we are least alone;   A truth, which through our being then doth melt   And purifies from self: it is a tone,845   The soul and source of music, which makes known   Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,   Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,   Binding all things with beauty;—’twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.850 XCI.   Nor vainly did the early Persian make   His altar the high places and the peak   Of earth-­o’ergazing mountains, and thus take19   A fit and unwall’d temple, there to seek   The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,855   Uprear’d of human hands. Come, and compare   Columns and idol-­dwellings, Goth or Greek,   With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! XCII.   The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night,20860   And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,   Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light   Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,   From peak to peak, the rattling crags among   Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,865   But every mountain now hath found a tongue,   And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

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XCIII.   And this is in the night:—Most glorious night!   Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be870   A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—   A portion of the tempest and of thee!   How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,   And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!   And now again ’tis black,—and now, the glee875   Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-­mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth. XCIV.   Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between   Heights which appear as lovers who have parted   In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,880   That they can meet no more, though broken-­hearted;   Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,   Love was the very root of the fond rage   Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed:—   Itself expired, but leaving them an age885 Of years all winters,—war within themselves to wage. XCV.   Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,   The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand:   For here, not one, but many, make their play,   And fling their thunder-­bolts from hand to hand,890   Flashing and cast around: of all the band,   The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d   His lightnings,—as if he did understand,   That in such gaps as desolation work’d, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.895 XCVI.            

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll900 Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest.

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lord byron   But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?   Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? XCVII.   Could I embody and unbosom now905   That which is most within me,—could I wreak   My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw   Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,   All that I would have sought, and all I seek,   Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe—­into one word,910   And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;   But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII.   The morn is up again, the dewy morn,   With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,915   Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,   And living as if earth contain’d no tomb,—   And glowing into day: we may resume   The march of our existence: and thus I,   Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room920   And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. XCIX.   Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-­place of deep Love!   Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;   Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above925   The very Glaciers have his colours caught,   And sun-­set into rose-­hues sees them wrought21   By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,   The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought   In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,930 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. C.        

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,—so shown 935



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  Not on those summits solely, nor alone   In the still cave and forest; o’er the flower   His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,   His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 940 CI.   All things are here of him; from the black pines,   Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar   Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines   Which slope his green path downward to the shore,   Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore, 945   Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,   The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,   But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude, CII.   A populous solitude of bees and birds, 950   And fairy-­form’d and many-­coloured things,   Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,   And innocently open their glad wings,   Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,   And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 955   Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings   The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. CIII.   He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,   And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 960   That tender mystery, will love the more,   For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s woes,   And the world’s waste, have driven him far from those,   For ’tis his nature to advance or die;   He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 965   Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! CIV.   ’Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,   Peopling it with affections; but he found

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lord byron   It was the scene which passion must allot 970   To the mind’s purified beings; ’twas the ground   Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound,   And hallowed it with loveliness: ’tis lone,   And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,   And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone 975 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear’d a throne. CV.   Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes22   Of names which unto you bequeath’d a name;   Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,   A path to perpetuity of fame: 980   They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim,   Was, Titan-­like, on daring doubts to pile   Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame   Of Heaven, again assail’d, if Heaven the while On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile. 985 CVI.   The one was fire and fickleness, a child,   Most mutable in wishes, but in mind,   A wit as various,—gay, grave, sage, or wild,—   Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;   He multiplied himself among mankind, 990   The Proteus of their talents: But his own   Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the wind,   Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,— Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. CVII.   The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 995   And hiving wisdom with each studious year,   In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,   And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,   Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;   The lord of irony,—that master-­spell, 1000   Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,   And doom’d him to the zealot’s ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

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CVIII.   Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by them,   If merited, the penalty is paid; 1005   It is not ours to judge,—far less condemn;   The hour must come when such things shall be made   Known unto all,—or hope and dread allay’d   By slumber, on one pillow,—in the dust,   Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d; 1010   And when it shall revive, as is our trust, ’Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX.   But let me quit man’s works, again to read   His Maker’s, spread around me, and suspend   This page, which from my reveries I feed, 1015   Until it seems prolonging without end.   The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,   And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er   May be permitted, as my steps I bend   To their most great and growing region, where 1020 The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX.   Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,   Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,   Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,   To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 1025   Who glorify thy consecrated pages;   Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,   The fount at which the panting mind assuages   Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill. 1030 CXI.            

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices:—to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be,—and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, 1035 With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,—

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lord byron   Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,—   Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul:—No matter,—it is taught. CXII.   And for these words, thus woven into song, 1040   It may be that they are a harmless wile,—   The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,   Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile   My breast, or that of others, for a while.   Fame is the thirst of youth,—but I am not 1045   So young as to regard men’s frown or smile,   As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone,—remembered or forgot. CXIII.   I have not loved the world, nor the world me;   I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bow’d 1050   To it’s idolatries a patient knee,—   Nor coin’d my cheek to smiles,—nor cried aloud   In worship of an echo; in the crowd   They could not deem me one of such; I stood   Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 1055   Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.23 CXIV.   I have not loved the world, nor the world me,—   But let us part fair foes; I do believe,   Though I have found them not, that there may be 1060   Words which are things,—hopes which will not deceive,   And virtues which are merciful, nor weave   Snares for the failing: I would also deem   O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;24   That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— 1065 That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV.   My daughter! with thy name this song begun—   My daughter! with thy name this much shall end—



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  I see thee not,—I hear thee not,—but none   Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend 1070   To whom the shadows of far years extend:   Albeit my brow thou never should’st behold,   My voice shall with thy future visions blend,   And reach into thy heart,—when mine is cold,— A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould. 1075 CXVI.   To aid thy mind’s developement,—to watch   Thy dawn of little joys,—to sit and see   Almost thy very growth,—to view thee catch   Knowledge of objects,—wonders yet to thee!   To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 1080   And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss,—   This, it should seem, was not reserv’d for me;   Yet this was in my nature:—as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. CXVII.   Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 1085   I know that thou wilt love me; though my name   Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught   With desolation,—and a broken claim:   Though the grave closed between us,—’twere the same,   I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain 1090   My blood from out thy being, were an aim,   And an attainment,—all would be in vain,— Still thou would’st love me, still that more than life retain. CXVIII.   The child of love,—though born in bitterness,   And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 1095   These were the elements,—and thine no less.   As yet such are around thee,—but thy fire   Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.   Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the sea,   And from the mountains where I now respire, 1100   Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou might’st have been to me!

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BYRON’S NOTES TO CANTO III Note 1, [l. 158]. In “pride of place” here last the eagle flew. “Pride of place” is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight.—See Macbeth, &c. “A Falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed.” Note 2, [l. 180]. Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant lord. See the famous Song on Harmodius and Aristogeiton.—The best English translation is in Bland’s Anthology, by Mr Denman. “With myrtle my sword will I wreathe,” &c. Note 3, [l. 188]. And all went merry as a marriage-­bell. On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was given in Brussels. Note 4, [l. 234] And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears. Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the “gentle Lochiel” of the “forty-­five.” Note 5, [l. 235]. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the “forest of Ardennes,” famous in Boiardo’s Orlando, and immortal in Shakespeare’s “As you like it.” It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by the Germans against the Roman encroachments.—I have ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter. Note 6, [l. 270]. I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring. My guide from Mont St Jean over the field seemed intelligent and ac­cur­ate. The place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) which stand a few yards from each other at a pathway’s side.—Beneath these he died and was buried. The body has since been removed to England. A small hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced; the plough has been upon it, and the rain is. After pointing out the different spots where Picton and other gallant men had ­perished; the guide said, “here Major Howard lay; I was near him when wounded.”



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I told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more anxious to point out the particular spot and circumstances. The place is one of the most marked in the field from the peculiarity of the two trees abovementioned. I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great action, though this may be mere imagination: I have viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon; and the field around Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except perhaps the last mentioned. Note 7, [l. 303]. Like to the apples on the Dead Sea’s shore The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and within ashes.—Vide Tacitus, Histor. 1. 5. 7. Note 8, [l. 369]. For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. The great error of Napoleon, “if we have writ our annals true,” was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of all community of feeling for or with them; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as individuals: and the single expression which he is said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, “This is pleasanter than Moscow,” would probably alienate more favour from his cause than the destruction and reverses which led to the remark. Note 9, [l. 429]. What want these outlaws conquerors should have “What wants that knave That a king should have?” was King James’s question on meeting Johnny Armstrong and his followers in full accoutrements.—See the Ballad. Note 10, ll. [496–535]. The castled crag of Drachenfels. The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest summit of “the Seven Mountains,” over the Rhine banks; it is in ruins, and connected with some singular traditions: it is the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river; on this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another called the Jew’s castle, and a large cross commemorative of the murder of a chief by his brother: the number of castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, and their situations remarkably beautiful.

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lord byron Note 11, [l. 553]. The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.

The monument of the young and lamented General Marceau (killed by a rifle-­ball at Alterkirchen on the last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still remains as described. The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, and not required: his name was enough; France adored, and her enemies admired; both wept over him.—His funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from both armies. In the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of the word, but though he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there; his death was attended by suspicions of poison. A separate monument (not over his body, which is buried by Marceau’s) is raised for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and style are different from that of Marceau’s, and the inscription more simple and pleasing. “The Army of the Sambre and Meuse to its Commander in Chief Hoche.” This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed among the first of France’s earlier generals before Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs.—He was the destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. Note 12, [l. 554]. Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall. Ehrenbreitstein, i.e. “the broad Stone of Honour,” one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben.—It had been and could only be reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by comparison, but the situ­ation is commanding. General Marceau besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a room where I was shown a window at which he is said to have been standing observing the progress of the siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. Note 13, [l. 607]. Unsepulchred they roam’d, and shriek’d each wandering ghost. The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors’ less successful invasions. A few still remain notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgundians for ages, (all who passed that way removing a bone to their own country) and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postillions, who carried them off to sell for knife-­handles, a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much as may have made the quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer by might have perverted them to worse uses than the careful preservation which I intend for them.



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Note 14, [l. 625]. Levell’d Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands. Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. Note 15, [l. 634]. And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus Cæcina. Her epitaph was discovered many years ago;—it is thus— Julia Alpinula Hic jaceo Infelicis patris, infelix proles Deae Aventiae Sacerdos; Exorare patris necem non potui Male mori in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos XXIII I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on such intoxication. Note 16, [l. 642]. In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow. This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 1816) which even at this distance dazzles mine. (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat; the distance of these mountains from their mirror is 60 miles. Note 17, [l. 673]. By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. Note 18, [l. 751]. Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. This refers to the account in his “Confessions” of his passion for the Comtesse d’Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert) and his long walk every morning for the sake of the single kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaintance.— Rousseau’s description of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most passionate, yet not impure description and expression of love that ever kindled into

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words; which after all must be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the delineation: a painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. Note 19, [l. 853]. Of earth-­o’ergazing mountains, and thus take. It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence,—the most effectual and splendid specimens were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived from the difference between what we read of the emotions then and there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the tumuli, or by the springs with mount Ida above, and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you: and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library—­this I know. Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvas nor to question) I should venture to ascribe it to the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and extempor­ aneous effusions of its teachers. The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers where-­ever they may be at the stated hours—­of course frequently in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required); the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication; nothing can disturb them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, made a far greater impression than any general rite which was ever performed in places of worship, of which I have seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun: including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their belief and its rites: some of these I had a distant view of at Patras, and from what I could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agreeable to a spectator. Note 20, [l. 860]. The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night. The thunder-­storms to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari several more terrible, but none more beautiful. Note 21, [l. 927]. And sun-­set into rose-­hues sees them wrought. Rousseau’s Heloise, Letter 17, part 4, note. “Ces montagnes sont si hautes qu’une demi-­heure après le soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de ses rayons;



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dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une belle couleur de rose qu’on apperçoit de fort loin.” This applies more particularly to the heights over Meillerie. “J’allai à Vévay loger à la Clef, et pendant deux jours que j’y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m’a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m’y a fait établir enfin les héros de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers à ceux qui ont du goû́t et qui sont sensibles: allez à Vévay—­visitez le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-­vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n’a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire et pour un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas.” Les Confessions, livre iv. page 306. Lyons ed. 1796. In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of Geneva; and, as far as my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his “Heloise,” I can safely say, that in this there is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (with the scenes around it, Vévay, Chillon, Bôveret, St Gingo, Meillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhône), without being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with which it has been peopled. But this is not all; the feeling with which all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie is invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of its good and of its glory: it is the great principle of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less manifested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole. If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their adoption; he has shewn his sense of their beauty by the selection; but they have done that for him which no human being could do for them. I had the good fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time), to St Gingo during a lake storm, which added to the magnificence of all around, although occasionally accompanied by danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. By a coincidence which I could not regret, it was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. On gaining the shore at St Gingo, we found that the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some fine old chestnut trees on the lower part of the mountains. On the height is a seat called the Chateau de Clarens. The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods; one of these was named the “Bosquet de Julie,” and it is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of St Bernard, (to whom the land appertained), that the ground might be inclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the “local habitations” he has given to “airy nothings.” The Prior of Great St Bernard has cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard made, that “La route vaut mieux que les souvenirs.”

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lord byron Note 22, [l. 977]. Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes.

Voltaire and Gibbon. Note 23, [l. 1057]. Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued ——— —— ——— “If it be thus, For Banquo’s issue I have filed my mind.” Macbeth Note 24, [l. 1064]. O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve. It is said by Rochefoucault that “there is always something in the misfortunes of men’s best friends not displeasing to them.”

from ALPINE JOURNAL

Clarens. Septr. 18th. 1816 Yesterday September 17th. 1816—I sent out (with H[obhouse]) on an excursion of some days to the Mountains.—I shall keep a short journal of each day’s progress for my Sister Augusta—

Sept. 17th.— Rose at 5.—left Diodati about seven—­in one of the country carriages— (a Charaban)—our servants on horseback—­weather very fine—­the Lake calm and clear—­Mont Blanc—­and the Aiguille of Argentière both very distinct—­ the borders of the Lake beautiful—­ reached Lausanne before Sunset—­stopped and slept at Ouchy.—H[obhouse] went to dine with a Mr. Okeden—­I remained at our Caravansera (though invited to the house of H’s friend—­too lazy or tired—­or something else to go) and wrote a letter to Augusta—­Went to bed at nine—­sheets damp—­swore and stripped them off & flung them—­Heaven knows where—­wrapt myself up in the blankets—­ and slept like a Child of a month’s existence—­till 5 o Clock of

Septr. 18th. Called by Berger (my Courier who acts as a Valet for a day or two—­the learned Fletcher being left in charge of Chattels at Diodati) got up—­ H[obhouse] walked on before—­a mile from Lausanne—­the road overflowed by the lake—­got on horseback & rode—­till within a mile of Vevey—­the Colt young but went very well—­overtook H. & resumed the carriage which is an open one—­stopped at Vevey two hours (the second time I have visited it) walked to the Church—­view from the Churchyard superb—­within it General Ludlow (the Regicide’s) monument—­ black marble—­ long inscription—­ Latin—­but simple—particularly the latter part—in which his wife (Margaret de Thomas) records her long—her tried—and unshaken affection—­he was an Exile two and thirty years—­one of the King’s (Charles’s) judges—­a fine fellow. —I remember reading his memoirs in January 1815 (at Halnaby—) the first part of them very amusing—­the latter less so,—I little thought at the time of their perusal by me of seeing his tomb—­near him Broughton (who read King Charles’s sentence to Charles Stuart)—is buried with a queer and rather canting—­but still a Republican epitaph— —Ludlow’s house shown—­it

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retains still his inscription “Omne Solum forte patria”—Walked down to the Lake side—­servants— Carriage—­saddle horses—­all set off and left us plantés la by some mistake—­and we walked on after them towards Clarens—­ H[obhouse] ran on before and overtook them at last—­arrived the second time (1st time was by water) at Clarens—­beautiful Clarens!—went to Chillon through Scenery worthy of I know not whom—­went over the Castle of Chillon again—­on our return met an English party in a carriage—­a lady in it fast asleep!—fast asleep in the most anti-­narcotic spot in the world—­ excellent—­I remember at Chamouni—­in the very eyes of Mont Blanc—­ hearing another woman—­English also—­exclaim to her party—“did you ever see any thing more rural”—as if it was Highgate or Hampstead—­or Brompton—­or Hayes.—“Rural” quotha!—Rocks—­pines—­torrents—­ Glaciers—­Clouds—­and Summits of eternal snow far above them—­and “Rural!” I did not know the thus exclaiming fair one—­but she was a—­very good kind of woman.— —After a slight & short dinner—­we visited the Chateau de Clarens—­an Englishwoman has rented it recently—(it was not let when I saw it first) the roses are gone with their Summer—­the family out—­but the servants desired us to walk over the interior—­saw on the table of the saloon—­ Blair’s Sermons—­ and somebody else’s (I forget who’s—) sermons—­and a set of noisy children—­saw all worth seeing and then descended to the “Bosquet de Julie” &c. &c.—our Guide full of Rousseau—­whom he is eternally confounding with St. Preux—­and mixing the man and the book—­on the steps of a cottage in the village—­I saw a young paysanne—­beautiful as Julie herself—­went again as far as Chillon to revisit the little torrent from the hill behind it—­Sunset—­reflected in the lake—­have to get up at 5 tomorrow to cross the mountains on horseback—­ carriage to be sent round—­ lodged at my old Cottage—­ hospitable & comfortable—­tired with a longish ride—­on the Colt—­and the subsequent jolting of the Charaban—­and my scramble in the hot sun—­shall go to bed—­ thinking of you dearest Augusta.— —Mem.—The corporal who showed the wonders of Chillon was as drunk as Blucher—­and (to my mind) as great a man.—He was deaf also—­and thinking every one else so—­roared out the legends of the Castle so fearfully that H[obhouse] got out of humour—­ however we saw all things from the Gallows to the Dungeon (the Potence & the Cachets) and returned to Clarens with more freedom than belonged to the 15th. Century.— —At Clarens—­the only book (except the Bible) a translation of “Cecilia” (Miss Burney’s Cecilia) and the owner of the Cottage had also called her dog (a fat Pug ten years old—­and hideous as Tip) after Cecilia’s (or rather Delville’s) dog—­Fidde—

Septr. 19th. Rose at 5—ordered the carriage round.—Crossed the mountains to Montbovon on horseback—­and on Mules—­and by dint of scrambling on foot also,—the



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whole route beautiful as a Dream and now to me almost as indistinct,—I am so tired—­ for though healthy I have not the strength I possessed but a few years ago.—At Mont Davant we breakfasted—­afterwards on a steep ascent—­dismounted—­tumbled down & cut a finger open—­the baggage also got loose and fell down a ravine, till stopped by a large tree—­swore—­recovered baggage—­horse tired & dropping—­mounted Mule—­at the approach of the summit of Dent Jamant—­dismounted again with H. & all the party.—Arrived at a lake in the very nipple of the bosom of the Mountain.—left our quadrupeds with a Shepherd—& ascended further—­came to some snow in patches—­upon which my forehead’s perspiration fell like rain making the same dints as in a sieve—­the chill of the wind and the snow turned me giddy—­but I scrambled on & upwards—­H. went to the highest pinnacle—­I did not—­but paused within a few yards (at an opening of the Cliff)—in coming down the Guide tumbled three times—­I fell a laughing & tumbled too—­the descent luckily soft though steep & slippery—­H. also fell—­but nobody hurt. The whole of the Mountain superb—­the shepherd on a very steep & high cliff playing upon his pipe—­very different from Arcadia—(where I saw the pastors with a long Musquet instead of a Crook—­and pistols in their Girdles)—our Swiss Shepherd’s pipe was sweet—& his tune agreeable—­saw a cow strayed—­told that they often break their necks on & over the crags—­descended to Montbovon—­pretty scraggy village with a wild river—­and a wooden bridge.—H.  went to fish—­caught one—­our carriage not come—­our horses—­mules &c. knocked up—­ourselves fatigued—(but so much the better—­I shall sleep). The view from the highest point of today’s journey comprized on one side the greatest part of Lake Leman—­on the other—­the valleys & mountains of the Canton Fribourg—­and an immense plain with the lakes of Neufchatel & Morat—­and all which the borders of these and of the Lake of Geneva inherit—­we had both sides of the Jura before us in one point of view, with Alps in plenty.—In passing a ravine—­ the Guide recommended strenuously a quickening of pace—­as the stones fall with great rapidity & occasional damage—­the advice is excellent—­but like most good advice impracticable—­the road being so rough in this precise point that ­neither mules nor mankind—­nor horses—­can make any violent progress.—Passed without any fractures or menace thereof.—The music of the Cows’ bells (for their wealth like the Patriarchs is cattle) in the pastures (which reach to a height far above any mountains in Britain—) and the Shepherds’ shouting to us from crag to crag & playing on their reeds where the steeps appeared almost inaccessible, with the surrounding scenery—­realized all that I have ever heard or imagined of a pastoral existence—­much more so than Greece or Asia Minor—­for there we are a little too much of the sabre & musquet order—­and if there is a Crook in one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the other—­but this was pure and unmixed—­solitary—­savage and patriarchal—­the effect I cannot describe—­as we went they played the “Ranz des Vaches” and other airs by way of farewell.—I have lately repeopled my mind with Nature. [. . .]

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Septr. 22d. Left Thoun in a boat which carried us the length of the lake in three hours—­ the lake small—­but the banks fine—­rocks down to the water’s edge.—Landed at Neuhause—­passed Interlachen— entered upon a range of scenes beyond all description—­or previous conception.—Passed a rock—­inscription—2 brothers—­one murdered the other—­just the place fit for it.—After a variety of windings came to an enormous rock.—Girl with fruit—­very pretty—­blue eyes—­good teeth—­very fair—­long but good features—­reminded me of Fy. bought some of her pears—­and patted her upon the cheek—­the expression of her face very mild—­but good—­and not at all coquettish.—Arrived at the foot of the mountain (the Yung-­frau—­i.e. the Maiden) Glaciers—­torrents—­ one of these torrents nine hundred feet in height of visible descent—­lodge at the Curate’s—­ set out to see the Valley—­ heard an Avalanche fall—­ like thunder—­saw Glacier—­enormous—­Storm came on—­thunder—­lightning—­ hail—­all in perfection—­and beautiful—­I was on horseback—­Guide wanted to carry my cane—­I was going to give it him when I recollected that it was a Swordstick and I thought that the lightning might be attracted towards him—­kept it myself—­a good deal encumbered with it & my cloak—­as it was too heavy for a whip—­and the horse was stupid—& stood still every other peal. Got in—­not very wet—­the Cloak being staunch—­H.  wet through—­ H. took refuge in cottage—­sent man—­umbrella—& cloak (from the Curate’s when I arrived—) after him.—Swiss Curate’s house—­very good indeed—­ much better than most English Vicarages—­it is immediately op­pos­ite the torrent I spoke of—­the torrent is in shape curving over the rock—­like the tail of a white horse streaming in the wind—­such as it might be conceived would be that of the “pale horse” on which Death is mounted in the Apocalypse.—It is neither mist nor water but a something between both—­its immense height (nine hundred feet) gives it a wave—­a curve—­a spreading here— a condensation there—­wonderful—& indescribable.—I think upon the whole— that this day has been better than any of this present excursion.—

Septr. 23d. Before ascending the mountain—­went to the torrent (7 in the morning) again—­ the Sun upon it, forming a rainbow of the lower part of all colours—­but principally purple and gold—­the bow moving as you move—­I never saw anything like this—­it is only in the Sunshine.— —Ascended the Wengren [sic] Mountain.— —at noon reached a valley near the summit—­left the horses—­ took off my coat & went to the summit—7000 feet (English feet) above the level of the sea—­and about 5000 above the valley we left in the morning—­on one side our view comprised the Yung frau with all her glaciers—­then the Dent d’Argent—­ shining like truth—­then the little Giant (the Kleiner Eigher) & the great Giant



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(the Grosser Eigher) and last not least—­the Wetterhorn.—The height of the Yung frau is 13000 feet above the sea—­and 11000 above the valley—­she is the highest of this range,—heard the Avalanches falling every five minutes nearly—­as if God was pelting the Devil down from Heaven with snow balls—­from where we stood on the Wengren [sic] Alp—­we had all these in view on one side—­on the other the clouds rose from the opposite valley curling up perpendicular precipices—­like the foam of the Ocean of Hell during a Springtide—­it was white & sulphery—­ and immeasurably deep in appearance—­ the side we ascended was (of course) not of so precipitous a nature—­but on arriving at the summit we looked down the other side upon a boiling sea of cloud—­dashing against the crags on which we stood (these crags on one side quite perpendicular);—staid a quarter of an hour—­began to descend—­quite clear from cloud on that side of the mountain—­in passing the masses of snow—­I made a snowball & pelted H. with it—­got down to our horses again—­eat something— remounted—­ heard the Avalanches still—­came to a morass—­H.  dismounted—­H.  got well over—­I tried to pass my horse over—­the horse sunk up [to] the chin—& of course he & I were in the mud together—­bemired all over—­but not hurt—­ laughed & rode on.—Arrived at the Grindenwald—­dined—­mounted again & rode to the higher Glacier—­twilight—­but distinct—­very fine Glacier—­like a frozen hurricane—­Starlight—­beautiful—­but a devil of a path—­never mind—­ got safe in—­a little lightning—­but the whole of the day as fine in point of weather—­as the day on which Paradise was made.—Passed whole woods of withered pines—­all withered—­trunks stripped & barkless—­branches lifeless—­done by a single winter—­their appearance reminded me of me & my family.—

Septr. 24th. Set out at seven—­ up at five—­ passed the black Glacier—­ the mountain Wetterhorn on the right—­crossed the Scheideck mountain—­came to the Rose Glacier—­said to be the largest & finest in Switzerland.—I think the Bossons Glacier at Chamouni—­ as fine—­ H.  does not—­ came to the Reichenback waterfall—­two hundred feet high—­halted to rest the horses—­ arrived in the valley of Oberhasli—­rain came on—­drenched a little—­only 4 hours rain however in 8 days—­came to Lake of Brientz—­then to town of Brientz—­changed—­H.  hurt his head against door.—In the evening four Swiss Peasant Girls of Oberhasli came & sang the airs of their country—­two of the voices beautiful—­the tunes also—­they sing too that Tyrolese air & song which you love—­Augusta—­because I love it—& I love because you love it—­ they are still singing—­Dearest—­you do not know how I should have liked this—­were you with me—­the airs are so wild & original & at the same time of great sweetness.— —The singing is over—­but below stairs I hear the notes of a Fiddle which bode no good to my nights rest.—The Lord help us!— I shall go down & see the dancing.—

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Septr. 25th. The whole town of Brientz were apparently gathered together in the rooms below—­pretty music—& excellent Waltzing—­none but peasants—­the dan­ cing much better than in England—­the English can’t Waltz—­never could—­ nor ever will.—One man with his pipe in his mouth—­but danced as well as the others—­some other dances in pairs—­and in fours—­and very good.— — I went to bed but the revelry continued below late & early.—Brientz but a village.— —Rose early.—Embarked on the Lake of Brientz.—Rowed by women in a long boat—­one very young & very pretty—­seated myself by her—& began to row also—­presently we put to shore & another woman jumped in—­ it seems it is the custom here for the boats to be manned by women—­for of five men & three women in our bark—­all the women took an oar—­and but one man.— —Got to Interlachen in three hours—­pretty Lake—­not so large as that of Thoun.—Dined at Interlachen—­Girl gave me some flowers—& made me a speech in German—­of which I know nothing—­I do not know whether the speech was pretty but as the woman was—­I hope so—­Saw another—­very pretty too—­and tall which I prefer—­I hate short women—­for more reasons than one.—Reembarked on the lake of Thoun—­fell asleep part of the way—­ sent our horses round—­found people on the shore blowing up a rock with gunpowder—­they blew it up near our boat—­only telling us a mi­nute before—­ mere stupidity—­but they might have broke our noddles.—Got to Thoun in the Evening—­the weather has been tolerable the whole day—­but as the wild part of our tour is finished, it don’t matter to us—­in all the desirable part—­we have been most lucky in warmth & clearness of Atmosphere—­for which “Praise we the Lord.”— —

Septr. 26th. Being out of the mountains my journal must be as flat as my journey.— — From Thoun to Bern good road—­hedges—­villages—­industry—­prosperity—­ and all sorts of tokens of insipid civilization.— —From Bern to Fribourg.—Different Canton—­Catholics—­passed a field of Battle—­Swiss beat the French—­in one of the late wars against the French Republic. Bought a dog—­a very ugly dog—­but “tres mechant”. this was his great recommendation in the owner’s eyes & mine—­for I mean him to watch the carriage—­he hath no tail—& is called “Mutz”—which signifies “Short-­tail”—he is apparently of the Shepherd dog genus!—The greater part of this tour has been on horseback—­on foot—­and on mule;—the Filly (which is one of two young horses I bought of the Baron de Vincy) carried me very well—­she is young and as quiet as anything of her sex can be—­very goodtempered—­and perpetually neighing—­when she wants any thing—­which is every five mi­nutes—­ I have called her Biche—­because her manners are not unlike a little dog’s—­ but she is a very tame—­pretty childish quadruped.—



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Sepr. 28th. [27th.] Saw the tree planted in honour of the battle of Morat—340 years old—­a good deal decayed.—Left Fribourg—­but first saw the Cathedral—­high tower—­ overtook the baggage of the Nuns of La Trappe who are removing to Normandy from their late abode in the Canton of Fribourg—­afterwards a coach with a quantity of Nuns in it—­Nuns old—­proceeded along the banks of the Lake of Neufchatel—­very pleasing & soft—­but not so mountainous—­at least the Jura not appearing so—­after the Bernese Alps—­reached Yverdun in the dusk—­a long line of large trees on the border of the lake—­fine & sombre—­the Auberge nearly full—­with a German Princess & suite—­got rooms—­we hope to reach Diodati the day after tomorrow—­and I wish for a letter from you my own dearest Sis—­May your sleep be soft and your dreams of me.—I am going to bed—­good night.—

Septr. 29th. [28th.] Passed through a fine & flourishing country—­but not mountainous—­in the evening reached Aubonne (the entrance & bridge something like that of Durham) which commands by far the fairest view of the Lake of Geneva—­ twilight—­the Moon on the Lake—­a grove on the height—­and of very noble trees.—Here Tavernier (the Eastern traveller) bought (or built) the Chateau because the site resembled and equalled that of Erivan (a frontier city of Persia) here he finished his voyages—­and I this little excursion—­for I am within a few hours of Diodati—& have little more to see—& no more to say.—In the weather for this tour (of 13 days) I have been very fortunate—­ fortunate in a companion (Mr. H[obhous]e) fortunate in our prospects—­and exempt from even the little petty accidents & delays which often render journeys in a less wild country—­disappointing.—I was disposed to be pleased—­I am a lover of Nature—­and an Admirer of beauty—­I can bear fatigue—& welcome privation—­and have seen some of the noblest views in the world.—But in all this—­the recollection of bitterness—& more especially of recent & more home desolation—­ ­ which must accompany me through life—­have preyed upon me here—­and neither the music of the Shepherd—­ the crashing of the Avalanche—­ nor the torrent—­ the mountain—­the Glacier—­the Forest—­nor the Cloud—­have for one moment—­lightened the weight upon my heart—­nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity in the majesty & the power and the Glory—­around—­ above—& beneath me.—I am past reproaches—­and there is a time for all things—­I am past the wish of vengeance—­and I know of none like for what I have suffered—­but the hour will come—­when what I feel must be felt—& the— —but enough.— —To you—­ dearest Augusta—­ I send—­ and for you—­I have kept this record of what I have seen & felt.—Love me as you are beloved by me.— —

from The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816)

Figure 6  Title page, The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1816). The Carl  H.  Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.



The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816) 257

Stanzas to —— I. Though the day of my destiny’s over,   And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover   The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 5   It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted   It never hath found but in thee. II. Then when nature around me is smiling   The last smile which answers to mine, 10 I do not believe it beguiling   Because it reminds me of thine; And when winds are at war with the ocean,   As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion 15   It is that they bear me from thee. III. Though the rock of my last hope is shiver’d,   And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver’d   To pain—­it shall not be its slave. 20 There is many a pang to pursue me:   They may crush, but they shall not contemn— They may torture, but shall not subdue me—   ’Tis of thee that I think—­not of them. IV. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 25   Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,   Though slander’d, thou never could’st shake,— Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,   Though parted, it was not to fly, 30

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lord byron Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,   Nor, mute, that the world might belie. V. Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,   Nor the war of the many with one— If my soul was not fitted to prize it 35   ’Twas folly not sooner to shun: And if dearly that error hath cost me,   And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me,   It could not deprive me of thee. 40 VI. From the wreck of the past, which hath perish’d,   Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that what I most cherish’d   Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, 45   In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing,   Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

Darkness I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 5 Morn came and went—­and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—­and the thrones, 10 The palaces of crowned kings—­the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other’s face; 15



The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816) 259 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-­torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain’d; Forests were set on fire—­but hour by hour They fell and faded—­and the crackling trunks 20 Extinguish’d with a crash—­and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest 25 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again 30 With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d 35 And twined themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—­they were slain for food: And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again;—a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 40 Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—­and that was death, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—­men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; 45 The meagre by the meagre were devoured, Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 50 Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress—­he died. The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two 55 Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies; they met beside The dying embers of an altar-­place

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lord byron Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they raked up, 60 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 65 Each other’s aspects—­saw, and shriek’d, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, 70 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—­a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirred within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 75 And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp’d They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon their mistress had expired before; The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 80 And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—­She was the universe.

Churchill’s Grave A Fact Literally Rendered I stood beside the grave of him who blazed The comet of a season, and I saw The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed With not the less of sorrow and of awe On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 5 With name no clearer than the names unknown, Which lay unread around it; and I ask’d The Gardener of that ground, why it might be That for this plant strangers his memory task’d, Through the thick deaths of half a century; 10 And thus he answered—“Well, I do not know Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; He died before my day of Sextonship,



The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816) 261 And I had not the digging of this grave.” And is this all? I thought,—and do we rip 15 The veil of Immortality? and crave I know not what of honour and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? So soon and so successless? As I said, The Architect of all on which we tread, 20 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton’s thought Were it not that all life must end in one, Of which we are but dreamers;—as he caught 25 As ’twere the twilight of a former Sun, Thus spoke he,—“I believe the man of whom You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, Was a most famous writer in his day, And therefore travellers step from out their way 30 To pay him honour,—and myself whate’er Your honour pleases,”—then most pleased I shook From out my pocket’s avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as ’twere Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 35 So much but inconveniently;—Ye smile, I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. You are the fools, not I—­for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a soften’d eye, 40 On that Old Sexton’s natural homily, In which there was Obscurity and Fame, The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.

The Dream I. Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their developement have breath, 5 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,

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lord byron They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, 10 And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past,—they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power— The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not—­what they will, 15 And shake us with the vision that’s gone by, The dread of vanish’d shadows—­Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind?—The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own 20 With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream’d Perchance in sleep—­for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 25 And curdles a long life into one hour. II. I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 30 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs;—the hill 35 Was crown’d with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix’d, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing—­the one on all that was beneath 40 Fair as herself—­but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young—­yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon’s verge The maid was on the eve of womanhood; 45 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth,



The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816) 263 And that was shining on him: he had look’d Upon it till it could not pass away; 50 He had no breath, no being, but in hers; She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which coloured all his objects:—he had ceased 55 To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all: upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously—­his heart 60 Unknowing of its cause of agony. But she in these fond feelings had no share: Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother—­but no more; ’twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name 65 Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-­honoured race.—It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—­and why? Time taught him a deep answer—­when she loved 70 Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover’s steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. III. A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 75 There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparisoned: Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake;—he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon 80 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean’d His bow’d head on his hands, and shook as ’twere With a convulsion—­then arose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 85 What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, The Lady of his love re-­entered there,

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lord byron She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90 She knew she was by him beloved,—she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken’d with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 95 He took her hand; a moment o’er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 100 For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass’d From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more. IV. A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 105 The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea 110 And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 115 Couched among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin’d walls that had survived the names Of those who rear’d them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten’d near a fountain; and a man 120 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber’d around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 125 V. A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with One



The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816) 265 Who did not love her better;—in her home, A thousand leagues from his,—her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 130 Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 135 What could her grief be?—she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her, was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-­repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?—she had loved him not, 140 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which prey’d Upon her mind—­a spectre of the past. VI. A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.— The Wanderer was return’d.—I saw him stand 145 Before an Altar—­with a gentle bride; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight of his Boyhood;—as he stood Even at the altar, o’er his brow there came The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 150 That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then— As in that hour—­a moment o’er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced,—and then it faded as it came, 155 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel’d around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been— But the old mansion, and the accustom’d hall, 160 And the remembered chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: 165 What business had they there at such a time?

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lord byron VII. A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 170 They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived 175 Of others’ sight, familiar were to hers. And this the world calls phrenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? 180 Which strips the distance of its phantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real! VIII. A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.— The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 185 The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass’d round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix’d In all which was served up to him, until 190 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains: with the stars 195 And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal’d 200 A marvel and a secret—­Be it so. *  Mithridates of Pontus.



The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems (1816) 267 IX. My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality—­the one 205 To end in madness—­both in misery.

Prometheus I. Titan! to whose immortal eyes   The sufferings of mortality,   Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise; What was thy pity’s recompense? 5 A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, 10   Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh   Until its voice is echoless. II. Titan! to thee the strife was given 15   Between the suffering and the will,   Which torture where they cannot kill; And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, 20 Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift eternity Was thine—­and thou hast borne it well. 25 All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back

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lord byron On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee But would not to appease him tell; 30 And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled. III. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 35 To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, 40 In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign 45 To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; 50 His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself—­an equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, 55 Which even in torture can descry Its own concentered recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.

LETTER TO AUGUSTA LEIGH

Diodati—­Geneva Sept. 8th. 1816 My dearest Augusta—­By two opportunities of private conveyance—­I have sent answers to your letter delivered by Mr. H[obhouse].— —S[crope] is on his return to England—& may probably arrive before this.—He is charged with a few packets of seals—­necklaces—­balls &c.—& I know not what—­ formed of Chrystals—­Agates—­and other stones—­all of & from Mont Blanc bought & brought by me on & from the spot—­expressly for you to divide among yourself and the children—­including also your niece Ada—for whom I selected a ball (of Granite—­a soft substance by the way—­but the only one there) wherewithall to roll & play—­when she is old enough—& mis­chiev­ous enough—­and moreover a Chrystal necklace;—­and anything else you may like to add for her—­the Love!— —The rest are for you—& the Nursery—­but particularly Georgiana—­who has sent me a very nice letter.—I hope Scrope will carry them all safely—­as he promised— —There are seals & all kinds of fooleries—­ pray—­ like them—­ for they come from a very curious place (nothing like it hardly in all I ever saw)—to say nothing of the giver.— — — — — —And so—­Lady B[yron] has been “kind to you” you tell me—“very kind”—umph—­it is as well she should be kind to some of us—­and I am glad she has the heart & the discernment to be still your friend—­you was ever so to her.—I heard the other day—­that she was very unwell—­I was shocked enough—­and sorry enough—­God knows—­but never mind;—H[obhouse] tells me however that she is not ill—­that she had been indisposed—­but is better & well to do.—this is a relief.— —As for me I am in good health—& fair—­though very unequal—­spirits—­but for all that—­she—­or rather—­the Separation—­has broken my heart—­I feel as if an Elephant had trodden on it—­I am convinced I shall never get over it—­but I try.— —I had enough before I ever knew her and more than enough—­but time & agitation had done something for me; but this last wreck has affected me very differently,— if it were acutely—­it would not signify—­but it is not that,—I breathe lead.— — — —While the storm lasted & you were all pressing & comforting me with condemnation in Piccadilly—­it was bad enough—& violent enough—­but it is worse now;—I have neither strength nor spirits—­nor inclination to carry me through anything which will clear my brain or lighten my heart.—I mean to cross the Alps at the end of this month—­and go—­God knows where—­by Dalmatia—­up to the Arnauts again—­if nothing better can be done;—I have still a world before me—­this—­or the next.— —H[obhouse] has told me all

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the strange stories in circulation of me & mine;—not true,—I have been in some danger on the lake—(near Meillerie) but nothing to speak of; and as to all these ­“mistresses”—Lord help me—­I have had but one.—Now—­ don’t scold—­but what could I do?—A foolish girl—­in spite of all I could say or do—­would come after me—­or rather went before me—­for I found her here—­and I have had all the plague possible to persuade her to go back again—­but at last she went.—Now—­dearest—­I do most truly tell thee—­that I could not help this—­that I did all I could to prevent it—& have at last put an end to it.—I am not in love—­nor have any love left for any,—but I could not exactly play the Stoic with a woman—­who had scrambled eight hundred miles to unphilosophize me—­besides I had been regaled of late with so many “two courses and a desert” (Alas!) of aversion—­that I was fain to take a little love (if pressed particularly) by way of novelty.— —And now you know all that I know of that matter—& it is over. Pray—­write—­I have heard nothing since your last—­at least a month or five weeks ago.— —I go out very little—­ except into the air—­and on journeys—­and on the water—­and to Coppet—­ where Me. de Stael has been particularly kind & friendly towards me—& (I hear) fought battles without number in my very indifferent cause.—It has (they say) made quite as much noise on this as the other side of “La Manche”—Heaven knows why—­but I seem destined to set people by the ears.— —Don’t hate me—­but believe me ever Yrs. most affectly. B

Manfred, A Dramatic Poem (1817)

Figure 7  Title page, Manfred: A Dramatic Poem. 1st edn., 3rd issue (John Murray, 1817). The Carl  H.  Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

MANFRED A dramatic poem

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

dramatis personæ. manfred. chamois hunter. abbot of st maurice. manuel. herman. witch of the alps. arimanes. nemesis. the destinies. spirits, &c. The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps—­partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains. ACT I SCENE I manfred alone—­Scene, a Gothic gallery—­Time, Midnight. Man.  The lamp must be replenish’d, but even then It will not burn so long as I must watch: My slumbers—­if I slumber—­are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart5 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men. But grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most10 Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,

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The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. Philosophy and science, and the springs Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, I have essayed, and in my mind there is15 A power to make these subject to itself— But they avail not: I have done men good, And I have met with good even among men— But this avail’d not: I have had my foes, And none have baffled, many fallen before me—20 But this avail’d not:—Good, or evil, life, Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, Have been to me as rain unto the sands, Since that all-­nameless hour. I have no dread, And feel the curse to have no natural fear,25 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, Or lurking love of something on the earth.— Now to my task.— Mysterious Agency! Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe! Whom I have sought in darkness and in light—30 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell In subtler essence—­ye, to whom the tops Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, And earth’s and ocean’s caves familiar things— I call upon ye by the written charm 35 Which gives me power upon you——Rise! appear! They come not yet.—Now by the voice of him                     [A pause. Who is the first among you—­by this sign, Which makes you tremble—­by the claims of him Who is undying,—Rise! appear!——Appear!40                   [A pause If it be so.—Spirits of earth and air, Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power, Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-­spell, Which had its birth-­place in a star condemn’d, The burning wreck of a demolish’d world,45 A wandering hell in the eternal space; By the strong curse which is upon my soul, The thought which is within me and around me, I do compel ye to my will.—Appear! [A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery; it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing.]



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First Spirit. Mortal! to thy bidding bow’d,50 From my mansion in the cloud, Which the breath of twilight builds, And the summer’s sun-­set gilds With the azure and vermilion, Which is mix’d for my pavilion;55 Though thy quest may be forbidden, On a star-­beam I have ridden; To thine adjuration bow’d, Mortal—­be thy wish avow’d! Voice of the Second Spirit. Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains,60   They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,   With a diadem of snow. Around his waist are forests braced,   The Avalanche in his hand;65 But ere it fall, that thundering ball   Must pause for my command. The Glacier’s cold and restless mass   Moves onward day by day; But I am he who bids it pass,70   Or with its ice delay. I am the spirit of the place,   Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his cavern’d base—   And what with me wouldst Thou?75 Voice of the Third Spirit. In the blue depth of the waters,   Where the wave hath no strife, Where the wind is a stranger,   And the sea-­snake hath life, Where the Mermaid is decking80   Her green hair with shells; Like the storm on the surface   Came the sound of thy spells; O’er my calm Hall of Coral   The deep echo roll’d—85 To the Spirit of Ocean   Thy wishes unfold!

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lord byron Fourth Spirit. Where the slumbering earthquake   Lies pillow’d on fire, And the lakes of bitumen90   Rise boilingly higher; Where the roots of the Andes   Strike deep in the earth, As their summits to heaven   Shoot soaringly forth;95 I have quitted my birth-­place,   Thy bidding to bide— Thy spell hath subdued me,   Thy will be my guide! Fifth Spirit. I am the Rider of the wind,100   The Stirrer of the storm; The hurricane I left behind   Is yet with lightning warm; To speed to thee, o’er shore and sea   I swept upon the blast:105 The fleet I met sailed well, and yet   ’Twill sink ere night be past. Sixth Spirit. My dwelling is the shadow of the night, Why doth thy magic torture me with light? Seventh Spirit. The star which rules thy destiny,110 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: It was a world as fresh and fair As e’er revolved round sun in air; Its course was free and regular, Space bosom’d not a lovelier star.115 The hour arrived—­and it became A wandering mass of shapeless flame, A pathless comet, and a curse, The menace of the universe; Still rolling on with innate force,120 Without a sphere, without a course, A bright deformity on high,



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The monster of the upper sky! And thou! beneath its influence born— Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn—125 Forced by a power (which is not thine, And lent thee but to make thee mine) For this brief moment to descend, Where these weak spirits round thee bend And parley with a thing like thee—130 What wouldst thou, Child of Clay! with me? The Seven Spirits. Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star,   Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay! Before thee at thy quest their spirits are—   What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals—­say?135 Man. Forgetfulness—— First Spirit.      Of what—­ of whom—­ and why? Man.  Of that which is within me; read it there— Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. Spirit.  We can but give thee that which we possess: Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power140 O’er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign Which shall control the elements, whereof We are the dominators, each and all, These shall be thine. Man.        Oblivion, self-­ oblivion— Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms145 Ye offer so profusely what I ask? Spirit.  It is not in our essence, in our skill; But—­thou mayst die. Man.         Will death bestow it on me? Spirit.  We are immortal, and do not forget; We are eternal; and to us the past150 Is, as the future, present. Art thou answered? Man.  Ye mock me—­but the power which brought ye here Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will! The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, The lightning of my being, is as bright,155 Pervading, and far-­darting as your own, And shall not yield to yours, though coop’d in clay! Answer, or I will teach you what I am. Spirit.  We answer as we answered; our reply

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Is even in thine own words. Man.           Why say ye so?160 Spirit.  If, as thou say’st, thine essence be as ours, We have replied in telling thee, the thing Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. Man.  I then have call’d ye from your realms in vain; Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. Spirit.            Say; 165 What we possess we offer; it is thine: Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again— Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days—— Man.  Accursed! what have I to do with days? They are too long already.—Hence—­begone!170 Spirit.  Yet pause: being here, our will would do thee service; Bethink thee, is there then no other gift Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes? Man.  No, none: yet stay—­one moment, ere we part— I would behold ye face to face. I hear175 Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, As music on the waters; and I see The steady aspect of a clear large star; But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, Or one, or all, in your accustom’d forms.180 Spirit.  We have no forms beyond the elements Of which we are the mind and principle: But choose a form—­in that we will appear. Man.  I have no choice; there is no form on earth Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him,185 Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect As unto him may seem most fitting.—Come! Seventh Spirit (Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure). Behold! Man.          Oh God! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy.—I will clasp thee,190 And we again will be— [The figure vanishes.               My heart is crush’d!                   [Manfred falls senseless. (A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.)

When the moon is on the wave,   And the glow-­worm in the grass, And the meteor on the grave,



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  And the wisp on the morass; 195 When the falling stars are shooting, And the answer’d owls are hooting, And the silent leaves are still In the shadow of the hill, Shall my soul be upon thine, 200 With a power and with a sign. Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep, There are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 205 By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone; Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Thou art gathered in a cloud; And for ever shalt thou dwell 210 In the spirit of this spell. Though thou seest me not pass by, Thou shalt feel me with thine eye As a thing that, though unseen, Must be near thee, and hath been; 215 And when in that secret dread Thou hast turn’d around thy head, Thou shalt marvel I am not As thy shadow on the spot, And the power which thou dost feel 220 Shall be what thou must conceal. And a magic voice and verse Hath baptized thee with a curse; And a spirit of the air Hath begirt thee with a snare; 225 In the wind there is a voice Shall forbid thee to rejoice; And to thee shall Night deny All the quiet of her sky; And the day shall have a sun, 230 Which shall make thee wish it done. From thy false tears I did distil An essence which hath strength to kill; From thy own heart I then did wring The black blood in its blackest spring; 235

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lord byron From thy own smile I snatch’d the snake, For there it coil’d as in a brake; From thy own lip I drew the charm Which gave all these their chiefest harm; In proving every poison known, 240 I found the strongest was thine own. By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy unfathom’d gulfs of guile, By that most seeming virtuous eye, By thy shut soul’s hypocrisy; 245 By the perfection of thine art Which pass’d for human thine own heart; By thy delight in others’ pain, And by thy brotherhood of Cain, I call upon thee! and compel 250 Thyself to be thy proper Hell! And on thy head I pour the vial Which doth devote thee to this trial; Nor to slumber, nor to die, Shall be in thy destiny; 255 Though thy death shall still seem near To thy wish, but as a fear; Lo! the spell now works around thee, And the clankless chain hath bound thee; O’er thy heart and brain together 260 Hath the word been pass’d—­now wither! SCENE II The Mountain of the Jungfrau.—Time, Morning.— Manfred alone upon the Cliffs.

Man.  The spirits I have raised abandon me— The spells which I have studied baffle me— The remedy I reck’d of tortured me; I lean no more on super-­human aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for5 The future, till the past be gulf ’d in darkness, It is not of my search.—My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe,10



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That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight—­thou shin’st not on my heart. And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge I stand, and on the torrent’s brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs15 In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom’s bed To rest for ever—­wherefore do I pause? I feel the impulse—­yet I do not plunge;20 I see the peril—­yet do not recede; And my brain reels—­and yet my foot is firm: There is a power upon me which withholds And makes it my fatality to live; If it be life to wear within myself25 This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul’s sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself— The last infirmity of evil. Ay, Thou winged and cloud-­cleaving minister,30     [An eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, Well may’st thou swoop so near me—­I should be Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine Yet pierces downward, onward, or above35 With a pervading vision.—Beautiful! How beautiful is all this visible world! How glorious in its action and itself; But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit40 To sink or soar, with our mix’d essence make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride, Contending with low wants and lofty will Till our mortality predominates,45 And men are—­what they name not to themselves, And trust not to each other. Hark! the note,     [The Shepherd’s pipe in the distance is heard. The natural music of the mountain reed— For here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable—­pipes in the liberal air,50 Mix’d with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;

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My soul would drink those echoes.—Oh, that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment—­born and dying55 With the blest tone which made me! Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. Chamois Hunter.          Even so This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet Have baffled me; my gains to-­day will scarce Repay my break-­neck travail.—What is here? Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach’d 60 A height which none even of our mountaineers, Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air Proud as a free-­born peasant’s, at this distance.— I will approach him nearer. Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thus—65 Grey-­hair’d with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Which but supplies a feeling to decay— And to be thus, eternally but thus,70 Having been otherwise! Now furrow’d o’er With wrinkles, plough’d by moments, not by years; And hours—­all tortured into ages—­hours Which I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 75 In mountainous o’erwhelming, come and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things which still would live; On the young flourishing forest, or the hut80 And hamlet of the harmless villager. C. Hun.  The mists begin to rise from up the valley; I’ll warn him to descend, or he may chance To lose at once his way and life together. Man.  The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds85 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, Heaped with the damn’d like pebbles.—I am giddy. C. Hun.  I must approach him cautiously; if near,90



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A sudden step will startle him, and he Seems tottering already. Man.         Mountains have fallen Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up The ripe green valleys with destruction’s splinters; 95 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, Which crush’d the waters into mist, and made Their fountains find another channel—­thus, Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg— Why stood I not beneath it? C. Hun.          Friend! have a care,100 Your next step may be fatal!—for the love Of him who made you, stand not on that brink! Man. (not hearing him.) Such would have been for me a fitting tomb; My bones had then been quiet in their depth; They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 105 For the wind’s pastime—­as thus—­thus they shall be— In this one plunge.—Farewell, ye opening heavens! Look not upon me thus reproachfully— Ye were not meant for me—­Earth! take these atoms! (As Manfred is in act to spring from the cliff, the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp.) C. Hun.  Hold, madman!—though aweary of thy life,110 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood.— Away with me——I will not quit my hold. Man.  I am most sick at heart—­nay, grasp me not— I am all feebleness—­the mountains whirl Spinning around me—­I grow blind—­What art thou?115 C. Hun.  I’ll answer that anon.—Away with me— The clouds grow thicker—­there—­now lean on me— Place your foot here—­here, take this staff, and cling A moment to that shrub—­now give me your hand, And hold fast by my girdle—­softly—­well—120 The Chalet will be gained within an hour— Come on, we’ll quickly find a surer footing, And something like a pathway, which the torrent Hath wash’d since winter.—Come, ’tis bravely done— You should have been a hunter.—Follow me.125 (As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.) end of act the first.

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lord byron ACT II SCENE I A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. Manfred and the Chamois Hunter.

C. Hun.  No, no—­yet pause—­thou must not yet go forth: Thy mind and body are alike unfit To trust each other, for some hours, at least; When thou art better, I will be thy guide— But whither? Man.     It imports not: I do know5 My route full well, and need no further guidance. C. Hun.  Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage— One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags Look o’er the lower valleys—­which of these May call thee Lord? I only know their portals;10 My way of life leads me but rarely down To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, Carousing with the vassals; but the paths, Which step from out our mountains to their doors, I know from childhood—­which of these is thine?15 Man.  No matter. C. Hun.     Well, sir, pardon me the question, And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; ’Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day ’T has thawed my veins among our glaciers, now Let it do thus for thine—­Come, pledge me fairly.20 Man.  Away, away! there’s blood upon the brim! Will it then never—­never sink in the earth? C. Hun.  What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee. Man.  I say ’tis blood—­my blood! the pure warm stream Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours25 When we were in our youth, and had one heart, And loved each other as we should not love, And this was shed: but still it rises up, Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, Where thou art not—­and I shall never be.30 C. Hun.  Man of strange words, and some half-­maddening sin, Which makes thee people vacancy, whate’er Thy dread and sufferance be, there’s comfort yet— The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience——



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Man.  Patience and patience! Hence—­that word was made35 For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— I am not of thine order. C. Hun.        Thanks to heaven! I would not be of thine for the free fame Of William Tell; but whatsoe’er thine ill,40 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. Man.  Do I not bear it?—Look on me—­I live. C. Hun.  This is convulsion, and no healthful life. Man.  I tell thee, man! I have lived many years, Many long years, but they are nothing now45 To those which I must number: ages—­ages— Space and eternity—­and consciousness, With the fierce thirst of death—­and still unslaked! C. Hun.  Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.50 Man.  Think’st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, Innumerable atoms; and one desart,55 Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-­surf weeds of bitterness. C. Hun.  Alas! he’s mad—­but yet I must not leave him. Man.  I would I were—­for then the things I see60 Would be but a distempered dream. C. Hun.             What is it That thou dost see, or think thou look’st upon? Man.  Myself, and thee—­a peasant of the Alps— Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud and free;65 Thy self-­respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf,70 And thy grandchildren’s love for epitaph; This do I see—­and then I look within— It matters not—­my soul was scorch’d already! C. Hun.  And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine? Man.  No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange75

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My lot with living being: I can bear— However wretchedly, ’tis still to bear— In life what others could not brook to dream, But perish in their slumber. C. Hun.          And with this— This cautious feeling for another’s pain,80 Canst thou be black with evil?—say not so. Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak’d revenge Upon his enemies? Man.       Oh! no, no, no! My injuries came down on those who loved me— On those whom I best loved: I never quell’d85 An enemy, save in my just defence— But my embrace was fatal. C. Hun.         Heaven give thee rest! And penitence restore thee to thyself; My prayers shall be for thee. Man.           I need them not, But can endure thy pity. I depart—90 ’Tis time—­farewell!—Here’s gold, and thanks for thee— No words—­it is thy due.—Follow me not— I know my path—­the mountain’s peril’s past:— And once again, I charge thee, follow not! [Exit Manfred. SCENE II A lower Valley in the Alps.—A Cataract. Enter Manfred. Man.  It is not noon—­the sunbow’s rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven,1 And roll the sheeted silver’s waving column O’er the crag’s headlong perpendicular, And fling its lines of foaming light along,5 And to and fro, like the pale courser’s tail, The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; I should be sole in this sweet solitude,10



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And with the Spirit of the place divide The homage of these waters.—I will call her. (Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch of the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbeam of the torrent.) Man.  Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light, And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form The charms of Earth’s least-­mortal daughters grow15 To an unearthly stature, in an essence Of purer elements; while the hues of youth,— Carnation’d like a sleeping infant’s cheek, Rock’d by the beating of her mother’s heart, Or the rose tints, which summer’s twilight leaves20 Upon the lofty glacier’s virgin snow, The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,— Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame The beauties of the sunbow which bends o’er thee. Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow,25 Wherein is glass’d serenity of soul, Which of itself shows immortality, I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit At times to commune with them—­if that he30 Avail him of his spells—­to call thee thus, And gaze on thee a moment. Witch.             Son of Earth! I know thee, and the powers which give thee power; I know thee for a man of many thoughts, And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,35 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. I have expected this—­what wouldst thou with me? Man.  To look upon thy beauty—­nothing further. The face of the earth hath madden’d me, and I Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce40 To the abodes of those who govern her— But they can nothing aid me. I have sought From them what they could not bestow, and now I search no further. Witch.       What could be the quest Which is not in the power of the most powerful,45 The rulers of the invisible?

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Man.           A boon; But why should I repeat it? ’twere in vain. Witch.  I know not that; let thy lips utter it. Man.  Well, though it torture me, ’tis but the same; My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards50 My spirit walk’d not with the souls of men, Nor look’d upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,55 Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me Was there but one who——but of her anon. I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,60 I held but slight communion; but instead, My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain’s top, Where the birds dare not build, nor insect’s wing Flit o’er the herbless granite; or to plunge65 Into the torrent, and to roll along On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave Of river-­stream, or ocean, in their flow. In these my early strength exulted; or To follow through the night the moving moon,70 The stars and their developement; or catch The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; Or to look, list’ning, on the scattered leaves, While Autumn winds were at their evening song. These were my pastimes, and to be alone;75 For if the beings, of whom I was one,— Hating to be so,—cross’d me in my path, I felt myself degraded back to them, And was all clay again. And then I dived, In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,80 Searching its cause in its effect; and drew From wither’d bones, and skulls, and heap’d up dust, Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass’d The nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the old-­time; and with time and toil,85 And terrible ordeal, and such penance As in itself hath power upon the air, And spirits that do compass air and earth,



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Space, and the peopled infinite, I made Mine eyes familiar with Eternity,90 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and He who from out their fountain dwellings raised Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,2 As I do thee;—and with my knowledge grew The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy95 Of this most bright intelligence, until— Witch. Proceed. Man.      Oh! I but thus prolonged my words, Boasting these idle attributes, because As I approach the core of my heart’s grief— But to my task. I have not named to thee100 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, With whom I wore the chain of human ties; If I had such, they seem’d not such to me— Yet there was one— Witch.       Spare not thyself—­ proceed. Man.  She was like me in lineaments—­her eyes,105 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften’d all, and temper’d into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind110 To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears—­which I had not; And tenderness—­but that I had for her; Humility—­and that I never had.115 Her faults were mine—­her virtues were her own— I loved her, and destroy’d her! Witch.           With thy hand? Man.  Not with my hand, but heart—­which broke her heart— It gazed on mine, and withered. I have shed Blood, but not hers—­and yet her blood was shed—120 I saw—­and could not staunch it. Witch.            And for this— A being of the race thou dost despise, The order which thine own would rise above, Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forgo The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink’st back125 To recreant mortality—­Away! Man.  Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour—

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But words are breath—­look on me in my sleep, Or watch my watchings—­Come and sit by me! My solitude is solitude no more,130 But peopled with the Furies;—I have gnash’d My teeth in darkness till returning morn, Then cursed myself till sunset;—I have pray’d For madness as a blessing—’tis denied me. I have affronted death—­but in the war135 Of elements the waters shrunk from me, And fatal things pass’d harmless—­the cold hand Of an all-­pitiless demon held me back, Back by a single hair, which would not break. In phantasy, imagination, all140 The affluence of my soul—­which one day was A Crœsus in creation—­I plunged deep, But, like an ebbing wave, it dash’d me back Into the gulf of my unfathom’d thought. I plunged amidst mankind—­Forgetfulness145 I sought in all, save where ’tis to be found, And that I have to learn—­my sciences, My long pursued and super-­human art, Is mortal here—­I dwell in my despair— And live—­and live for ever. Witch.          It may be150 That I can aid thee. Man.        To do this thy power Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. Do so—­in any shape—­in any hour— With any torture—­so it be the last. Witch.  That is not in my province; but if thou155 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. Man.  I will not swear—­Obey! and whom? the spirits Whose presence I command, and be the slave Of those who served me—­Never! Witch.              Is this all?160 Hast thou no gentler answer—­Yet bethink thee, And pause ere thou rejectest. Man.           I have said it. Witch.  Enough!—I may retire then—­say! Man.                Retire! [The Witch disappears. Man. (alone.) We are the fools of time and terror: Days



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Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,165 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. In all the days of this detested yoke— This vital weight upon the struggling heart, Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, Or joy that ends in agony or faintness—170 In all the days of past and future, for In life there is no present, we can number How few—­how less than few—­wherein the soul Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back As from a stream in winter, though the chill175 Be but a moment’s. I have one resource Still in my science—­I can call the dead, And ask them what it is we dread to be: The sternest answer can but be the Grave, And that is nothing—­if they answer not—180 The buried Prophet answered to the Hag Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew From the Byzantine maid’s unsleeping spirit An answer and his destiny—­he slew That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,185 And died unpardon’d—­though he call’d in aid The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused The Arcadian Evocators to compel The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, Or fix her term of vengeance—­she replied190 In words of dubious import, but fulfill’d.3 If I had never lived, that which I love Had still been living; had I never loved, That which I love would still be beautiful— Happy and giving happiness. What is she?195 What is she now?—a sufferer for my sins— A thing I dare not think upon—­or nothing. Within few hours I shall not call in vain— Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare: Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze200 On spirit, good or evil—­now I tremble, And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart, But I can act even what I most abhor, And champion human fears.—The night approaches.                      [Exit.

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lord byron SCENE III The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. Enter First Destiny. The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; And here on snows, where never human foot Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, And leave no traces; o’er the savage sea, The glassy ocean of the mountain ice,5 We skim its rugged breakers, which put on The aspect of a tumbling tempest’s foam, Frozen in a moment—­a dead whirlpool’s image; And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, The fretwork of some earthquake—­where the clouds10 Pause to repose themselves in passing by— Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils; Here do I wait my sisters, on our way To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-­night Is our great festival—’tis strange they come not. 15 A Voice without, singing. The Captive Usurper,   Hurl’d down from the throne, Lay buried in torpor,   Forgotten and lone; I broke through his slumbers, 20   I shivered his chain, I leagued him with numbers—   He’s Tyrant again! With the blood of a million he’ll answer my care, With a nation’s destruction—­his flight and despair. 25 Second Voice, without. The ship sail’d on, the ship sail’d fast, But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, And there is not a wretch to lament o’er his wreck; Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 30 And he was a subject well worthy my care; A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea— But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me!



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First Destiny, answering. The city lies sleeping;   The morn, to deplore it, 35 May dawn on it weeping:   Sullenly, slowly, The black plague flew o’er it—   Thousands lie lowly; Tens of thousands shall perish— 40   The living shall fly from The sick they should cherish;   But nothing can vanquish The touch that they die from.   Sorrow and anguish, 45 And evil and dread,   Envelope a nation— The blest are the dead,   Who see not the sight Of their own desolation.— 50   This work of a night— This wreck of a realm—­this deed of my doing— For ages I’ve done, and shall still be renewing! Enter the Second and Third Destinies. The Three. Our hands contain the hearts of men,   Our footsteps are their graves;55 We only give to take again   The spirits of our slaves! First Des.  Welcome!—Where’s Nemesis? Second Des.            At some great work; But what I know not, for my hands were full. Third Des.  Behold she cometh. Enter Nemesis. First Des.          Say, where hast thou been?—60 My sisters and thyself are slow to-­night. nem. I was detain’d repairing shattered thrones, Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, Avenging men upon their enemies, And making them repent their own revenge;65 Goading the wise to madness; from the dull

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Shaping out oracles to rule the world Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak  Of freedom, the forbidden fruit.—Away! We have outstaid the hour—­mount we our clouds! [Exeunt.

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SCENE IV The Hall of Arimanes—­Arimanes on his Throne, a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. Hymn of the Spirits. Hail to our Master!—Prince of Earth and Air!—   Who walks the clouds and waters—­in his hand The sceptre of the elements, which tear   Themselves to chaos at his high command! He breatheth—­and a tempest shakes the sea; 5   He speaketh—­and the clouds reply in thunder; He gazeth—­from his glance the sunbeams flee;   He moveth—­earthquakes rend the world asunder. Beneath his footsteps the volcanos rise;   His shadow is the Pestilence; his path 10 The comets herald through the crackling skies;   And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. To him War offers daily sacrifice;   To him Death pays his tribute; Life is his, With all its infinite of agonies— 15   And his the spirit of whatever is! Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. First Des.  Glory to Arimanes! on the earth His power increaseth—­both my sisters did His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty! Second Des.  Glory to Arimanes! we who bow20 The necks of men, bow down before his throne! Third Des.  Glory to Arimanes!—we await His nod! Nem.   Sovereign of Sovereigns! we are thine, And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, And most things wholly so; still to increase25 Our power increasing thine, demands our care,



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And we are vigilant—­Thy late commands Have been fulfilled to the utmost. Enter Manfred. A Spirit.            What is here? A mortal!—Thou most rash and fatal wretch, Bow down and worship! Second Spirit.       I do know the man—30 A Magian of great power, and fearful skill! Third Spirit.  Bow down and worship, slave!—What, know’st thou not Thine and our Sovereign?—Tremble, and obey! All the Spirits.  Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay, Child of the Earth! or dread the worst. Man.               I know it;35 And yet ye see I kneel not. Fourth Spirit.      ’Twill be taught thee. Man.  ’Tis taught already;—many a night on the earth, On the bare ground, have I bow’d down my face, And strew’d my head with ashes; I have known The fulness of humiliation, for40 I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt To my own desolation. Fifth Spirit.      Dost thou dare Refuse to Arimanes on his throne What the whole earth accords, beholding not The terror of his Glory—­Crouch! I say.45 Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him, The overruling Infinite—­the Maker Who made him not for worship—­let him kneel, And we will kneel together. The Spirits.       Crush the worm! Tear him in pieces!— First Des.      Hence! Avaunt!—he’s mine.50 Prince of the Powers invisible! This man Is of no common order, as his port And presence here denote; his sufferings Have been of an immortal nature, like Our own; his knowledge and his powers and will,55 As far as is compatible with clay, Which clogs the etherial essence, have been such As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, And they have only taught him what we know—60 That knowledge is not happiness, and science

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But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance. This is not all—­the passions, attributes Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being,65 Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, Have pierced his heart; and in their consequence Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, And thine, it may be—­be it so, or not,70 No other Spirit in this region hath A soul like his—­or power upon his soul. Nem.  What doth he here then? First Des.         Let him answer that. Man.  Ye know what I have known; and without power I could not be amongst ye: but there are75 Powers deeper still beyond—­I come in quest Of such, to answer unto what I seek. Nem.  What wouldst thou? Man.          Thou canst not reply to me. Call up the dead—­my question is for them. Nem.  Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch80 The wishes of this mortal? Ari.           Yea. Nem.            Whom would’st thou Uncharnel? Man.     One without a tomb—­call up Astarte. Nemesis. Shadow! or Spirit!   Whatever thou art,85 Which still doth inherit   The whole or a part Of the form of thy birth,   Of the mould of thy clay, Which returned to the earth,90   Re-­appear to the day! Bear what thou borest,   The heart and the form, And the aspect thou worest   Redeem from the worm.95 Appear!—Appear!—Appear! Who sent thee there requires thee here!  (The Phantom of Astarte rises and stands in the midst.)



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Man.  Can this be death? there’s bloom upon her cheek; But now I see it is no living hue, But a strange hectic—­like the unnatural red100 Which Autumn plants upon the perish’d leaf. It is the same! Oh, God! that I should dread To look upon the same—­Astarte!—No, I cannot speak to her—­but bid her speak— Forgive me or condemn me.105 Nemesis By the power which hath broken   The grave which enthrall’d thee, Speak to him who hath spoken,   Or those who have call’d thee! Man.           She is silent, And in that silence I am more than answered.110 Nem.  My power extends no further. Prince of air! It rests with thee alone—­command her voice. Ari.  Spirit—­obey this sceptre! Nem.           Silent still! She is not of our order, but belongs115 To the other powers. Mortal! thy quest is vain, And we are baffled also. Man.           Hear me, hear me— Astarte! my beloved! speak to me: I have so much endured—­so much endure— Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more120 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made To torture thus each other, though it were The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. Say that thou loath’st me not—­that I do bear125 This punishment for both—­that thou wilt be One of the blessed—­and that I shall die, For hitherto all hateful things conspire To bind me in existence—­in a life Which makes me shrink from immortality—130 A future like the past. I cannot rest. I know not what I ask, nor what I seek: I feel but what thou art—­and what I am; And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music—­Speak to me!135 For I have call’d on thee in the still night, Startled the slumbering birds from the hush’d boughs,

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And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, Which answered me—­many things answered me—140 Spirits and men—­but thou wert silent all. Yet speak to me! I have outwatch’d the stars, And gazed o’er heaven in vain in search of thee. Speak to me! I have wandered o’er the earth And never found thy likeness—­Speak to me!145 Look on the fiends around—­they feel for me: I fear them not, and feel for thee alone— Speak to me! though it be in wrath;—but say— I reck not what—­but let me hear thee once— This once—­once more! Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! Man.             Say on, say on—150 I live but in the sound—­it is thy voice! Phan.  Manfred! To-­morrow ends thine earthly ills. Farewell! Man.    Yet one word more—­am I forgiven? Phan. Farewell! Man.      Say, shall we meet again? Phan. Farewell! Man.      One word for mercy! Say, thou lovest me.155 Phan. Manfred! [The Spirit of Astarte disappears. Nem.      She’s gone, and will not be recall’d; Her words will be fulfill’d. Return to the earth. A Spirit.  He is convulsed—­This is to be a mortal And seek the things beyond mortality. Another Spirit.  Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes160 His torture tributary to his will. Had he been one of us, he would have made An awful spirit. Nem.      Hast thou further question Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers? Man. None. Nem.    Then for a time farewell.165 Man.  We meet then! Where? On the earth?— Even as thou wilt: and for the grace accorded I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well!     [Exit Manfred. (Scene closes.) end of act second.



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ACT III SCENE I. A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. Manfred and Herman. Man.  What is the hour? Her.         It wants but one till sunset, And promises a lovely twilight. Man.            Say, Are all things so disposed of in the tower As I directed? Her.       All, my lord, are ready; Here is the key and casket. Man.          It is well:5 Thou mayst retire.  [Exit Herman. Man. (alone.)    There is a calm upon me— Inexplicable stillness! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did not know philosophy To be of all our vanities the motliest,10 The merest word that ever fool’d the ear From out the schoolman’s jargon, I should deem The golden secret, the sought “Kalon,” found, And seated in my soul. It will not last, But it is well to have known it, though but once: 15 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, And I within my tablets would note down That there is such a feeling. Who is there? Re-­enter Herman. Her.  My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your presence. Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. Abbot.        Peace be with Count Manfred!20 Man.  Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those Who dwell within them. Abbot.         Would it were so, Count!— But I would fain confer with thee alone.

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Man.  Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest?25 Abbot.  Thus, without prelude:—Age and zeal, my office, And good intent, must plead my privilege; Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, May also be my herald. Rumours strange, And of unholy nature, are abroad,30 And busy with thy name; a noble name For centuries; may he who bears it now Transmit it unimpair’d! Man.         Proceed,—I listen. Abbot.  ’Tis said thou holdest converse with the things Which are forbidden to the search of man;35 That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, The many evil and unheavenly spirits Which walk the valley of the shade of death, Thou communest. I know that with mankind, Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely40 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude Is as an anchorite’s, were it but holy. Man.  And what are they who do avouch these things? Abbot.  My pious brethren—­the scared peasantry— Even thy own vassals—­who do look on thee45 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life’s in peril. Man.  Take it. Abbot.     I come to save, and not destroy— I would not pry into thy secret soul; But if these things be sooth, there still is time For penitence and pity: reconcile thee50 With the true church, and through the church to heaven. Man.  I hear thee. This is my reply; whate’er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself.—I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator. Have I sinn’d55 Against your ordinances? prove and punish! Abbot.  My son! I did not speak of punishment, But penitence and pardon;—with thyself The choice of such remains—­and for the last, Our institutions and our strong belief60 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin To higher hope and better thoughts; the first I leave to heaven—“Vengeance is mine alone!” So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness His servant echoes back the awful word.65



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Man.  Old man! there is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer—­nor purifying form Of penitence—­nor outward look—­nor fast— Nor agony—­nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep despair,70 Which is remorse without the fear of hell, But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of heaven—­can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 75 Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self-­condemn’d He deals on his own soul. Abbot.         All this is well; For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up80 With calm assurance to that blessed place, Which all who seek may win, whatever be Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: And the commencement of atonement is The sense of its necessity.—Say on—85 And all our church can teach thee shall be taught; And all we can absolve thee, shall be pardon’d. Man.  When Rome’s sixth Emperor was near his last, The victim of a self-­inflicted wound, To shun the torments of a public death90 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, With show of loyal pity, would have staunch’d The gushing throat with his officious robe; The dying Roman thrust him back and said— Some empire still in his expiring glance,95 “It is too late—­is this fidelity?” Abbot.  And what of this? Man.         I answer with the Roman— “It is too late!” Abbot.      It never can be so, To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope?100 ’Tis strange—­even those who do despair above, Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. Man.  Ay—­father! I have had those earthly visions And noble aspirations in my youth,105

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To make my own the mind of other men, The enlightener of nations; and to rise I knew not whither—­it might be to fall; But fall, even as the mountain-­cataract, Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,110 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, (Which casts up misty columns that become Clouds raining from the re-­ascended skies,) Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past, My thoughts mistook themselves. Abbot.            And wherefore so?115 Man.  I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway—­and soothe—­and sue— And watch all time—­and pry into all place— And be a living lie—­who would become A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such120 The mass are; I disdained to mingle with A herd, though to be leader—­and of wolves. The lion is alone, and so am I. Abbot.  And why not live and act with other men? Man.  Because my nature was averse from life;125 And yet not cruel; for I would not make, But find a desolation:—like the wind, The red-­hot breath of the most lone Simoom, Which dwells but in the desart, and sweeps o’er The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,130 And revels o’er their wild and arid waves, And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, But being met is deadly; such hath been The course of my existence; but there came Things in my path which are no more. Abbot.              Alas!135 I ’gin to fear that thou art past all aid From me and from my calling; yet so young, I still would—— Man.      Look on me! there is an order Of mortals on the earth, who do become Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,140 Without the violence of warlike death; Some perishing of pleasure—­some of study— Some worn with toil—­some of mere weariness— Some of disease—­and some insanity— And some of withered, or of broken hearts;145



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For this last is a malady which slays More than are number’d in the lists of Fate, Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. Look upon me! for even of all these things Have I partaken; and of all these things,150 One were enough; then wonder not that I Am what I am, but that I ever was, Or, having been, that I am still on earth. Abbot.  Yet, hear me still—— Man.           Old man! I do respect Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem155 Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain: Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself, Far more than me, in shunning at this time All further colloquy—­and so—­farewell.      [Exit Manfred. Abbot.  This should have been a noble creature: he160 Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements, Had they been wisely mingled; as it is, It is an awful chaos—­light and darkness— And mind and dust—­and passions and pure thoughts,165 Mix’d, and contending without end or order, All dormant or destructive: he will perish, And yet he must not; I will try once more, For such are worth redemption; and my duty Is to dare all things for a righteous end.170 I’ll follow him—­but cautiously, though surely. [Exit Abbot. SCENE II Another Chamber. Manfred and Herman. Her.  My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: He sinks beyond the mountain. Man.            Doth he so? I will look on him.     [Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall.         Glorious Orb! The idol

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Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons5 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex4 More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring spirits who can ne’er return.— Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was reveal’d!10 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladden’d, on their mountain tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour’d Themselves in orisons! Thou material God! And representative of the Unknown—15 Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star! Centre of many stars! which mak’st our earth Endurable, and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy rays! Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,20 And those who dwell in them! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, Even as our outward aspects;—thou dost rise, And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well! I ne’er shall see thee more. As my first glance25 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been Of a more fatal nature. He is gone: I follow.30    [Exit Manfred. SCENE III The Mountains.—The Castle of Manfred at some distance.— A Terrace before a Tower.—Time, Twilight. Herman, Manuel, and other Dependents of Manfred. Her.  ’Tis strange enough; night after night, for years, He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, Without a witness. I have been within it,— So have we all been oft-­times; but from it, Or its contents, it were impossible5 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught



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His studies tend to. To be sure, there is One chamber where none enter; I would give The fee of what I have to come these three years, To pore upon its mysteries. Manuel.          ’Twere dangerous; 10 Content thyself with what thou knowest already. Her.  Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, And could’st say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle— How many years is’t? Manuel.      Ere Count Manfred’s birth, I served his father, whom he nought resembles.15 Her.  There be more sons in like predicament. But wherein do they differ? Manuel.           I speak not Of features or of form, but mind and habits: Count Sigismund was proud,—but gay and free,— A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not20 With books and solitude, nor made the night A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside From men and their delights. Her.           Beshrew the hour,25 But those were jocund times! I would that such Would visit the old walls again; they look As if they had forgotten them. Manuel.           These walls Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen Some strange things in them, Herman. Her.               Come, be friendly; 30 Relate me some to while away our watch: I’ve heard thee darkly speak of an event Which happened hereabouts, by this same tower. Manuel.  That was a night indeed; I do remember ’Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such35 Another evening;—yon red cloud, which rests On Eigher’s pinnacle, so rested then,— So like that it might be the same; the wind Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows Began to glitter with the climbing moon;40 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,— How occupied, we knew not, but with him The sole companion of his wanderings

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And watchings—­her, whom of all earthly things That lived, the only thing he seem’d to love,—45 As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, The Lady Astarte, his— Hush! who comes here? Enter the Abbot. Abbot.  Where is your master? Her.           Yonder in the tower. Abbot.  I must speak with him. Manuel.         ’Tis impossible; He is most private, and must not be thus50 Intruded on. Abbot.    Upon myself I take The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be— But I must see him. Her.       Thou hast seen him once This eve already. Abbot.      Herman! I command thee, Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.55 Her.  We dare not. Abbot.       Then it seems I must be herald Of my own purpose. Manuel.        Reverend father, stop— I pray you pause. Abbot.     Why so? Manuel.        But step this way, And I will tell you further.    [Exeunt. SCENE IV Interior of the Tower. Manfred alone. Man.  The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-­shining mountains.—Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade5 Of dim and solitary loveliness,



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I learn’d the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering,—upon such a night I stood within the Coloseum’s wall,10 ’Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; and15 More near from out the Cæsars’ palace came The owl’s long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-­worn breach20 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot—­where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levell’d battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,25 Ivy usurps the laurel’s place of growth;— But the gladiators’ bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection! While Cæsar’s chambers, and the Augustan halls Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.—30 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which soften’d down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and fill’d up, As ’twere, anew, the gaps of centuries;35 Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o’er With silent worship of the great of old!— The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule40 Our spirits from their urns.— ’Twas such a night! ’Tis strange that I recall it at this time; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order. Enter the Abbot. Abbot.          My good Lord!45

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I crave a second grace for this approach; But yet let not my humble zeal offend By its abruptness—­all it hath of ill Recoils on me; its good in the effect May light upon your head—­could I say heart—50 Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should Recall a noble spirit which hath wandered; But is not yet all lost. Man.          Thou know’st me not; My days are numbered, and my deeds recorded: Retire, or ’twill be dangerous—­Away!55 Abbot.  Thou dost not mean to menace me? Man.                Not I; I simply tell thee peril is at hand, And would preserve thee. Abbot.         What dost mean? Man.                 Look there! What dost thou see? Abbot.       Nothing. Man.           Look there, I say, And steadfastly;—now tell me what thou seest?60 Abbot.  That which should shake me,—but I fear it not— I see a dusk and awful figure rise Like an infernal god from out the earth; His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form Robed as with angry clouds; he stands between 65 Thyself and me—­but I do fear him not. Man.  Thou hast no cause—­he shall not harm thee—­but His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. I say to thee—­Retire! Abbot.         And, I reply— Never—­till I have battled with this fiend—70 What doth he here? Man.       Why—­ ay—­ what doth he here? I did not send for him,—he is unbidden. Abbot.  Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake; Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him? 75 Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his brow The thunder-­scars are graven; from his eye Glares forth the immortality of hell— Avaunt!—— Man.     Pronounce—­ what is thy mission?



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Spirit.                   Come! Abbot.  What art thou, unknown being? answer!—speak!80 Spirit.  The genius of this mortal.—Come! ’tis time. Man.  I am prepared for all things, but deny The power which summons me. Who sent thee here? Spirit.  Thou’lt know anon—­Come! come! Man.                I have commanded Things of an essence greater far than thine,85 And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence! Spirit.  Mortal! thine hour is come—­Away! I say. Man.  I knew, and know my hour is come, but not To render up my soul to such as thee: Away! I’ll die as I have lived—­alone.90 Spirit.  Then I must summon up my brethren.—Rise!    [Other Spirits rise up. Abbot.  Avaunt! ye evil ones!—Avaunt! I say,— Ye have no power where piety hath power, And I do charge ye in the name—— Spirit.             Old man! We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;95 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, It were in vain; this man is forfeited. Once more I summon him—­Away! away! Man.  I do defy ye,—though I feel my soul Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;100 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath To breathe my scorn upon ye—­earthly strength To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take Shall be ta’en limb by limb. Spirit.          Reluctant mortal! Is this the Magian who would so pervade105 The world invisible, and make himself Almost our equal?—Can it be that thou Art thus in love with life? the very life Which made thee wretched! Man.           Thou false fiend, thou liest! My life is in its last hour,—that I know,110 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; I do not combat against death, but thee And thy surrounding angels; my past power Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, But by superior science—­penance—­daring—115 And length of watching—­strength of mind—­and skill

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In knowledge of our fathers—­when the earth Saw men and spirits walking side by side, And gave ye no supremacy: I stand Upon my strength—­I do defy—­deny—120 Spurn back, and scorn ye!— Spirit.          But thy many crimes Have made thee—— Man.        What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punish’d but by other crimes, And greater criminals?—Back to thy hell! Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel;125 Thou never shalt possess me, that I know: What I have done is done; I bear within A torture which could nothing gain from thine: The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts—130 Is its own origin of ill and end— And its own place and time—­its innate sense, When stripp’d of this mortality, derives No colour from the fleeting things without; But is absorb’d in sufferance or in joy,135 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me; I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey— But was my own destroyer, and will be My own hereafter.—Back, ye baffled fiends!140 The hand of death is on me—­but not yours!    [The Demons disappear. Abbot.  Alas! how pale thou art—­thy lips are white— And thy breast heaves—­and in thy gasping throat The accents rattle—­Give thy prayers to heaven— Pray—­albeit but in thought,—but die not thus.145 Man.  ’Tis over—­my dull eyes can fix thee not; But all things swim around me, and the earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well— Give me thy hand. Abbot.      Cold—­ cold—­ even to the heart— But yet one prayer—­alas! how fares it with thee?—150 Man.  Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die.    [Manfred expires. Abbot.  He’s gone—­his soul hath ta’en its earthless flight— Whither? I dread to think—­but he is gone.



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BYRON’S NOTES TO MANFRED Note 1, Act I, scene ii, line[s] 1[–2] ————— the sunbow’s rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven.

This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly like a rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk into it:—this effect lasts till noon. Note 2, Act II, scene ii, line[s] 92[–3] He who from out their fountain dwellings raised Eros and Angeros, at Gadara.

The philosopher Iamblicus. The story of the raising of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life, by Eunapius. It is well told. Note 3, Act II, scene ii, line[s] [190–]1 ——————she replied In words of dubious import, but fulfill’d.

The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who commanded the Greeks at the  battle of Platea, and afterwards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedemonians) and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch’s life of Cimon; and in the Laconics of Pausanius the Sophist, in his description of Greece. Note 4, Act III, scene ii, line[s] 5[–6] ——————the giant sons Of the embrace of angels.

“That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair,” &c. “There were giants on the earth in those days, and also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men: and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men, which were of old, men of renown.” Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4.

LETTER TO THOMAS MOORE

Venice, January 28th, 1817 Your letter of the 8th is before me. The remedy for your plethora is simple—­ abstinence. I was obliged to have recourse to the like some years ago, I mean in point of diet, and, with the exception of some convivial weeks and days, (it might be months, now and then), have kept to Pythagoras ever since. For all this, let me hear that you are better. You must not indulge in “filty beer,” nor in porter, nor eat suppers—­the last are the devil to those who swallow dinner. ******************************************* I am truly sorry to hear of your father’s misfortune—­cruel at any time, but doubly cruel in advanced life. However, you will, at least, have the satisfaction of doing your part by him, and, depend upon it, it will not be in vain. Fortune, to be sure, is a female, but not such a b** as the rest (always excepting your wife and my sister from such sweeping terms); for she generally has some justice in the long run. I have no spite against her, though between her and Nemesis I have had some sore gauntlets to run—­but then I have done my best to deserve no better. But to you, she is a good deal in arrear, and she will come round—­mind if she don’t: you have the vigour of life, of independence, of talent, spirit, and character all with you. What you can do for yourself, you have done and will do; and surely there are some others in the world who would not be sorry to be of use, if you would allow them to be useful, or at least attempt it. I think of being in England in the spring. If there is a row, by the sceptre of King Ludd, but I’ll be one; and if there is none, and only a continuance of “this meek, piping time of peace,” I will take a cottage a hundred yards to the south of your abode, and become your neighbour; and we will compose such canticles, and hold such dialogues, as shall be the terror of the Times (including the newspaper of that name), and the wonder, and honour, and praise, of the Morning Chronicle and posterity. I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming in February—­though I tremble for the “magnificence,” which you attribute to the new Childe Harold. I am glad you like it; it is a fine indistinct piece of poetical desolation, and my favourite. I was half mad during the time of its composition, between metaphysics, mountains, lakes, love unextinguishable, thoughts unutterable, and the nightmare of my own delinquencies. I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my



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mother-­in-­law; and, even then, if I could have been certain to haunt her—­but I won’t dwell upon these trifling family matters. Venice is in the estro of her carnival, and I have been up these last two nights at the ridotto and the opera, and all that kind of thing. Now for an adventure. A few days ago a gondolier brought me a billet without a subscription, intimating a wish on the part of the writer to meet me either in gondola or at the island of San Lazaro, or at a third rendezvous, indicated in the note. “I know the country’s disposition well”—in Venice “they do let Heaven see those tricks they dare not show,” &c. &c.; so, for all response, I said that neither of the three places suited me; but that I would either be at home at ten at night alone, or at the ridotto at midnight, where the writer might meet me masked. At ten o’clock I was at home and alone (Marianna was gone with her husband to a conversazione), when the door of my apartment opened, and in walked a well-­looking and (for an Italian) bionda girl of about nineteen, who informed me that she was married to the brother of my amorosa, and wished to have some conversation with me. I made a decent reply, and we had some talk in Italian and Romaic (her mother being a Greek of Corfu), when lo! in a very few minutes, in marches, to my very great astonishment, Marianna S[egati], in propria persona, and after making polite courtesy to her sister-­in-­ law and to me, without a single word seizes her said sister-­in-­law by the hair, and bestows upon her some sixteen slaps, which would have made your ear ache only to hear their echo. I need not describe the screaming which ensued. The luckless visitor took flight. I seized Marianna, who, after several vain efforts to get away in pursuit of the enemy, fairly went into fits in my arms; and, in spite of reasoning, eau de Cologne, vinegar, half a pint of water, and God knows what other waters beside, continued so till past midnight. After damning my servants for letting people in without apprizing me, I found that Marianna in the morning had seen her sister-­in-­law’s gondolier on the stairs, and, suspecting that his apparition boded her no good, had either returned of her own accord, or been followed by her maids or some other spy of her people to the conversazione, from whence she returned to perpetrate this piece of pugilism. I had seen fits before, and also some small scenery of the same genus in and out of our island: but this was not all. After about an hour, in comes—­who? why, Signor S[egati], her lord and husband, and finds me with his wife fainting upon the sofa, and all the apparatus of confusion, dishevelled hair, hats, handkerchiefs, salts, smelling-­bottles—­and the lady as pale as ashes without sense or motion. His first question was, “What is all this?” The lady could not reply—­so I did. I told him the explanation was the easiest thing in the world; but in the mean time it would be as well to recover his wife—­at least, her senses. This came about in due time of suspiration and respiration. You need not be alarmed—­jealousy is not the order of the day in Venice, and daggers are out of fashion; while duels, on love matters, are unknown—­at

lord byron 314 least, with the husbands. But, for all this, it was an awkward affair; and though he must have known that I made love to Marianna, yet I believe he was not, till that evening, aware of the extent to which it had gone. It is very well known that almost all the married women have a lover; but it is usual to keep up the forms, as in other nations. I did not, therefore, know what the devil to say. I could not out with the truth, out of regard to her, and I did not choose to lie for my sake;—besides, the thing told itself. I thought the best way would be to let her explain it as she chose (a woman being never at a loss—­the devil always sticks by them)—only determining to protect and carry her off, in case of any ferocity on the part of the Signor. I saw that he was quite calm. She went to bed, and next day—­how they settled it, I know not, but settle it they did. Well—­then I had to explain to Marianna about this never to be sufficiently confounded sister-­in-­law; which I did by swearing innocence, eternal constancy, &c. &c. * * * But the sister-­in-­law, very much discomposed with being treated in such wise, has (not having her own shame before her eyes) told the affair to half Venice, and the servants (who were summoned by the fight and the fainting) to the other half. But, here, nobody minds such trifles, except to be amused by them. I don’t know whether you will be so, but I have scrawled a long letter out of these follies. Believe me ever. &c.

LETTER TO THOMAS MOORE

Venice, February 28. 1817 You will, perhaps, complain as much of the frequency of my letters now, as you were wont to do of their rarity. I think this is the fourth within as many moons. I feel anxious to hear from you, even more than usual, because your last indicated that you were unwell. At present, I am on the invalid regimen myself. The Carnival—­that is, the latter part of it—­and sitting up late o’nights, had knocked me up a little. But it is over,—and it is now Lent, with all its abstinence and Sacred Music. The mumming closed with a masked ball at the Fenice, where I went, as also to most of the ridottos, etc., etc.; and, though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I find “the sword wearing out the scabbard,” though I have but just turned the corner of twenty-­nine. So, we’ll go no more a roving      So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving,       And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath,      And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe,       And Love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving,      And the day returns too soon, Yet we’ll go no more a roving      By the light of the moon.

I have lately had some news of litteratoor, as I heard the editor of the Monthly pronounce it once upon a time. I hear that W[edderburn] W[ebster] has been publishing and responding to the attacks of the Quarterly, in the learned Perry’s Chronicle. I read his poesies last autumn, and amongst them found an epitaph on his bull-­dog, and another on myself. But I beg to assure him (like the astrologer Partridge) that I am not only alive now but was alive also at the time he wrote it. * * * * Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter against the Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel awkwardly situated between him and Gifford, both being my friends. And this is your month of going to press—­by the body of Diana! (a Venetian oath,) I feel as anxious—­but not fearful for you—­as if it were myself coming

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out in a work of humour, which would, you know, be the antipodes of all my previous publications. I don’t think you have any thing to dread but your own reputation. You must keep up to that. As you never showed me a line of your work, I do not even know your measure; but you must send me a copy by Murray forthwith, and then you shall hear what I think. I dare say you are in a pucker. Of all authors, you are the only really modest one I ever met with,— which would sound oddly enough to those who recollect your morals when you were young—­that is, when you were extremely young— I don’t mean to stigmatise you either with years or morality. I believe I told you that the E[dinburgh] R[eview] had attacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have not seen it)—“Et tu, Jeffrey?”—“there is nothing but roguery in villainous man.” But I absolve him of all attacks, present and future; for I think he had already pushed his clemency in my behoof to the utmost, and I shall always think well of him. I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domestic destruction was a fine opening for all the world, of which all, who could, did well to avail themselves. If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, that it is not over with me—­I don’t mean in literature, for that is nothing; and it may seem odd enough to say, I do not think it my vocation. But you will see that I will do something or other—­the times and fortune permitting—­that, “like the cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puzzle the philosophers of all ages.” But I doubt whether my constitution will hold out. I have, at intervals, exorcised it most devilishly. I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I think of the spring. I shall have been away a year in April next. You never mention Rogers, nor Hodgson, your clerical neighbour, who has lately got a living near you. Has he also got a child yet?—his desideratum, when I saw him last. * * * * * * * * Pray let me hear from you, at your time and leisure, believing me ever and truly and affectionately, &c.

LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY

Sept. 15th. 1817 Dear Sir—­ I enclose a sheet for correction if ever you get to another ­edition—­you will observe that the blunder in printing makes it appear as if the Chateau was over St. Gingo—­instead of being on the opposite shore of the lake over Clarens—­so—­separate the paragraphs otherwise my topography will seem as inaccurate as your typography on this occasion.— —The other day I wrote to convey my proposition with regard to the 4th & concluding Canto—­I have gone over—& extended it to one hundred and fifty stanzas which is almost as long as the two first were originally—& longer by itself—­ than any of the smaller poems except the “Corsair”—Mr. Hobhouse has made some very valuable & accurate notes of considerable length—& you may be sure I will do for the text all that I can to finish with decency.—I look upon C[hild]e Harold as my best—­and as I begun—­I think of concluding with it—­but I make no resolutions on that head—­as I broke my former intention with regard to “the Corsair”—however—­I fear that I shall never do better—& yet—­not being thirty years of age for some moons to come—­one ought to be progressive as far as Intellect goes for many a good year—­but I have had a devilish deal of wear & tear of mind and body—­in my time—­ besides having published too often & much already. God grant me some judgement! to do what may be most fitting in that & every thing else—­for I doubt my own exceedingly.— —I have read “Lallah Rookh”—but not with sufficient attention yet—­for I ride about—& lounge—& ponder &—two or three other things—­so that my reading is very desultory & not so attentive as it used to be.—I am very glad to hear of its popularity—­for Moore is a very noble fellow in all respects—& will enjoy it without any of the bad feelings which Success—­good or evil—­sometimes engenders in the men of rhyme.— Of the poem itself I will tell you my opinion when I have mastered it—­I say of the poem—­for I don’t like the prose at all—­at all—­and in the mean time the “Fire-­worshippers” is the best and the “Veiled Prophet” the worst, of the volume.— —With regard to poetry in general I am convinced the more I think of it—­ that he and all of us—­Scott—­Southey—­Wordsworth—­ Moore—­Campbell—­I—are all in the wrong—­one as much as another—­that we are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical system—­or systems—­not worth a damn in itself—& from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are free—­and that the present & next ­generations will finally be of this opinion.—I am the  more confirmed in this—­ by having lately gone over some of our

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Classics—­particularly Pope—­whom I tried in this way—­I took Moore’s poems & my own & some others—& went over them side by side with Pope’s—­and I was really astonished (I ought not to have been so) and mortified—­at the ineffable distance in point of sense—­harmony—­effect—­and even Imagination Passion—& Invention—­between the little Queen Anne’s Man—& us of the lower Empire—­depend upon it [it] is all Horace then, and Claudian now among us—­and if I had to begin again—­I would model myself accordingly—­Crabbe’s the man—­but he has got a coarse and impracticable subject—& Rogers the Grandfather of living Poetry—­is retired upon half-­ pay, (I don’t mean as a Banker)— Since pretty Miss Jaqueline With her nose aquiline

and has done enough—­unless he were to do as he did formerly.—

LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY

Venice, January 8th. 1818 1. My dear Mr. Murray, You’re in a damned hurry To set up this ultimate Canto, But (if they don’t rob us) You'll see Mr. Hobhouse5 Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.— 2. For the Journal you hint of, As ready to print off; No doubt you do right to commend it But as yet I have writ off10 The devil a bit of Our “Beppo,” when copied—­I’ll send it.— 3. In the mean time you’ve “Gally” Whose verses all tally, Perhaps you may say he’s a Ninny,15 But if you abashed are Because of “Alashtar” He’ll piddle another “Phrosine”.— 4. Then you’ve Sotheby’s tour, No great things to be sure—20 You could hardly begin with a less work, For the pompous rascallion Who don’t speak Italian Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork.

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lord byron 5. No doubt he’s a rare man25 Without knowing German Translating his way up Parnassus, And now still absurder He meditates Murder As you’ll see in the trash he calls Tasso’s.30 6. But you’ve others his betters The real men of letters— Your Orators—­critics—­and wits— And I’ll bet that your Journal (Pray is it diurnal?)35 Will pay with your luckiest hits.— 7. You can make any loss up— With “Spence” and his Gossip, A work which must surely succeed, Then Queen Mary’s Epistle-­craft,40 With the new “Fytte” of “Whistlecraft” Must make people purchase and read.— 8. Then you’ve General Gordon, Who “girded his sword on” To serve with a Muscovite Master,45 And help him to polish A Nation so owlish, They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 9. For the man, “poor and shrewd,”* With whom you’d conclude50 A Compact without more delay, Perhaps some such pen is Still extant in Venice, But please Sir to mention your pay?—. *  〈Vide your letter.〉



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10. Now tell me some news55 Of your friends and the Muse Of the Bar,—or the Gown—­or the House, From Canning the tall wit, To Wilmot the small wit, Ward’s creeping Companion and Louse,—60 11. Who’s so damnably bit With fashion and Wit That he crawls on the surface like Vermin But an Insect in both,— By his Intellect’s growth,65 Of what size you may quickly determine. 12. Now, I’ll put out my taper (I’ve finished my paper For these stanzas you see on the brink stand) There’s a whore on my right,70 For I rhyme best at night When a C—­t is tied close to my Inkstand. 13. It was Mahomet’s notion        (See his life in Gibbon’s abstract) That comical motion Increased his “devotion in prayer”—75 If that tenet holds good In a Prophet, it should In a poet be equally fair.— 14. For, in rhyme or in love (Which both come from above)80 I’ll stand with our “Tommy” or “Sammy”    (“Moore” and “Rogers”) But the Sopha and lady Are both of them ready And so, here’s “Good Night to you dammee!”

Beppo, A Venetian Story (1818; 5th edition)

Figure 8  Title page, Beppo: A Venetian Story. 5th edn. (John Murray, 1818). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

BEPPO A Venetian Story [5th edition]

Rosalind.  Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. As You Like it, Act iv. Sc. I

Annotation of the Commentators That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentle­men of those times, and was then what Paris is now—­the seat of all ­dis­sol­ute­ness. S.A. I. ’Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout   All countries of the Catholic persuasion, Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about,   The people take their fill of recreation, And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 5   However high their rank, or low their station, With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing, And other things which may be had for asking. II. The moment night with dusky mantle covers   The skies (and the more duskily the better), 10 The time less liked by husbands than by lovers   Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter; And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers,   Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 15 Guitars, and every other sort of strumming.

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lord byron III. And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical,   Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical,   Greeks, Romans, Yankee-­doodles, and Hindoos; 20 All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical,   All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye. IV. You’d better walk about begirt with briars, 25   Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on A single stitch reflecting upon friars,   Although you swore it only was in fun; They’d haul you o’er the coals, and stir the fires   Of Phlegethon with every mother’s son, 30 Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron’s bubble That boiled your bones, unless you paid them double. V. But saving this, you may put on whate’er   You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, Such as in Monmouth-­street, or in Rag Fair, 35   Would rig you out in seriousness or joke; And even in Italy such places are   With prettier names in softer accents spoke, For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on No place that’s called “Piazza” in Great Britain. 40 VI. This feast is named the Carnival, which being   Interpreted, implies “farewell to flesh:” So call’d, because the name and thing agreeing,   Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 45   Is more than I can tell, although I guess ’Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, In the stage-­coach or packet, just at starting.



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VII. And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes,   And solid meats, and highly spic’d ragouts, 50 To live for forty days on ill-­dress’d fishes,   Because they have no sauces to their stews, A thing which causes many “poohs” and “pishes,”   And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse), From travellers accustom’d from a boy 55 To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy; VIII. And therefore humbly I would recommend   “The curious in fish-­sauce,” before they cross The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend,   Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 60 (Or if set out beforehand, these may send   By any means least liable to loss), Ketchup, Soy, Chili-­vinegar, and Harvey, Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye; IX. That is to say, if your religion’s Roman, 65   And you at Rome would do as Romans do, According to the proverb,—although no man,   If foreign, is oblig’d to fast; and you, If protestant, or sickly, or a woman,   Would rather dine in sin on a ragout— 70 Dine and be d—­d! I don’t mean to be coarse, But that’s the penalty, to say no worse. X. Of all the places where the Carnival   Was most facetious in the days of yore, For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 75   And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more Than I have time to tell now, or at all,   Venice the bell from every city bore, And at the moment when I fix my story, That sea-­born city was in all her glory. 80

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lord byron XI. They’ve pretty faces yet, those same Venetians,   Black eyes, arch’d brows, and sweet expressions still, Such as of old were copied from the Grecians,   In ancient arts by moderns mimick’d ill; And like so many Venuses of Titian’s 85   (The best’s at Florence—­see it, if ye will,) They look when leaning over the balcony, Or stepp’d from out a picture by Giorgione, XII. Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best;   And when you to Manfrini’s palace go, 90 That picture (howsoever fine the rest)   Is loveliest to my mind of all the show; It may perhaps be also to your zest,   And that’s the cause I rhyme upon it so, ’Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, 95 And self; but such a woman! love in life! XIII. Love in full life and length, not love ideal,   No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, But something better still, so very real,   That the sweet model must have been the same; 100 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal,   Wer’t not impossible, besides a shame: The face recals some face, as ’twere with pain, You once have seen, but ne’er will see again; XIV. One of those forms which flit by us, when we 105   Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; And, oh! the loveliness at times we see   In momentary gliding, the soft grace, The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree,   In many a nameless being we retrace, 110 Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, Like the lost Pleiad* seen no more below. * “Quæ septem dici sex tamen esse solent.” OVID.



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XV. I said that like a picture by Giorgione   Venetian women were, and so they are, Particularly seen from a balcony, 115   (For beauty’s sometimes best set off afar) And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni,   They peep from out the blind, or o’er the bar; And, truth to say, they’re mostly very pretty, And rather like to show it, more’s the pity! 120 XVI. For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,   Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, Which flies on wings of light-­heeled Mercuries,   Who do such things because they know no better; And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 125   When love links two young people in one fetter, Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. XVII. Shakespeare described the sex in Desdemona   As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 130 And to this day from Venice to Verona   Such matters may be probably the same, Except that since those times was never known a   Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 135 Because she had a “cavalier servente.” XVIII. Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous)   Is of a fair complexion altogether, Not like that sooty devil of Othello’s   Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 140 But worthier of these much more jolly fellows,   When weary of the matrimonial tether His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, But takes at once another, or another’s.

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lord byron XIX. Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 145   You should not, I’ll describe it you exactly: ’Tis a long covered boat that’s common here,   Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, Rowed by two rowers, each called “Gondolier,”   It glides along the water looking blackly, 150 Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, Where none can make out what you say or do. XX. And up and down the long canals they go,   And under the Rialto shoot along, By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 155   And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe,   But not to them do woeful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funeral’s done. 160 XXI. But to my story.—’Twas some years ago,   It may be thirty, forty, more or less, The carnival was at its height, and so   Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress; A certain lady went to see the show, 165   Her real name I know not, nor can guess, And so we’ll call her Laura, if you please, Because it slips into my verse with ease. XXII. She was not old, nor young, nor at the years   Which certain people call a “certain age,” 170 Which yet the most uncertain age appears,   Because I never heard, nor could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears,   To name, define by speech, or write on page, The period meant precisely by that word,— 175 Which surely is exceedingly absurd.



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XXIII. Laura was blooming still, had made the best   Of time, and time returned the compliment, And treated her genteelly, so that, drest,   She looked extremely well where’er she went: 180 A pretty woman is a welcome guest,   And Laura’s brow a frown had rarely bent, Indeed she shone all smiles, and seemed to flatter Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. XXIV. She was a married woman; ’tis convenient, 185   Because in Christian countries ’tis a rule To view their little slips with eyes more lenient;   Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, (Unless within the period intervenient,   A well-­timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 190 I don’t know how they ever can get over it, Except they manage never to discover it. XXV. Her husband sailed upon the Adriatic,   And made some voyages, too, in other seas, And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 195   (A forty days’ precaution ’gainst disease,) His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic,   For thence she could discern the ship with ease: He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, His name Giuseppe, called more briefly, Beppo.* 200 XXVI. He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard,   Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; Though coloured, as it were, within a tanyard,   He was a person both of sense and vigour— A better seaman never yet did man yard: 205  And she, although her manners shewed no rigour, Was deemed a woman of the strictest principle, So much as to be thought almost invincible. *  Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph.

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lord byron XXVII. But several years elapsed since they had met;   Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 210 That he had somehow blundered into debt,   And did not like the thoughts of steering home; And there were several offered any bet,   Or that he would, or that he would not come, For most men (till by losing rendered sager) 215 Will back their own opinions with a wager. XXVIII. ’Tis said that their last parting was pathetic,   As partings often are, or ought to be, And their presentiment was quite prophetic   That they should never more each other see, 220 (A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic,   Which I have known occur in two or three) When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, He left this Adriatic Ariadne. XXIX. And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 225   And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; She almost lost all appetite for victual,   And could not sleep with ease alone at night; She deemed the window-­frames and shutters brittle,   Against a daring house-­breaker or sprite, 230 And so she thought it prudent to connect her With a vice-­husband, chiefly to protect her. XXX. She chose, (and what is there they will not choose,   If only you will but oppose their choice?) ’Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 235   And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, A man some women like, and yet abuse—   A coxcomb was he by the public voice; A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, And in his pleasures of great liberality. 240



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XXXI. And then he was a count, and then he knew   Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; The last not easy, be it known to you,   For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. He was a critic upon operas, too, 245   And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin; And no Venetian audience could endure a Song, scene, or air, when he cried “seccatura.” XXXII. His “bravo” was decisive, for that sound   Hushed “academie,” sighed in silent awe; 250 The fiddlers trembled as he looked around,   For fear of some false note’s detected flaw. The “prima donna’s” tuneful heart would bound,   Dreading the deep damnation of his “bah!” Soprano, basso, even the contra-­alto, 255 Wished him five fathom under the Rialto. XXXIII. He patroniz’d the Improvisatori,   Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story,   Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 260 Italians can be, though in this their glory   Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, And to his very valet seem’d a hero. XXXIV. Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous; 265   So that no sort of female could complain, Although they’re now and then a little clamorous,   He never put the pretty souls in pain; His heart was one of those which most enamour us,   Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 270 He was a lover of the good old school, Who still become more constant as they cool.

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lord byron XXXV. No wonder such accomplishments should turn   A female head, however sage and steady— With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 275   In law he was almost as good as dead, he Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show’d the least concern,   And she had waited several years already; And really if a man won’t let us know That he’s alive, he’s dead, or should be so. 280 XXXVI. Besides, within the Alps, to every woman   (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) ’Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men;   I can’t tell who first brought the custom in, But “Cavalier Serventes” are quite common, 285   And no one notices, nor cares a pin; And we may call this (not to say the worst) A second marriage which corrupts the first. XXXVII. The word was formerly a “Cicisbeo,”  But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; 290 The Spaniards call the person a “Cortejo,”*   For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent; In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,   And may perhaps at last be o’er the sea sent. But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! 295 Or what becomes of damage and divorces? XXXVIII. However, I still think, with all due deference   To the fair single part of the Creation, That married ladies should preserve the preference  In tête-à-tête or general conversation— 300 And this I say without peculiar reference   To England, France, or any other nation—

* “Cortejo” is pronounced “Corteho,” with an aspirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there is as yet no precise name for in England, though the practice is as common as in any tramontane country whatever.



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Because they know the world, and are at ease, And being natural, naturally please. XXXIX. ’Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, 305   But shy and awkward at first coming out, So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming,   All Giggle, Blush;—half Pertness, and half Pout; And glancing at Mamma, for fear there’s harm in   What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 310 The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter— Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. XL. But “Cavalier Servente” is the phrase   Used in politest circles to express This supernumerary slave, who stays 315   Close to the lady as a part of dress, Her word the only law which he obeys.   His is no sinecure, as you may guess; Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and shawl. 320 XLI. With all its sinful doings, I must say,   That Italy’s a pleasant place to me, Who love to see the Sun shine every day,   And vines (not nail’d to walls) from tree to tree Festoon’d, much like the back scene of a play, 325   Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France. XLII. I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,   Without being forc’d to bid my groom be sure 330 My cloak is round his middle strapp’d about,   Because the skies are not the most secure; I know too that, if stopp’d upon my route,   Where the green alleys windingly allure, Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way,— 335 In England ’twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

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lord byron XLIII. I also like to dine on becaficas,   To see the Sun set, sure he’ll rise to-­morrow, Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as   A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 340 But with all Heaven t’himself; that day will break as   Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forc’d to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London’s smoky caldron simmers. XLIV. I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 345   Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,   With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,   That not a single accent seems uncouth, 350 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we’re oblig’d to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. XLV. I like the women too (forgive my folly),   From the rich peasant-­cheek of ruddy bronze, And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 355   Of rays that say a thousand things at once, To the high dama’s brow, more melancholy,   But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 360 XLVI. Eve of the land which still is Paradise!   Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire Raphael,* who died in thy embrace, and vies   With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeath’d us?—in what guise, 365   Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,

*  For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael’s death, see his Lives.

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Would words describe thy past and present glow, While yet Canova can create below?* XLVII. “England! with all thy faults I love thee still,”   I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; 370 I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;   I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill;   I like the Habeas Corpus (when we’ve got it); I like a parliamentary debate, 375 Particularly when ’tis not too late; XLVIII. I like the taxes, when they’re not too many;   I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; I like a beef-­steak, too, as well as any;   Have no objection to a pot of beer; 380 I like the weather, when it is not rainy,   That is, I like two months of every year. And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and every thing. XLIX. Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 385   Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt, Our little riots just to show we are free men,   Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,   All these I can forgive, and those forget, 390 And greatly venerate our recent glories, And wish they were not owing to the Tories. *  Note.

(In talking thus, the writer, more especially   Of women, would be understood to say, He speaks as a spectator, not officially,   And always, reader, in a modest way; Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he   Appear to have offended in this lay, Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets Would seem unfinish’d like their untrimm’d bonnets.) (Signed)                 Printer’s Devil.

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lord byron L. But to my tale of Laura,—for I find   Digression is a sin, that by degrees Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 395   And, therefore, may the reader too displease— The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,   And caring little for the author’s ease, Insist on knowing what he means, a hard And hapless situation for a bard. 400 LI. Oh that I had the art of easy writing   What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing   Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 405   A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; And sell you, mix’d with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism. LII. But I am but a nameless sort of person,   (A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 410 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,   The first that Walker’s Lexicon unravels, And when I can’t find that, I put a worse on,   Not caring as I ought for critics’ cavils; I’ve half a mind to tumble down to prose, 415 But verse is more in fashion—­so here goes. LIII. The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,   Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, For half a dozen years without estrangement;   They had their little differences, too; 420 Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant:   In such affairs there probably are few Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble.



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LIV. But on the whole, they were a happy pair, 425   As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,   Their chains so slight, ’twas not worth while to break them: The world beheld them with indulgent air;   The pious only wish’d “the devil take them!” 430 He took them not; he very often waits, And leaves old sinners to be young ones’ baits. LV. But they were young: Oh! what without our youth   Would love be! What would youth be without love! Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 435   Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth—   One of few things experience don’t improve, Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows Are always so preposterously jealous. 440 LVI. It was the Carnival, as I have said   Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made,   Which you do when your mind’s made up to go To-­night to Mrs. Boehm’s masquerade, 445   Spectator, or partaker in the show; The only difference known between the cases Is—­here, we have six weeks of “varnished faces.” LVII. Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before)   A pretty woman as was ever seen, 450 Fresh as the Angel o’er a new inn door,   Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, With all the fashions which the last month wore,   Coloured, and silver paper leav’d between That and the title-­page, for fear the press 455 Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.

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lord byron LVIII. They went to the Ridotto;—’tis a hall   Where people dance, and sup, and dance again; Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqu’d ball,   But that’s of no importance to my strain; 460 ’Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall,   Excepting that it can’t be spoilt by rain: The company is “mix’d” (the phrase I quote is, As much as saying, they’re below your notice); LIX. For a “mixt company” implies that, save 465   Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, Whom you may bow to without looking grave,   The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore Of public places, where they basely brave   The fashionable stare of twenty score 470 Of well-­bred persons, called “the World;” but I, Although I know them, really don’t know why. LX. This is the case in England; at least was   During the dynasty of Dandies, now Perchance succeeded by some other class 475   Of imitated imitators:—how Irreparably soon decline, alas!   The demagogues of fashion: all below Is frail; how easily the world is lost By love, or war, and now and then by frost! 480 LXI. Crush’d was Napoleon by the northern Thor,   Who knock’d his army down with icy hammer, Stopp’d by the elements, like a whaler, or   A blundering novice in his new French grammar; Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 485   And as for Fortune—­but I dare not d—­n her, Because, were I to ponder to infinity, The more I should believe in her divinity.



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LXII. She rules the present, past, and all to be yet,   She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage; 490 I cannot say that she’s done much for me yet;   Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, We’ve not yet clos’d accounts, and we shall see yet   How much she’ll make amends for past miscarriage; Meantime the goddess I’ll no more importune, 495 Unless to thank her when she’s made my fortune. LXIII. To turn,—and to return;—the devil take it!   This story slips for ever through my fingers, Because, just as the stanza likes to make it,   It needs must be—­and so it rather lingers; 500 This form of verse began, I can’t well break it,   But must keep time and tune like public singers; But if I once get through my present measure, I’ll take another when I’m next at leisure. LXIV. They went to the Ridotto (’tis a place 505   To which I mean to go myself to-­morrow, Just to divert my thoughts a little space,   Because I’m rather hippish, and may borrow Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face   May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 510 Slackens its pace sometimes, I’ll make, or find, Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) LXV. Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,   Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; 515   To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow’d,   Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 520

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lord byron LXVI. One has false curls, another too much paint,   A third—­where did she buy that frightful turban? A fourth’s so pale she fears she’s going to faint,   A fifth’s look’s vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth’s white silk has got a yellow taint, 525   A seventh’s thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo! an eighth appears,—“I’ll see no more!” For fear, like Banquo’s kings, they reach a score. LXVII. Mean time, while she was thus at others gazing,   Others were levelling their looks at her; 530 She heard the men’s half-­whispered mode of praising,   And, till ’twas done, determined not to stir; The women only thought it quite amazing   That at her time of life so many were Admirers still,—but men are so debased, 535 Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. LXVIII. For my part, now, I ne’er could understand   Why naughty women——but I won’t discuss A thing which is a scandal to the land,   I only don’t see why it should be thus; 540 And if I were but in a gown and band,   Just to entitle me to make a fuss, I’d preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. LXIX. While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 545   Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, So that her female friends, with envy broiling,   Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that; And well drest males still kept before her filing,   And passing bowed and mingled with her chat; 550 More than the rest one person seemed to stare With pertinacity that’s rather rare.



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LXX. He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany;   And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 555   Although their usage of their wives is sad; ’Tis said they use no better than a dog any   Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: They have a number, though they ne’er exhibit ’em, Four wives by law, and concubines “ad libitum.” 560 LXXI. They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily,   They scarcely can behold their male relations, So that their moments do not pass so gaily   As is supposed the case with northern nations; Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely: 565   And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either past in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. LXXII. They cannot read, and so don’t lisp in criticism;   Nor write, and so they don’t affect the muse; 570 Were never caught in epigram or witticism,   Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,— In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism!   But luckily these beauties are no “blues,” No bustling Botherbys have they to show ’em 575 “That charming passage in the last new poem.” LXXIII. No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,   Who having angled all his life for fame, And getting but a nibble at a time,   Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 580 Small “Triton of the minnows,” the sublime   Of mediocrity, the furious tame, The echo’s echo, usher of the school Of female wits, boy bards—­in short, a fool!

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lord byron LXXIV. A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 585   The approving “Good!” (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze,   The bluest of bluebottles you e’er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,   Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 590 Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. LXXV. One hates an author that’s all author, fellows   In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 595   One don’t know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;   Of coxcombry’s worst coxcombs e’en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquenched snuffings of the midnight taper. 600 LXXVI. Of these same we see several, and of others,   Men of the world, who know the world like men, S—­tt, R—­s, M—­re, and all the better brothers,   Who think of something else besides the pen; But for the children of the “mighty mother’s,” 605   The would-­be wits and can’t-­be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily “tea is ready,” Smug coterie, and literary lady. LXXVII. The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention   Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 610 And one would seem to them a new invention,   Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; I think ’twould almost be worth while to pension   (Though best-­sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach 615 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.



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LXXVIII. No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses,   No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, No circulating library amasses   Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 620 Upon the living manners, as they pass us;   No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. LXXIX. Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 625   I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,   I’ll keep them for my life (to come) in prose; I fear I have a little turn for satire,   And yet methinks the older that one grows 630 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. LXXX. Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!   Ye happy mixtures of more happy days! In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 635   Abominable Man no more allays His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,   I love you both, and both shall have my praise: Oh, for old Saturn’s reign of sugar-­candy!— Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 640 LXXXI. Our Laura’s Turk still kept his eyes upon her,   Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, Which seems to say, “Madam, I do you honour,   And while I please to stare, you’ll please to stay;” Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 645   But Laura could not thus be led astray, She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle Even at this stranger’s most outlandish ogle.

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lord byron LXXXII. The morning now was on the point of breaking,   A turn of time at which I would advise 650 Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking   In any other kind of exercise, To make their preparations for forsaking   The ball-­room ere the sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 655 His blushes make them look a little pale. LXXXIII. I’ve seen some balls and revels in my time,   And staid them over for some silly reason, And then I looked, (I hope it was no crime,)   To see what lady best stood out the season; 660 And though I’ve seen some thousands in their prime,   Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, I never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn,) Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. LXXXIV. The name of this Aurora I’ll not mention, 665   Although I might, for she was nought to me More than that patent work of God’s invention,   A charming woman, whom we like to see; But writing names would merit reprehension,   Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 670 At the next London or Parisian ball You still may mark her cheek, out-­blooming all. LXXXV. Laura, who knew it would not do at all   To meet the daylight after seven hours sitting Among three thousand people at a ball, 675   To make her curtsey thought it right and fitting; The Count was at her elbow with her shawl,   And they the room were on the point of quitting, When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got Just in the very place where they should not. 680



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LXXXVI. In this they’re like our coachmen, and the cause   Is much the same—­the crowd, and pulling, hauling, With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,   They make a never intermitted bawling. At home, our Bow-­street gemmen keep the laws, 685   And here a sentry stands within your calling; But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing, And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. LXXXVII. The Count and Laura found their boat at last,   And homeward floated o’er the silent tide, 690 Discussing all the dances gone and past;   The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; Some little scandals eke: but all aghast   (As to their palace stairs the rowers glide,) Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 695 When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. LXXXVIII. “Sir,” said the Count, with brow exceeding grave,   “Your unexpected presence here will make It necessary for myself to crave   Its import? But perhaps ’tis a mistake; 700 I hope it is so; and at once to wave   All compliment, I hope so for your sake; You understand my meaning, or you shall.” “Sir,” (quoth the Turk), “ ’tis no mistake at all. LXXXIX. “That lady is my wife!” Much wonder paints 705   The lady’s changing cheek, as well it might; But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,   Italian females don’t do so outright; They only call a little on their saints,   And then come to themselves, almost or quite; 710 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

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lord byron XC. She said,—what could she say? Why, not a word:   But the Count courteously invited in The stranger, much appeased by what he heard: 715   “Such things perhaps, we’d best discuss within,” Said he, “don’t let us make ourselves absurd   In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, For then the chief and only satisfaction Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction.” 720 XCI. They entered, and for coffee called,—it came,   A beverage for Turks and Christians both, Although the way they make it’s not the same.   Now Laura, much recovered, or less loth To speak, cries “Beppo! what’s your pagan name? 725   Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth! And how came you to keep away so long? Are you not sensible ’twas very wrong? XCII. “And are you really, truly, now a Turk?   With any other women did you wive? 730 Is’t true they use their fingers for a fork?   Well, that’s the prettiest shawl—­as I’m alive! You’ll give it me? They say you eat no pork.   And how so many years did you contrive To—­Bless me! did I ever? No, I never 735 Saw a man grown so yellow! How’s your liver? XCIII. “Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not;   It shall be shaved before you’re a day older; Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot—   Pray don’t you think the weather here is colder? 740 How do I look? You shan’t stir from this spot   In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it’s grown!”



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XCIV. What answer Beppo made to these demands, 745   Is more than I know. He was cast away About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands;   Became a slave of course, and for his pay Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands   Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 750 He joined the rogues and prospered, and became A renegado of indifferent fame. XCV. But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so   Keen the desire to see his home again, He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 755   And not be always thieving on the main; Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,   And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, Bound for Corfu; she was a fine polacca, Manned with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 760 XCVI. Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash,   He then embarked, with risk of life and limb, And got clear off, although the attempt was rash;   He said that Providence protected him— For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 765   In our opinions:—well, the ship was trim, Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. XCVII. They reached the island, he transferred his lading,   And self and live-­stock, to another bottom, 770 And pass’d for a true Turkey-­merchant, trading   With goods of various names, but I’ve forgot ’em. However, he got off by this evading,   Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 775 His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.

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lord byron XCVIII. His wife received, the patriarch re-­baptized him,   (He made the church a present by the way); He then threw off the garments which disguised him,   And borrowed the Count’s small-­clothes for a day: 780 His friends the more for his long absence prized him,   Finding he’d wherewithal to make them gay, With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, For stories,—but I don’t believe the half of them. XCIX. Whate’er his youth had suffered, his old age 785   With wealth and talking made him some amends; Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage,   I’ve heard the Count and he were always friends. My pen is at the bottom of a page,   Which being finished, here the story ends; 790 ’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Canto the Fourth (1818)

Figure 9  Title page, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: Canto the Fourth. 1st edn. ( John Murray, 1818). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE Canto IV

Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna,   Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra Italia, e un mare e l’altro, che la bagna. Ariosto, Satira iii. Venice, January 2, 1818. TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. &c. &c. &c. MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, After an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,—to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than—­though not ungrateful—­ I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet,—to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril—­to a friend often tried and never found wanting;—to yourself. In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I wish to do honour to myself by the record of many years intimacy with a man of learning, of ­talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship; and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-­will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which

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cannot poison my future while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an in­defat­ ig­able regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without thinking better of his species and of himself. It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable—­Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe; and however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects. With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith’s “Citizen of the World,” whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined, that I had drawn, a distinction between the author and the pilgrim; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether—­and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. In the course of the following Canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects and the consequent reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us,—though perhaps no inattentive observers,



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nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode,—to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The state of literary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language—“Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la più nobile ed insieme la più dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l’antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima.” Italy has great names still—­Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres; and in some the very highest—­Europe—­the World—­has but one Canova. It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that “La pianta uomo nasce più robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra—­e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova.” Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles and the despair of ages, their still unquenched “longing after immortality,”—the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers’ chorus, “Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non è più come era prima,” it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of ex­ult­ ation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me,    “Non movero mai corda Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda.” What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to enquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the South, “Verily they will have their reward,” and at no very distant period.

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Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state; and repeat once more how truly I am ever Your obliged And affectionate friend, BYRON. I.  I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;   A palace and a prison on each hand:   I saw from out the wave her structures rise   As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:   A thousand years their cloudy wings expand5   Around me, and a dying Glory smiles   O’er the far times, when many a subject land   Look’d to the winged Lion’s marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, thron’d on her hundred isles! II.   She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,10   Rising with her tiara of proud towers   At airy distance, with majestic motion,   A ruler of the waters and their powers:   And such she was;—her daughters had their dowers   From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East15   Pour’d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.   In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem’d their dignity increas’d. III.   In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more,   And silent rows the songless gondolier;20   Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,   And music meets not always now the ear:   Those days are gone—­but Beauty still is here.   States fall, arts fade—­but Nature doth not die,   Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,25   The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

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IV.   But unto us she hath a spell beyond   Her name in story, and her long array   Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond30   Above the dogeless city’s vanish’d sway;   Ours is a trophy which will not decay   With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,   And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away—   The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,35 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. V.   The beings of the mind are not of clay;   Essentially immortal, they create   And multiply in us a brighter ray   And more beloved existence: that which Fate40   Prohibits to dull life, in this our state   Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied   First exiles, then replaces what we hate;   Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.45 VI.   Such is the refuge of our youth and age,   The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy;   And this worn feeling peoples many a page,   And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye:   Yet there are things whose strong reality50   Outshines our fairy-­land; in shape and hues   More beautiful than our fantastic sky,   And the strange constellations which the Muse O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: VII.              

I saw or dreamed of such,—but let them go—55 They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; And whatsoe’er they were—­are now but so: I could replace them if I would, still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found;60 Let these too go—­for waking Reason deems

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lord byron   Such over-­weening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. VIII.   I’ve taught me other tongues—­and in strange eyes   Have made me not a stranger; to the mind65   Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;   Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find   A country with—­ay, or without mankind;   Yet was I born where men are proud to be,   Not without cause; and should I leave behind70   The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX.   Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay   My ashes in soil which is not mine,   My spirit shall resume it—­if we may75   Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine   My hopes of being remembered in my line   With my land’s language: if too fond and far   These aspirations in their scope incline,—   If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,80 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar X.   My name from out the temple where the dead   Are honoured by the nations—­let it be—   And light the laurels on a loftier head!   And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me—85   “Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.”   Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need;   The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree   I planted,—they have torn me,—and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.90 XI.          

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renewed, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood95



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  Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,   Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,   And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. XII.   The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns—100   An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;   Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains   Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt   From power’s high pinnacle, when they have felt   The sunshine for a while, and downward go105   Like lauwine loosen’d from the mountain’s belt;   Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! Th’ octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe. XIII.   Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,   Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;110   But is not Doria’s menace come to pass?   Are they not bridled?—Venice, lost and won,   Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,   Sinks, like a sea-­weed, into whence she rose!   Better be whelm’d beneath the waves, and shun,115   Even in destruction’s depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. XIV.   In youth she was all glory,—a new Tyre,—   Her very by-­word sprung from victory,   The “Planter of the Lion,”* which through fire120   And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea;   Though making many slaves, herself still free,   And Europe’s bulwark ’gainst the Ottomite;   Witness Troy’s rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye   Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight!125 For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.

*  Plant the Lion—­that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon—­Pianta-leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon.

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lord byron XV.   Statues of glass—­all shiver’d—­the long file   Of her dead Doges are declin’d to dust;   But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile   Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;130   Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,   Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls,   Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must   Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o’er Venice’ lovely walls.135 XVI.   When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse,   And fetter’d thousands bore the yoke of war,   Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,*   Her voice their only ransom from afar:   See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car140   Of the o’ermaster’d victor stops, the reins   Fall from his hands—­his idle scimitar   Starts from its belt—­he rends his captive’s chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII.   Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,145   Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,   Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,   Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot   Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot   Is shameful to the nations,—most of all,150   Albion! to thee: the Ocean queen should not   Abandon Ocean’s children; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. XVIII.        

I lov’d her from my boyhood—­she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart,155 Rising like water-­columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; *  The story is told in Plutarch’s life of Nicias.



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  And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare’s art,*   Had stamp’d her image in me, and even so,   Although I found her thus, we did not part,160   Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. XIX.   I can repeople with the past—­and of   The present there is still for eye and thought,   And meditation chasten’d down, enough;165   And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;   And of the happiest moments which were wrought   Within the web of my existence, some   From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught:   There are some feelings Time can not benumb,170 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. XX.   But from their nature will the tannen grow   Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter’d rocks,   Rooted in barrenness, where nought below   Of soil supports them ’gainst the Alpine shocks175   Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks   The howling tempest, till its height and frame   Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks   Of bleak, grey, granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree;—the mind may grow the same.180 XXI.   Existence may be borne, and the deep root   Of life and sufferance make its firm abode   In bare and desolated bosoms: mute   The camel labours with the heaviest load,   And the wolf dies in silence,—not bestow’d185   In vain should such example be; if they,   Things of ignoble or of savage mood,   Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear,—it is but for a day. * Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udolpho; the Ghost-­seer, or Armenian; the Merchant of Venice; Othello.

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lord byron XXII.   All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy’d,190   Even by the sufferer; and, in each event   Ends:—Some, with hope replenish’d and rebuoy’d,   Return to whence they came—­with like intent,   And weave their web again; some, bow’d and bent,   Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time,195   And perish with the reed on which they leant;   Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were form’d to sink or climb: XXIII.              

But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting,200 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever: it may be a sound— A tone of music,—summer’s eve—­or spring,205   A flower—­the wind—­the ocean—­which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound; XXIV.              

And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renew’d, nor can efface210 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesign’d, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,   The cold—­the changed—­perchance the dead—­anew,215 The mourn’d, the loved, the lost—­too many!—yet how few! XXV.   But my soul wanders; I demand it back   To meditate amongst decay, and stand   A ruin amidst ruins; there to track   Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er a land220  Which was the mightiest in its old command,  And is the loveliest, and must ever be



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  The master-­mould of Nature’s heavenly hand,   Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, The beautiful, the brave—­the lords of earth and sea,225 XXVI.   The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!   And even since, and now, fair Italy!   Thou art the garden of the world, the home   Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;   Even in thy desart, what is like to thee?230   Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste   More rich than other climes’ fertility;   Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. XXVII.   The Moon is up, and yet it is not night—235   Sunset divides the sky with her—­a sea   Of glory streams along the Alpine height   Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free   From clouds, but of all colours seems to be   Melted to one vast Iris of the West,240   Where the Day joins the past Eternity;   While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest Floats through the azure air—­an island of the blest! XXVIII.   A single star is at her side, and reigns   With her o’er half the lovely heaven; but still245   Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains   Roll’d o’er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,   As Day and Night contending were, until   Nature reclaim’d her order:—gently flows   The deep-­dyed Brenta, where their hues instil250   The odorous purple of a new-­born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass’d within it glows, XXIX.   Fill’d with the face of heaven, which, from afar,   Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

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lord byron   From the rich sunset to the rising star,255   Their magical variety diffuse:   And now they change; a paler shadow strews   Its mantle o’er the mountains; parting day   Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues   With a new colour as it gasps away,260 The last still loveliest, till—’tis gone—­and all is gray. XXX.   There is a tomb in Arqua;—rear’d in air,   Pillar’d in their sarcophagus, repose   The bones of Laura’s lover: here repair   Many familiar with his well-­sung woes,265   The pilgrims of his genius. He arose   To raise a language, and his land reclaim   From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:   Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.270 XXXI.   They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;   The mountain-­village where his latter days   Went down the vale of years; and ’tis their pride—   An honest pride—­and let it be their praise,   To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze275   His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain   And venerably simple, such as raise   A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane. XXXII.   And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt280   Is one of that complexion which seems made   For those who their mortality have felt,   And sought a refuge from their hopes decay’d   In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade,   Which shows a distant prospect far away285   Of busy cities, now in vain display’d,   For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,

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XXXIII.   Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,   And shining in the brawling brook, where-­by,290   Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours   With a calm languor, which, though to the eye   Idlesse it seem, hath its morality.   If from society we learn to live,   ’Tis solitude should teach us how to die;295   It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone—­man with his God must strive: XXXIV.   Or, it may be, with demons, who impair   The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey   In melancholy bosoms, such as were300   Of moody texture from their earliest day,   And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,   Deeming themselves predestin’d to a doom   Which is not of the pangs that pass away;   Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,305 The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV.   Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-­g rown streets,   Whose symmetry was not for solitude,   There seems as ’twere a curse upon the seats   Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood310   Of Este, which for many an age made good   Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore   Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood   Of petty power impell’d, of those who wore The wreath which Dante’s brow alone had worn before.315 XXXVI.            

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! And see how dearly earn’d Torquato’s fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: The miserable despot could not quell320 The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend

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lord byron   With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell   Where he had plung’d it. Glory without end Scatter’d the clouds away—­and on that name attend XXXVII.   The tears and praises of all time; while thine325   Would rot in its oblivion—­in the sink   Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line   Is shaken into nothing; but the link   Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think   Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn—330   Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink   From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad’st to mourn: XXXVIII.   Thou! form’d to eat, and be despis’d, and die,   Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou335   Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty:   He! with a glory round his furrow’d brow,   Which emanated then, and dazzles now   In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire;   And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow340   No strain which shamed his country’s creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth—­monotony in wire! XXXIX.   Peace to Torquato’s injur’d shade! ’twas his   In life and death to be the mark where Wrong   Aim’d with her poison’d arrows; but to miss.345   Oh, victor unsurpass’d in modern song!   Each year brings forth its millions; but how long   The tide of generations shall roll on,   And not the whole combin’d and countless throng   Compose a mind like thine? though all in one350 Condens’d their scatter’d rays, they would not form a sun. XL.        

Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those, Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose The Tuscan father’s comedy divine;355



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  Then, not unequal to the Florentine,   The southern Scott, the minstrel who call’d forth   A new creation with his magic line,   And, like the Ariosto of the North, Sang ladye-­love and war, romance and knightly worth.360 XLI.   The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust   The iron crown of laurel’s mimic’d leaves;   Nor was the ominous element unjust,   For the true laurel-­wreath which Glory weaves   Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,365   And the false semblance but disgraced his brow;   Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves,   Know, that the lightning sanctifies below Whate’er it strikes;—yon head is doubly sacred now. XLII.   Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast370   The fatal gift of beauty, which became   A funeral dower of present woes and past,   On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough’d by shame,   And annals graved in characters of flame.   Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness375   Less lovely or more powerful, and could’st claim   Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; XLIII.   Then might’st thou more appal; or, less desired,   Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored380   For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,   Would not be seen the armed torrents pour’d   Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde   Of many-­nation’d spoilers from the Po   Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger’s sword385   Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, Victor or vanquish’d, thou the slave of friend or foe. XLIV.   Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,   The Roman friend of Rome’s least-­mortal mind,

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lord byron   The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim390   The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,   Came Megara before me, and behind   Ægina lay, Piræus on the right,   And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined   Along the prow, and saw all these unite395 In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; XLV.   For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear’d   Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site,   Which only make more mourn’d and more endear’d   The few last rays of their far-­scattered light,400   And the crush’d relics of their vanish’d might.   The Roman saw these tombs in his own age,   These sepulchres of cities, which excite   Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage.405 XLVI.   That page is now before me, and on mine   His country’s ruin added to the mass   Of perish’d states he mourn’d in their decline,   And I in desolation: all that was   Of then destruction is; and now, alas!410   Rome—­Rome imperial, bows her to the storm,   In the same dust and blackness, and we pass   The skeleton of her Titanic form, Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVII.   Yet, Italy! through every other land415   Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side;   Mother of Arts! as once of arms; thy hand   Was then our guardian, and is still our guide;   Parent of our Religion! whom the wide   Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!420   Europe, repentant of her parricide,   Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.

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XLVIII.   But Arno wins us to the fair white walls,   Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps425   A softer feeling for her fairy halls.   Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps   Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps   To laughing life, with her redundant horn.   Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps430   Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeem’d to a new morn. XLIX.   There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills   The air around with beauty; we inhale   The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils435   Part of its immortality; the veil   Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale   We stand, and in that form and face behold   What Mind can make, when Nature’s self would fail;   And to the fond idolaters of old440 Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: L.   We gaze and turn away, and know not where,   Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart   Reels with its fulness; there—­for ever there—   Chain’d to the chariot of triumphal Art,445   We stand as captives, and would not depart.   Away!—there need no words, nor terms precise,   The paltry jargon of the marble mart,   Where Pedantry gulls Folly—­we have eyes: Blood—­pulse—­and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd’s prize.450 LI.            

Appear’dst thou not to Paris in this guise? Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, In all thy perfect goddess-­ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquish’d Lord of War? And gazing in thy face as toward a star,455 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,

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lord byron   Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are   With lava kisses melting while they burn, Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn! LII.   Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love,460   Their full divinity inadequate   That feeling to express, or to improve,   The gods become as mortals, and man’s fate   Has moments like their brightest; but the weight   Of earth recoils upon us;—let it go!465   We can recal such visions, and create,   From what has been, or might be, things which grow, Into thy statue’s form, and look like gods below. LIII.   I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands,   The artist and his ape, to teach and tell470   How well his connoisseurship understands   The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell:   Let these describe the undescribable:   I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream   Wherein that image shall for ever dwell;475   The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. LIV.   In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie   Ashes which make it holier, dust which is   Even in itself an immortality,480   Though there were nothing save the past, and this,   The particle of those sublimities   Which have relaps’d to chaos:—here repose   Angelo’s, Alfieri’s bones, and his,   The starry Galileo, with his woes;485 Here Machiavelli’s earth, return’d to whence it rose. LV.   These are four minds, which, like the elements,   Might furnish forth creation:—Italy!



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  Time, which hath wrong’d thee with ten thousand rents   Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,490   And hath denied, to every other sky,   Spirits which soar from ruin:—thy decay   Is still impregnate with divinity,   Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-­day.495 LVI.   But where repose the all Etruscan three—   Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,   The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he   Of the Hundred Tales of love—­where did they lay   Their bones, distinguish’d from our common clay500   In death as life? Are they resolv’d to dust,   And have their country’s marbles nought to say?   Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? LVII.   Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,505   Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;   Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,   Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore   Their children’s children would in vain adore   With the remorse of ages; and the crown510   Which Petrarch’s laureate brow supremely wore,   Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled—­not thine own. LVIII.   Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed   His dust,—and lies it not her Great among,515   With many a sweet and solemn requiem breath’d   O’er him who form’d the Tuscan’s siren tongue?   That music in itself, whose sounds are song,   The poetry of speech? No;—even his tomb   Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigot’s wrong,520   No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom!

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lord byron LIX.   And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust;   Yet for this want more noted, as of yore   The Cæsar’s pageant, shorn of Brutus’ bust,525   Did but of Rome’s best Son remind her more:   Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore,   Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps   The immortal exile;—Arqua, too, her store   Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps,530 While Florence vainly begs her banish’d dead and weeps. LX.   What is her pyramid of precious stones?   Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues   Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones   Of merchant-­dukes? the momentary dews535   Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse   Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead,   Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse,   Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.540 LXI.   There be more things to greet the heart and eyes   In Arno’s dome of Art’s most princely shrine,   Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies;   There be more marvels yet—­but not for mine;   For I have been accustomed to entwine545   My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields,   Than Art in galleries: though a work divine   Calls for my spirit’s homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII.              

Is of another temper, and I roam550 By Thrasimene’s lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian’s warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore,555 Where Courage falls in her despairing files,

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  And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter’d o’er, LXIII.   Like to a forest fell’d by mountain winds;   And such the storm of battle on this day,560   And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds   To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,   An earthquake reel’d unheededly away!   None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,   And yawning forth a grave for those who lay565   Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV.   The Earth to them was as a rolling bark   Which bore them to Eternity; they saw   The Ocean round, but had no time to mark570   The motions of their vessel; Nature’s law,   In them suspended, reck’d not of the awe   Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds   Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw   From their down-­toppling nests; and bellowing herds575 Stumble o’er heaving plains, and man’s dread hath no words. LXV.   Far other scene is Thrasimene now;   Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain   Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;   Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain580   Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta’en—   A little rill of scanty stream and bed—   A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain;   And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turn’d the unwilling waters red.585 LXVI.        

But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e’er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear

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lord byron   Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-­white steer590   Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters!   And most serene of aspect, and most clear;   Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters— A mirror and a bath for Beauty’s youngest daughters! LXVII.   And on thy happy shore a temple still,595   Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,   Upon a mild declivity of hill,   Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps   Thy current’s calmness; oft from out it leaps   The finny darter with the glittering scales,600   Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;   While, chance, some scatter’d water-­lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. LXVIII.   Pass not unblest the Genius of the place!   If through the air a zephyr more serene605   Win to the brow, ’tis his; and if ye trace   Along his margin a more eloquent green,   If on the heart the freshness of the scene   Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust   Of weary life a moment lave it clean610   With Nature’s baptism,—’tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX.   The roar of waters!—from the headlong height   Velino cleaves the wave-­worn precipice;   The fall of waters! rapid as the light615   The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;   The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,   And boil in endless torture; while the sweat   Of their great agony, wrung out from this   Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet620 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX.   And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again   Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,   With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,



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  Is an eternal April to the ground,625   Making it all one emerald:—how profound   The gulf! and how the giant element   From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,   Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent630 LXXI.   To the broad column which rolls on, and shows   More like the fountain of an infant sea   Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes   Of a new world, than only thus to be   Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,635   With many windings, through the vale:—Look back!   Lo! where it comes like an eternity,   As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract, LXXII.   Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,640   From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,   An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,   Like Hope upon a death-­bed, and, unworn   Its steady dyes, while all around is torn   By the distracted waters, bears serene645   Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn:   Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. LXXIII.   Once more upon the woody Apennine,   The infant Alps, which—­had I not before650   Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine   Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar   The thundering lauwine—­might be worshipp’d more;   But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear   Her never-­trodden snow, and seen the hoar655   Glaciers of bleak Mont-­Blanc both far and near And in Chimari heard the thunder-­hills of fear, LXXIV.   Th’ Acroceraunian mountains of old name   And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly

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lord byron   Like spirits of the spot, as ’twere for fame,660   For still they soared unutterably high:   I’ve look’d on Ida with a Trojan’s eye;   Athos, Olympus, Ætna, Atlas, made   These hills seem things of lesser dignity,   All, save the lone Soracte’s height, displayed665 Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman’s aid LXXV.   For our remembrance, and from out the plain   Heaves like a long-­swept wave about to break,   And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain   May he, who will, his recollections rake670   And quote in classic raptures, and awake   The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr’d   Too much, to conquer for the poet’s sake,   The drill’d dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record675 LXXVI.   Aught that recals the daily drug which turn’d   My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught   My mind to meditate what then it learn’d,   Yet such the fix’d inveteracy wrought   By the impatience of my early thought,680   That, with the freshness wearing out before   My mind could relish what it might have sought,   If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII.   Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,685   Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse   To understand, not feel thy lyric flow,   To comprehend, but never love thy verse,   Although no deeper Moralist rehearse   Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art,690   Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce,   Awakening without wounding the touch’d heart, Yet fare thee well—­upon Soracte’s ridge we part.

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LXXVIII.   O Rome! my country! city of the soul!   The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,695   Lone mother of dead empires! and controul   In their shut breasts their petty misery.   What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see   The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way   O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!700   Whose agonies are evils of a day— A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX.   The Niobe of nations! there she stands,   Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;   An empty urn within her withered hands,705   Whose holy dust was scatter’d long ago;   The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now;   The very sepulchres lie tenantless   Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,   Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?710 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! LXXX.   The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,   Have dwelt upon the seven-­hill’d city’s pride;   She saw her glories star by star expire,   And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,715   Where the car climb’d the capitol; far and wide   Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:—   Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,   O’er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, “here was, or is,” where all is doubly night?720 LXXXI.            

The double night of ages, and of her, Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;725 But Rome is as the desart, where we steer

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lord byron   Stumbling o’er recollections; now we clap   Our hands, and cry, “Eureka!” it is clear— When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII.   Alas! the lofty city! and alas!730   The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day   When Brutus made the dagger’s edge surpass   The conqueror’s sword in bearing fame away!   Alas for Tully’s voice, and Virgil’s lay,   And Livy’s pictur’d page!—but these shall be735   Her resurrection; all beside—­decay.   Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! LXXXIII.            

Oh thou, whose chariot roll’d on Fortune’s wheel, Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue740 Thy country’s foes ere thou would pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O’er prostrate Asia;—thou, who with thy frown   Annihilated senates—­Roman, too,745   With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown— LXXXIV.   The dictatorial wreath,—couldst thou divine   To what would one day dwindle that which made   Thee more than mortal? and that so supine750   By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?   She who was named Eternal, and array’d   Her warriors but to conquer—­she who veil’d   Earth with her haughty shadow, and display’d   Until the o’er-­canopied horizon fail’d,755 Her rushing wings—­Oh! she who was Almighty hail’d! LXXXV.        

Sylla was first of victors; but our own The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne Down to a block—­immortal rebel! See760



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  What crimes it costs to be a moment free   And famous through all ages! but beneath   His fate the moral lurks of destiny;   His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath.765 LXXXVI.   The third of the same moon whose former course   Had all but crown’d him, on the selfsame day   Deposed him gently from his throne of force,   And laid him with the earth’s preceding clay.   And show’d not Fortune thus how fame and sway,770   And all we deem delightful, and consume   Our souls to compass through each arduous way,   Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man’s, how different were his doom! LXXXVII.   And thou, dread statue! yet existent in775   The austerest form of naked majesty,   Thou who beheldest, ’mid the assassins’ din,   At thy bath’d base the bloody Cæsar lie,   Folding his robe in dying dignity,   An offering to thine altar from the queen780   Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die,   And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? LXXXVIII.   And thou, the thunder-­stricken nurse of Rome!   She-­wolf! whose brazen-­imaged dugs impart785   The milk of conquest yet within the dome   Where, as a monument of antique art,   Thou standest:—Mother of the mighty heart,   Which the great founder suck’d from thy wild teat,   Scorch’d by the Roman Jove’s etherial dart,790   And thy limbs black with lightning—­dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX.   Thou dost;—but all thy foster-­babes are dead—   The men of iron; and the world hath rear’d

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lord byron   Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled795   In imitation of the things they fear’d,   And fought and conquer’d, and the same course steer’d,   At apish distance; but as yet none have,   Nor could, the same supremacy have near’d,   Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,800 But, vanquish’d by himself, to his own slaves a slave— XC.   The fool of false dominion—­and a kind   Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old   With steps unequal: for the Roman’s mind   Was modell’d in a less terrestrial mould,805   With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,   And an immortal instinct which redeem’d   The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold,   Alcides with the distaff now he seem’d At Cleopatra’s feet,—and now himself he beam’d,810 XCI.   And came—­and saw—­and conquer’d! But the man   Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,   Like a train’d falcon, in the Gallic van,   Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,   With a deaf heart which never seem’d to be815   A listener to itself, was strangely fram’d;   With but one weakest weakness—­vanity,   Coquettish in ambition—­still he aim’d— At what? can he avouch—­or answer what he claim’d? XCII.   And would be all or nothing—­nor could wait820   For the sure grave to level him; few years   Had fix’d him with the Cæsars in his fate,   On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears   The arch of triumph! and for this the tears   And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed,825   An universal deluge, which appears   Without an ark for wretched man’s abode, And ebbs but to reflow!—Renew thy rainbow, God!

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XCIII.   What from this barren being do we reap?   Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,830   Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,   And all things weigh’d in custom’s falsest scale;   Opinion an omnipotence,—whose veil   Mantles the earth with darkness, until right   And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale835   Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. XCIV.   And thus they plod in sluggish misery,   Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,   Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,840   Bequeathing their hereditary rage   To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage   War for their chains, and rather than be free,   Bleed gladiator-­like, and still engage   Within the same arena where they see845 Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. XCV.   I speak not of men’s creeds—­they rest between   Man and his Maker—­but of things allowed,   Averr’d, and known,—and daily, hourly seen—   The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed,850   And the intent of tyranny avowed,   The edict of Earth’s rulers, who are grown   The apes of him who humbled once the proud,   And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.855 XCVI.            

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,860 Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst the roar

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lord byron   Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled   On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? XCVII.   But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,865   And fatal have her Saturnalia been   To Freedom’s cause, in every age and clime;   Because the deadly days which we have seen,   And vile Ambition, that built up between   Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,870   And the base pageant last upon the scene,   Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life’s tree, and dooms man’s worst—­his second fall. XCVIII.   Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,   Streams like the thunder-­storm against the wind;875   Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,   The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;   Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,   Chopp’d by the axe, looks rough and little worth,   But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find880   Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX.   There is a stern round tower of other days,   Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,   Such as an army’s baffled strength delays,885   Standing with half its battlements alone,   And with two thousand years of ivy grown,   The garland of eternity, where wave   The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown;—   What was this tower of strength? within its cave890 What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid?—A woman’s grave. C.   But who was she, the lady of the dead,   Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?



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  Worthy a king’s—­or more—­a Roman’s bed?   What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?895   What daughter of her beauties was the heir?   How lived—­how loved—­how died she? Was she not   So honoured—­and conspicuously there,   Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?900 CI.   Was she as those who love their lords, or they   Who love the lords of others? such have been   Even in the olden time Rome’s annals say.   Was she a matron of Cornelia’s mien,   Or the light air of Egypt’s graceful queen,905   Profuse of joy—­or ’gainst it did she war,   Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean   To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?—for such the affections are. CII.   Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed910   With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb   That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud   Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom   In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom   Heaven gives its favourites—­early death; yet shed915   A sunset charm around her, and illume   With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-­like red. CIII.   Perchance she died in age—­surviving all,   Charms, kindred, children—­with the silver grey920   On her long tresses, which might yet recal,   It may be, still a something of the day   When they were braided, and her proud array   And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed   By Rome—­But whither would Conjecture stray?925   Thus much alone we know—­Metella died, The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride!

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lord byron CIV.   I know not why—­but standing thus by thee   It seems as if I had thine inmate known,   Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me930   With recollected music, though the tone   Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan   Of dying thunder on the distant wind;   Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone   Till I had bodied forth the heated mind935 Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind; CV.   And from the planks, far shattered o’er the rocks,   Built me a little bark of hope, once more   To battle with the ocean and the shocks   Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar940   Which rushes on the solitary shore   Where all lies foundered that was ever dear:   But could I gather from the wave-­worn store   Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.945 CVI.   Then let the winds howl on! their harmony   Shall henceforth be my music, and the night   The sound shall temper with the owlet’s cry,   As I now hear them, in the fading light   Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ native site,  950   Answering each other on the Palatine,   With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright,   And sailing pinions.—Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?—let me not number mine. CVII.              

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown955 Matted and mass’d together, hillocks heap’d On what were chambers, arch crush’d, column strown In fragments, chok’d up vaults, and frescoes steep’d In subterranean damps, where the owl peep’d, Deeming it midnight:—Temples, baths, or halls?960 Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap’d



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  From her research hath been, that these are walls— Behold the Imperial Mount! ’tis thus the mighty falls.* CVIII.   There is the moral of all human tales;   ’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,965   First Freedom, and then Glory—­when that fails,   Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last.   And History, with all her volumes vast,   Hath but one page,—’tis better written here,   Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass’d970   All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask—­Away with words! draw near, CIX.   Admire, exult—­despise—­laugh, weep,—for here   There is such matter for all feeling:—Man!   Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,975   Ages and realms are crowded in this span,   This mountain, whose obliterated plan   The pyramid of empires pinnacled,   Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van   Till the sun’s rays with added flame were fill’d!980 Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? CX.   Tully was not so eloquent as thou,   Thou nameless column with the buried base!   What are the laurels of the Caesar’s brow?   Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-­place.985   Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,   Titus or Trajan’s? No—’tis that of Time:   Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace   Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,990

*  The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the side toward the Circus Maximus. The very soil is formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman antiquary.—See—[Hobhouse,] Historical Illustrations [to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold (1818)], page 206.

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lord byron CXI.   Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,   And looking to the stars: they had contain’d   A spirit which with these would find a home,   The last of those who o’er the whole earth reign’d,   The Roman globe, for after none sustain’d,995   But yielded back his conquests:—he was more   Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain’d   With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues—­still we Trajan’s name adore. CXII.   Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place1000   Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep   Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason’s race,   The promontory whence the Traitor’s Leap   Cured all ambition. Did the Conquerors heap   Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below,1005   A thousand years of silenced factions sleep—   The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes—­burns with Cicero! CXIII.   The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:   Here a proud people’s passions were exhaled,1010   From the first hour of empire in the bud   To that when further worlds to conquer fail’d;   But long before had Freedom’s face been veil’d,   And Anarchy assumed her attributes;   Till every lawless soldier who assail’d1015   Trod on the trembling senate’s slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. CXIV.              

Then turn we to her latest tribune’s name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame—1020 The friend of Petrarch—­hope of Italy— Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree Of Freedom’s withered trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be—

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  The forum’s champion, and the people’s chief—1025 Her new-­born Numa thou—­with reign, alas! too brief. CXV.   Egeria! sweet creation of some heart   Which found no mortal resting-­place so fair   As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art   Or wert,—a young Aurora of the air,1030   The nympholepsy of some fond despair;   Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,   Who found a more than common votary there   Too much adoring; whatsoe’er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.1035 CXVI.   The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled   With thine Elysian water-­drops; the face   Of thy cave-­guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,   Reflects the meek-­eyed genius of the place,   Whose green, wild margin now no more erase1040   Art’s works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,   Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base   Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep, CXVII.   Fantastically tangled; the green hills1045   Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass   The quick-­eyed lizard rustles, and the bills   Of summer-­birds sing welcome as ye pass;   Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,   Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes1050   Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;   The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes, Kiss’d by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. CXVIII.        

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating1055 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veil’d that mystic meeting

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  With her most starry canopy, and seating   Thyself by thine adorer, what befel?   This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting1060   Of an enamour’d Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love—­the earliest oracle! CXIX.   And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,   Blend a celestial with a human heart;   And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,1065   Share with immortal transports? could thine art   Make them indeed immortal, and impart   The purity of heaven to earthly joys,   Expel the venom and not blunt the dart—   The dull satiety which all destroys—1070 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? CXX.   Alas! our young affections run to waste,   Or water but the desart; whence arise   But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,   Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,1075   Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,   And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants   Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies   O’er the world’s wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.1080 CXXI.   Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art—   An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,   A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,   But never yet hath seen, nor e’er shall see   The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;1085   The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,   Even with its own desiring phantasy,   And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench’d soul—­parch’d—­wearied—­wrung—­and riven. CXXII.   Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,1090   And fevers into false creation:—where,   Where are the forms the sculptor’s soul hath seized?



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  In him alone. Can Nature shew so fair?   Where are the charms and virtues which we dare   Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,1095   The unreach’d Paradise of our despair,   Which o’er-­informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again? CXXIII.   Who loves, raves—’tis youth’s frenzy—­but the cure   Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds1100   Which robed our idols, and we see too sure   Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind’s   Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds   The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,   Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-­sown winds;1105   The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize,—wealthiest when most undone. CXXIV.   We wither from our youth, we gasp away—   Sick—­sick; unfound the boon—­unslaked the thirst,   Though to the last, in verge of our decay,1110   Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first—   But all too late,—so are we doubly curst.   Love, fame, ambition, avarice—’tis the same,   Each idle—­and all ill—­and none the worst—   For all are meteors with a different name,1115 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. CXXV.   Few—­none—­find what they love or could have loved,   Though accident, blind contact, and the strong   Necessity of loving, have removed   Antipathies—­but to recur, ere long,1120   Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;   And Circumstance, that unspiritual god   And miscreator, makes and helps along   Our coming evils with a crutch-­like rod, Whose touch turns Hope to dust,—the dust we all have trod.1125 CXXVI.   Our life is a false nature—’tis not in   The harmony of things,—this hard decree,

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lord byron   This uneradicable taint of sin,   This boundless upas, this all-­blasting tree,   Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be1130   The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew—   Disease, death, bondage—­all the woes we see—   And worse, the woes we see not—­which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-­aches ever new. CXXVII.   Yet let us ponder boldly—’tis a base1135   Abandonment of reason to resign   Our right of thought—­our last and only place   Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine:   Though from our birth the faculty divine   Is chain’d and tortured—­cabin’d, cribb’d, confined,1140   And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine   Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXVIII.   Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,   Collecting the chief trophies of her line,1145   Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,   Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine   As ’twere its natural torches, for divine   Should be the light which streams here, to illume   This long-­explored but still exhaustless mine1150   Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX.   Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,   Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument,   And shadows forth its glory. There is given1155   Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent,   A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant   His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power   And magic in the ruined battlement,   For which the palace of the present hour1160 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

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CXXX.   Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead,   Adorner of the ruin, comforter   And only healer when the heart hath bled—   Time! the corrector where our judgments err,1165   The test of truth, love,—sole philosopher,   For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,   Which never loses though it doth defer—   Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:1170 CXXXI.   Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine   And temple more divinely desolate,   Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,   Ruins of years—­though few, yet full of fate:—   If thou hast ever seen me too elate,1175   Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne   Good, and reserved my pride against the hate   Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain—­shall they not mourn? CXXXII.   And thou, who never yet of human wrong1180   Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!   Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long—   Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss,   And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss   For that unnatural retribution—­just,1185   Had it but been from hands less near—­in this   Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart?—Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII.            

It is not that I may not have incurr’d For my ancestral faults or mine the wound1190 I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr’d With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound; But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; To thee I do devote it—­thou shalt take

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lord byron   The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,1195   Which if I have not taken for the sake— But let that pass—­I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV.   And if my voice break forth, ’tis not that now   I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak   Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,1200   Or seen my mind’s convulsion leave it weak;   But in this page a record will I seek.   Not in the air shall these my words disperse,   Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak   The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,1205 And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! CXXXV.   That curse shall be Forgiveness.—Have I not—   Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!—   Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?   Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?1210   Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven,   Hopes sapp’d, name blighted, Life’s life lied away?   And only not to desperation driven,   Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.1215 CXXXVI.   From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy   Have I not seen what human things could do?   From the loud roar of foaming calumny   To the small whisper of the as paltry few,   And subtler venom of the reptile crew,1220   The Janus glance of whose significant eye,   Learning to lie with silence, would seem true,   And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. CXXXVII.   But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:1225   My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,



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  And my frame perish even in conquering pain,   But there is that within me which shall tire   Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire;   Something unearthly, which they deem not of,1230   Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre,   Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. CXXXVIII.   The seal is set.—Now welcome, thou dread power   Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here1235   Walk’st in the shadow of the midnight hour   With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear;   Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear   Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene   Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear1240   That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-­seeing but unseen. CXXXIX.   And here the buzz of eager nations ran,   In murmured pity, or loud-­roared applause,   As man was slaughtered by his fellow man.1245   And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because   Such were the bloody Circus’ genial laws,   And the imperial pleasure.—Wherefore not?   What matters where we fall to fill the maws   Of worms—­on battle-­plains or listed spot?1250 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. CXL.   I see before me the Gladiator lie:   He leans upon his hand—­his manly brow   Consents to death, but conquers agony,   And his drooped head sinks gradually low—1255   And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow   From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,   Like the first of a thunder-­shower; and now   The arena swims around him—­he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail’d the wretch who won.1260

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lord byron CXLI.   He heard it, but he heeded not—­his eyes   Were with his heart, and that was far away;   He reck’d not of the life he lost nor prize,   But where his rude hut by the Danube lay   There were his young barbarians all at play,1265   There was their Dacian mother—­he, their sire,   Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday—   All this rush’d with his blood—­Shall he expire And unavenged?—Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! CXLII.   But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam;1270   And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,   And roar’d or murmur’d like a mountain stream   Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;   Here, where the Roman million’s blame or praise   Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,1275   My voice sounds much—­and fall the stars’ faint rays   On the arena void—­seats crush’d—­walls bow’d— And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. CXLIII.   A ruin—­yet what ruin! from its mass   Walls, palaces, half-­cities, have been reared;1280   Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass   And marvel where the spoil could have appeared.   Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?   Alas! developed, opens the decay,   When the colossal fabric’s form is neared:1285   It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. CXLIV.            

But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,1290 And the low night-­breeze waves along the air The garland-­forest, which the grey walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar’s head;



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  When the light shines serene but doth not glare,   Then in this magic circle raise the dead:1295 Heroes have trod this spot—’tis on their dust ye tread. CXLV.   “While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;   When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;   And when Rome falls—­the World.” From our own land   Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall1300   In Saxon times, which we are wont to call   Ancient; and these three mortal things are still   On their foundations, and unaltered all;   Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill, The World, the same wide den—­of thieves, or what ye will.1305 CXLVI.   Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime—   Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,   From Jove to Jesus—­spared and blest by time;   Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods   Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods1310   His way through thorns to ashes—­glorious dome!   Shalt thou not last? Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods   Shiver upon thee—­sanctuary and home Of art and piety—­Pantheon!—pride of Rome! CXLVII.   Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!1315   Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads   A holiness appealing to all hearts—   To art a model; and to him who treads   Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds   Her light through thy sole aperture; to those1320   Who worship, here are altars for their beads;   And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close. CXLVIII.   There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light   What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!1325

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lord byron   Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight—   Two insulated phantoms of the brain:   It is not so; I see them full and plain—   An old man, and a female young and fair,   Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein1330   The blood is nectar:—but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? CXLIX.   Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life,  Where on the heart and from the heart we took   Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,1335   Blest into mother, in the innocent look,   Or even the piping cry of lips that brook   No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives   Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook   She sees her little bud put forth its leaves—1340 What may the fruit be yet?—I know not—­Cain was Eve’s. CL.   But here youth offers to old age the food,   The milk of his own gift:—it is her sire   To whom she renders back the debt of blood   Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire1345   While in those warm and lovely veins the fire   Of health and holy feeling can provide   Great Nature’s Nile, whose deep stream rises higher   Than Egypt’s river:—from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven’s realm holds no such tide.1350 CLI.   The starry fable of the milky way   Has not thy story’s purity; it is   A constellation of a sweeter ray,   And sacred Nature triumphs more in this   Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss1355   Where sparkle distant worlds:—Oh, holiest nurse!   No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss   To thy sire’s heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.

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CLII.   Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear’d on high,1360   Imperial mimic of old Egypt’s piles,   Colossal copyist of deformity,   Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile’s   Enormous model, doom’d the artist’s toils   To build for giants, and for his vain earth1365   His shrunken ashes raise this dome: How smiles   The gazer’s eye with philosophic mirth, To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! CLIII.   But lo! the dome—­the vast and wondrous dome,   To which Diana’s marvel was a cell—1370   Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb!   I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle—   Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell   The hyæna and the jackall in their shade;   I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell1375   Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have survey’d Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray’d; CLIV.   But thou, of temples old, or altars new,   Standest alone—­with nothing like to thee—   Worthiest of God, the holy and the true.1380   Since Zion’s desolation, when that He   Forsook his former city, what could be,   Of earthly structures, in his honour piled,   Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,   Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled1385 In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. CLV.            

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find1390 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou

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lord byron   Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,   See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.1395 CLVI.   Thou movest—­but increasing with the advance,   Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,   Deceived by its gigantic elegance;   Vastness which grows—­but grows to harmonize—   All musical in its immensities;1400   Rich marbles—­richer painting—­shrines where flame   The lamps of gold—­and haughty dome which vies   In air with Earth’s chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-­set ground—­and this the clouds must claim CLVII.   Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break,1405   To separate contemplation, the great whole;   And as the ocean many bays will make,   That ask the eye—­so here condense thy soul   To more immediate objects, and control   Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart1410   Its eloquent proportions, and unroll   In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, CLVIII.   Not by its fault—­but thine: Our outward sense   Is but of gradual grasp—­and as it is1415   That what we have of feeling most intense   Outstrips our faint expression; even so this   Outshining and o’erwhelming edifice   Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great   Defies at first our Nature’s littleness,1420   Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. CLIX.   Then pause, and be enlightened; there is more   In such a survey than the sating gaze



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  Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore1425   The worship of the place, or the mere praise   Of art and its great masters, who could raise   What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;   The fountain of sublimity displays   Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man1430 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. CLX.   Or, turning to the Vatican, go see   Laocoon’s torture dignifying pain—   A father’s love and mortal’s agony   With an immortal’s patience blending:—Vain1435   The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain   And gripe, and deepening of the dragon’s grasp,   The old man’s clench; the long envenomed chain   Rivets the living links,—the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.1440 CLXI.   Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,   The God of life, and poesy, and light—   The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow   All radiant from his triumph in the fight;   The shaft hath just been shot—­the arrow bright1445   With an immortal’s vengeance; in his eye   And nostril beautiful disdain, and might,   And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity. CLXII.   But in his delicate form—­a dream of Love,1450   Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast   Long’d for a deathless lover from above,   And madden’d in that vision—­are exprest   All that ideal beauty ever bless’d   The mind with in its most unearthly mood,1455   When each conception was a heavenly guest—   A ray of immortality—­and stood, Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god!

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lord byron CLXIII.   And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven   The fire which we endure, it was repaid1460   By him to whom the energy was given   Which this poetic marble hath array’d   With an eternal glory—­which, if made   By human hands, is not of human thought;   And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid1465   One ringlet in the dust—­nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which ’twas wrought. CLXIV.   But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,   The being who upheld it through the past?   Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.1470   He is no more—­these breathings are his last;   His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,   And he himself as nothing:—if he was   Aught but a phantasy, and could be class’d   With forms which live and suffer—­let that pass—1475 His shadow fades away into Destruction’s mass, CLXV.   Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all   That we inherit in its mortal shroud,   And spreads the dim and universal pall   Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud1480   Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,   Till Glory’s self is twilight, and displays   A melancholy halo scarce allowed   To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,1485 CLXVI.            

And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolv’d to something less than this Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name1490 We never more shall hear,—but never more,



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  Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:   It is enough in sooth that once we bore These fardels of the heart—­the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII.   Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,1495   A long low distant murmur of dread sound,   Such as arises when a nation bleeds   With some deep and immedicable wound;   Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground,   The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief1500   Seems royal still, though with her head discrown’d,   And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. CLXVIII.   Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?   Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?1505   Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low   Some less majestic, less beloved head?   In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,   The mother of a moment, o’er thy boy,   Death hush’d that pang for ever: with thee fled1510   The present happiness and promised joy Which fill’d the imperial isles so full it seem’d to cloy. CLXIX.   Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be,   Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!   Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,1515   And Freedom’s heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard   Her many griefs for One; for she had pour’d   Her orisons for thee, and o’er thy head   Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely lord,   And desolate consort—­vainly wert thou wed!1520 The husband of a year! the father of the dead! CLXX.   Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;   Thy bridal’s fruit is ashes: in the dust

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lord byron   The fair-­haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,   The love of millions! How we did entrust1525   Futurity to her! and, though it must   Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem’d   Our children should obey her child, and bless’d   Her and her hoped-­for seed, whose promise seem’d Like stars to shepherds’ eyes:—’twas but a meteor beam’d.1530 CLXXI.   Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:   The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue   Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,   Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung   Its knell in princely ears, till the o’erstung1535   Nations have arm’d in madness, the strange fate   Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung   Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,— CLXXII.   These might have been her destiny; but no,1540   Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,   Good without effort, great without a foe;   But now a bride and mother—­and now there!   How many ties did that stern moment tear!   From thy Sire’s to his humblest subject’s breast1545   Is linked the electric chain of that despair,   Whose shock was as an earthquake’s, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. CLXXIII.   Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills   So far, that the uprooting wind which tears1550   The oak from his foundation, and which spills   The ocean o’er its boundary, and bears   Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares   The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;   And, calm as cherish’d hate, its surface wears1555   A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.

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CLXXIV.   And near Albano’s scarce divided waves   Shine from a sister valley;—and afar   The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves1560   The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war,   “Arms and the Man,” whose re-­ascending star   Rose o’er an empire:—but beneath thy right   Tully reposed from Rome;—and where yon bar   Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight1565 The Sabine farm was till’d, the weary bard’s delight. CLXXV.   But I forget.—My pilgrim’s shrine is won,   And he and I must part,—so let it be,—   His task and mine alike are nearly done;   Yet once more let us look upon the sea;1570   The midland ocean breaks on him and me,   And from the Alban Mount we now behold   Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we   Beheld it last by Calpe’s rock unfold Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine roll’d1575 CLXXVI.   Upon the blue Symplegades: long years—   Long, though not very many, since have done   Their work on both; some suffering and some tears   Have left us nearly where we had begun:   Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run,1580   We have had our reward—­and it is here;   That we can yet feel gladden’d by the sun,   And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII.            

Oh! that the Desart were my dwelling place,1585 With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye Elements!—in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted—­Can ye not1590

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lord byron   Accord me such a being? Do I err   In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. CLXXVIII.   There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,   There is a rapture on the lonely shore,1595   There is society where none intrudes,   By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:   I love not Man the less, but Nature more,   From these our interviews, in which I steal   From all I may be, or have been before,1600   To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet can not all conceal. CLXXIX.   Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—­roll!   Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;   Man marks the earth with ruin—­his control1605   Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain   The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain   A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,   When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,   He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,1610 Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and unknown. CLXXX.   His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields   Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise   And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields   For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,1615   Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,   And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray   And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies   His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:—there let him lay.1620 CLXXXI.   The armaments which thunderstrike the walls   Of rock-­built cities, bidding nations quake,



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  And monarchs tremble in their capitals,   The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make   Their clay creator the vain title take1625   Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;   These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,   They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. CLXXXII.   Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—1630   Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?   Thy waters wasted them while they were free,   And many a tyrant since; their shores obey   The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay   Has dried up realms to desarts:—not so thou,1635   Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play—   Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. CLXXXIII.   Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form   Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,1640   Calm or convuls’d—­in breeze, or gale, or storm,   Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime   Dark-­heaving;—boundless, endless, and sublime—   The image of Eternity—­the throne   Of the Invisible, even from out thy slime1645   The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV.   And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy   Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be   Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy1650   I wantoned with thy breakers—­they to me   Were a delight; and if the freshening sea   Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear,   For I was as it were a child of thee,   And trusted to thy billows far and near,1655 And laid my hand upon thy mane—­as I do here.

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lord byron CLXXXV.   My task is done—­my song hath ceased—­my theme   Has died into an echo; it is fit   The spell should break of this protracted dream.   The torch shall be extinguish’d which hath lit1660   My midnight lamp—­and what is writ, is writ,—   Would it were worthier! but I am not now   That which I have been—­and my visions flit   Less palpably before me—­and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint, and low.1665 CLXXXVI.   Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been—   A sound which makes us linger;—yet—­farewell!   Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene   Which is his last, if in your memories dwell   A thought which once was his, if on ye swell1670   A single recollection, not in vain   He wore his sandal-­shoon and scallop-­shell;   Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were—­with you, the moral of his strain!

Don Juan I–­I I (1819)

Figure 10 Title page, Don Juan. 1st edn. ([ John Murray,] 1819). The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

DON JUAN

“Difficile est proprie communia dicere.” HOR., Epist. ad Pison.

CANTO I. I. I want a hero: an uncommon want,   When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,   The age discovers he is not the true one; Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,5   I’ll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan, We all have seen him in the Pantomime Sent to the devil, somewhat ere his time. II. Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,   Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,10 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,   And fill’d their sign posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo’s monarchs stalk,   Followers of fame, “nine farrow” of that sow: France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier15 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. III. Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,   Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, Were French, and famous people, as we know;   And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,20 Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau,   With many of the military set, Exceedingly remarkable at times, But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

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lord byron IV. Nelson was once Britannia’s god of war,25   And still should be so, but the tide is turn’d; There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar,   ’Tis with our hero quietly inurn’d; Because the army’s grown more popular,   At which the naval people are concern’d;30 Besides, the Prince is all for the land-­service, Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. V. Brave men were living before Agamemnon1   And since, exceeding valorous and sage, A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;35   But then they shone not on the poet’s page, And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,   But can’t find any in the present age Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); So, as I said, I’ll take my friend Don Juan.40 VI. Most epic poets plunge in “medias res,”   (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road) And then your hero tells, whene’er you please,   What went before—­by way of episode, While seated after dinner at his ease,45   Beside his mistress in some soft abode, Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. VII. That is the usual method, but not mine—   My way is to begin with the beginning;50 The regularity of my design   Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, And therefore I shall open with a line   (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan’s father,55 And also of his mother, if you’d rather.



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VIII. In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,   Famous for oranges and women—­he Who has not seen it will be much to pity,   So says the proverb—­and I quite agree;60 Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,   Cadiz perhaps—­but that you soon may see:— Don Juan’s parents lived beside the river, A noble stream, and call’d the Guadalquivir. IX. His father’s name was Jóse—­Don, of course,65   A true Hidalgo, free from every stain Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source   Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; A better cavalier ne’er mounted horse,   Or, being mounted, e’er got down again,70 Than Jóse, who begot our hero, who Begot—­but that’s to come——Well, to renew: X. His mother was a learned lady, famed   For every branch of every science known— In every christian language ever named,75   With virtues equall’d by her wit alone, She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,   And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded In their own way by all the things that she did.80 XI. Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart   All Calderon and greater part of Lopé, So that if any actor miss’d his part   She could have served him for the prompter’s copy; For her Feinagle’s were an useless art,85   And he himself obliged to shut up shop—­he Could never make a memory so fine as That which adorn’d the brain of Donna Inez.

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lord byron XII. Her favourite science was the mathematical,   Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,90 Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,   Her serious sayings darken’d to sublimity; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call   A prodigy—­her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,95 And other stuffs, with which I won’t stay puzzling. XIII. She knew the Latin—­that is, “the Lord’s prayer,”   And Greek—­the alphabet—­I’m nearly sure; She read some French romances here and there,   Although her mode of speaking was not pure;100 For native Spanish she had no great care,   At least her conversation was obscure; Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, As if she deem’d that mystery would ennoble ’em. XIV. She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,105   And said there was analogy between ’em; She proved it somehow out of sacred song,   But I must leave the proofs to those who’ve seen ’em, But this I heard her say, and can’t be wrong,   And all may think which way their judgments lean ’em,110 “ ’Tis strange—­the Hebrew noun which means ‘I am,’ The English always use to govern d—­n.” XV. *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *[113–20] *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * XVI. In short, she was a walking calculation,   Miss Edgeworth’s novels stepping from their covers, Or Mrs. Trimmer’s books on education,   Or “Cœlebs’ Wife” set out in quest of lovers, Morality’s prim personification,125



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  In which not Envy’s self a flaw discovers, To others’ share let “female errors fall,” For she had not even one—­the worst of all. XVII. Oh! she was perfect past all parallel—   Of any modern female saint’s comparison;130 So far above the cunning powers of hell,   Her guardian angel had given up his garrison; Even her minutest motions went as well   As those of the best time-­piece made by Harrison: In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,135 Save thine “incomparable oil,” Macassar!2 XVIII. Perfect she was, but as perfection is   Insipid in this naughty world of ours, Where our first parents never learn’d to kiss   Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,140 Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss,   (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours) Don Jóse, like a lineal son of Eve, Went plucking various fruit without her leave. XIX. He was a mortal of the careless kind,145   With no great love for learning, or the learn’d, Who chose to go where’er he had a mind,   And never dream’d his lady was concern’d; The world, as usual, wickedly inclined   To see a kingdom or a house o’erturn’d,150 Whisper’d he had a mistress, some said two, But for domestic quarrels one will do. XX. Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,   A great opinion of her own good qualities; Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,155   And such, indeed, she was in her moralities; But then she had a devil of a spirit,

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lord byron   And sometimes mix’d up fancies with realities, And let few opportunities escape Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.160 XXI. This was an easy matter with a man   Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; And even the wisest, do the best they can,   Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might “brain them with their lady’s fan;”165   And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands. XXII. ’Tis pity learned virgins ever wed   With persons of no sort of education,170 Or gentlemen, who, though well-­born and bred,   Grow tired of scientific conversation: I don’t choose to say much upon this head,   I’m a plain man, and in a single station, But—­Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,175 Inform us truly, have they not hen-­peck’d you all? XXIII. Don Jóse and his lady quarrell’d—­why,   Not any of the many could divine, Though several thousand people chose to try,   ’Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine;180 I loathe that low vice curiosity,   But if there’s any thing in which I shine ’Tis in arranging all my friends’ affairs, Not having, of my own, domestic cares. XXIV. And so I interfered, and with the best185   Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; I think the foolish people were possess’d,   For neither of them could I ever find, Although their porter afterwards confess’d—   But that’s no matter, and the worst’s behind,190



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For little Juan o’er me threw, down stairs, A pail of housemaid’s water unawares. XXV. A little curly-­headed, good-­for-­nothing,   And mischief-­making monkey from his birth; His parents ne’er agreed except in doting195   Upon the most unquiet imp on earth; Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in   Their senses, they’d have sent young master forth To school, or had him soundly whipp’d at home, To teach him manners for the time to come.200 XXVI. Don Jóse and the Donna Inez led   For some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;   They lived respectably as man and wife, Their conduct was exceedingly well-­bred,205   And gave no outward signs of inward strife, Until at length the smother’d fire broke out, And put the business past all kind of doubt. XXVII. For Inez call’d some druggists and physicians,   And tried to prove her loving lord was mad,210 But as he had some lucid intermissions,   She next decided he was only bad; Yet when they ask’d her for her depositions,   No sort of explanation could be had, Save that her duty both to man and God215 Required this conduct—­which seem’d very odd. XXVIII. She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,   And open’d certain trunks of books and letters, All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;   And then she had all Seville for abettors,220 Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);   The hearers of her case became repeaters, Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, Some for amusement, others for old grudges.

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lord byron XXIX. And then this best and meekest woman bore225   With such serenity her husband’s woes, Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,   Who saw their spouses kill’d, and nobly chose Never to say a word about them more—   Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,230 And saw his agonies with such sublimity, That all the world exclaim’d, “What magnanimity!” XXX. No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us,   Is philosophic in our former friends; ’Tis also pleasant to be deem’d magnanimous,235   The more so in obtaining our own ends; And what the lawyers call a “malus animus,”   Conduct like this by no means comprehends: Revenge in person ’s certainly no virtue, But then ’tis not my fault, if others hurt you.240 XXXI. And if our quarrels should rip up old stories,   And help them with a lie or two additional, I’m not to blame, as you well know, no more is   Any one else—­they were become traditional; Besides, their resurrection aids our glories245   By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all: And science profits by this resurrection— Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. XXXII. Their friends had tried at reconciliation,   Then their relations, who made matters worse;250 (’Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion   To whom it may be best to have recourse— I can’t say much for friend or yet relation):   The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, But scarce a fee was paid on either side255 Before, unluckily, Don Jóse died.



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XXXIII. He died: and most unluckily, because,   According to all hints I could collect From counsel learned in those kinds of laws,   (Although their talk’s obscure and circumspect)260 His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;   A thousand pities also with respect To public feeling, which on this occasion Was manifested in a great sensation. XXXIV. But ah! he died; and buried with him lay265   The public feeling and the lawyers’ fees: His house was sold, his servants sent away,   A Jew took one of his two mistresses, A priest the other—­at least so they say:   I ask’d the doctors after his disease,270 He died of the slow fever call’d the tertian, And left his widow to her own aversion. XXXV. Yet Jóse was an honourable man,   That I must say, who knew him very well; Therefore his frailties I’ll no further scan,275   Indeed there were not many more to tell; And if his passions now and then outran   Discretion, and were not so peaceable As Numa’s (who was also named Pompilius), He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.280 XXXVI. Whate’er might be his worthlessness or worth,   Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him, Let’s own, since it can do no good on earth;   It was a trying moment that which found him Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,285   Where all his household gods lay shiver’d round him; No choice was left his feelings or his pride Save death or Doctors’ Commons—­so he died.

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lord byron XXXVII. Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir   To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,290 Which, with a long minority and care,   Promised to turn out well in proper hands: Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,   And answer’d but to nature’s just demands; An only son left with an only mother295 Is brought up much more wisely than another. XXXVIII. Sagest of women, even of widows, she   Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, And worthy of the noblest pedigree:   (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon).300 Then for accomplishments of chivalry,   In case our lord the king should go to war again, He learn’d the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress—­or a nunnery. XXXIX. But that which Donna Inez most desired,305   And saw into herself each day before all The learned tutors whom for him she hired,   Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral; Much into all his studies she inquired,   And so they were submitted first to her, all,310 Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery To Juan’s eyes, excepting natural history. XL. The languages, especially the dead,   The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, The arts, at least all such as could be said315   To be the most remote from common use, In all these he was much and deeply read;   But not a page of any thing that’s loose, Or hints continuation of the species, Was ever suffer’d, lest he should grow vicious.320



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XLI. His classic studies made a little puzzle,   Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,   But never put on pantaloons or bodices; His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,325   And for their Aeneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. XLII. Ovid’s a rake, as half his verses show him,   Anacreon’s morals are a still worse sample,330 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,   I don’t think Sappho’s Ode a good example, Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn   Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample;3 But Virgil’s songs are pure, except that horrid one335 Beginning with “Formosum Pastor Corydon.” XLIII. Lucretius’ irreligion is too strong   For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food; I can’t help thinking Juvenal was wrong,   Although no doubt his real intent was good,340 For speaking out so plainly in his song,   So much indeed as to be downright rude; And then what proper person can be partial To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? XLIV. Juan was taught from out the best edition,345   Expurgated by learned men, who place, Judiciously, from out the schoolboy’s vision,   The grosser parts; but fearful to deface Too much their modest bard by this omission,   And pitying sore his mutilated case,350 They only add them all in an appendix,4 Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;

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lord byron XLV. For there we have them all at one fell swoop,   Instead of being scatter’d through the pages; They stand forth marshall’d in a handsome troop,355   To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, Till some less rigid editor shall stoop   To call them back into their separate cages, Instead of standing staring altogether, Like garden gods—­and not so decent either.360 XLVI. The Missal too (it was the family Missal)   Was ornamented in a sort of way Which ancient mass-­books often are, and this all   Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they, Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,365   Could turn their optics to the text and pray Is more than I know—­but Don Juan’s mother Kept this herself, and gave her son another. XLVII. Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,   And homilies, and lives of all the saints;370 To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,   He did not take such studies for restraints; But how faith is acquired, and then insured,   So well not one of the aforesaid paints As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,375 Which make the reader envy his transgressions. XLVIII. This, too, was a seal’d book to little Juan—   I can’t but say that his mamma was right, If such an education was the true one.   She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;380 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one   You might be sure she was a perfect fright, She did this during even her husband’s life— I recommend as much to every wife.



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XLIX. Young Juan wax’d in goodliness and grace;385   At six a charming child, and at eleven With all the promise of as fine a face   As e’er to man’s maturer growth was given: He studied steadily, and grew apace,   And seem’d, at least, in the right road to heaven,390 For half his days were pass’d at church, the other Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. L. At six, I said, he was a charming child,   At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy; Although in infancy a little wild,395   They tamed him down amongst them; to destroy His natural spirit not in vain they toil’d,   At least it seem’d so; and his mother’s joy Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, Her young philosopher was grown already.400 LI. I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,   But what I say is neither here nor there: I knew his father well, and have some skill   In character—­but it would not be fair From sire to son to augur good or ill:405   He and his wife were an ill-­sorted pair— But scandal’s my aversion—­I protest Against all evil speaking, even in jest. LII. For my part I say nothing—­nothing—­but   This I will say—­my reasons are my own—410 That if I had an only son to put   To school (as God be praised that I have none) ’Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut   Him up to learn his catechism alone, No—­no—­I’d send him out betimes to college,415 For there it was I pick’d up my own knowledge.

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lord byron LIII. For there one learns—’tis not for me to boast,   Though I acquired—­but I pass over that, As well as all the Greek I since have lost:   I say that there’s the place—­but “Verbum sat,”420 I think I pick’d up too, as well as most,   Knowledge of matters—­but no matter what— I never married—­but, I think, I know That sons should not be educated so. LIV. Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,425   Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit; he seem’d Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;   And every body but his mother deem’d Him almost man; but she flew in a rage,   And bit her lips (for else she might have scream’d),430 If any said so, for to be precocious Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. LV. Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all   Selected for discretion and devotion, There was the Donna Julia, whom to call435   Pretty were but to give a feeble notion Of many charms in her as natural   As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, (But this last simile is trite and stupid).440 LVI. The darkness of her oriental eye   Accorded with her Moorish origin; (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;   In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly,445   Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia’s kin Some went to Africa, some staid in Spain, Her great great grandmamma chose to remain.



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LVII. She married (I forget the pedigree)   With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down450 His blood less noble than such blood should be;   At such alliances his sires would frown, In that point so precise in each degree   That they bred in and in, as might be shown, Marrying their cousins—­nay, their aunts, and nieces,455 Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. LVIII. This heathenish cross restored the breed again,   Ruin’d its blood, but much improved its flesh; For, from a root the ugliest in Old Spain   Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;460 The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:   But there’s a rumour which I fain would hush, ’Tis said that Donna Julia’s grandmamma Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. LIX. However this might be, the race went on465   Improving still through every generation, Until it centr’d in an only son,   Who left an only daughter; my narration May have suggested that this single one   Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion470 I shall have much to speak about), and she Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-­three. LX. Her eye (I’m very fond of handsome eyes)   Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise475   Flash’d an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either; and there would arise   A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul Which struggled through and chasten’d down the whole.480

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lord byron LXI. Her glossy hair was cluster’d o’er a brow   Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow’s shape was like the aerial bow,   Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,485   As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, Possess’d an air and grace by no means common: Her stature tall—­I hate a dumpy woman. LXII. Wedded she was some years, and to a man   Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;490 And yet, I think, instead of such a one   ’Twere better to have two of five and twenty, Especially in countries near the sun:   And now I think on’t, “mi vien in mente,” Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue495 Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. LXIII. ’Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,   And all the fault of that indecent sun, Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,   But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,500 That howsoever people fast and pray   The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate’s sultry. LXIV. Happy the nations of the moral north!505   Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth;   (’Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); Where juries cast up what a wife is worth   By laying whate’er sum, in mulct, they please on510 The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Because it is a marketable vice.



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LXV. Alfonso was the name of Julia’s lord,   A man well looking for his years, and who Was neither much beloved, nor yet abhorr’d;515   They lived together as most people do, Suffering each other’s foibles by accord,   And not exactly either one or two; Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.520 LXVI. Julia was—­yet I never could see why—   With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; Between their tastes there was small sympathy,   For not a line had Julia ever penn’d: Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie,525   For malice still imputes some private end) That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso’s marriage, Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; LXVII. And that still keeping up the old connexion,   Which time had lately render’d much more chaste,530 She took his lady also in affection,   And certainly this course was much the best: She flatter’d Julia with her sage protection,   And complimented Don Alfonso’s taste; And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,535 At least she left it a more slender handle. LXVIII. I can’t tell whether Julia saw the affair   With other people’s eyes, or if her own Discoveries made, but none could be aware   Of this, at least no symptom e’er was shown;540 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,   Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: I’m really puzzled what to think or say, She kept her counsel in so close a way.

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lord byron LXIX. Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,545   Caress’d him often, such a thing might be Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,   When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; But I am not so sure I should have smiled   When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-­three,550 These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sun-­burnt nations. LXX. Whate’er the cause might be, they had become   Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,555   And much embarrassment in either eye; There surely will be little doubt with some   That Donna Julia knew the reason why, But as for Juan, he had no more notion Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.560 LXXI. Yet Julia’s very coldness still was kind,   And tremulously gentle her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind   A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland And slight, so very slight, that to the mind565   ’Twas but a doubt; but ne’er magician’s wand Wrought change with all Armida’s fairy art Like what this light touch left on Juan’s heart. LXXII. And if she met him, though she smiled no more,   She look’d a sadness sweeter than her smile,570 As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store   She must not own, but cherish’d more the while, For that compression in its burning core;   Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth,575 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.



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LXXIII. But passion most dissembles yet betrays   Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays   Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,580 And in whatever aspect it arrays   Itself, ’tis still the same hypocrisy; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late. LXXIV. Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,585   And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, And burning blushes, though for no transgression,   Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; All these are little preludes to possession,   Of which young Passion cannot be bereft,590 And merely tend to show how greatly Love is Embarrass’d at first starting with a novice. LXXV. Poor Julia’s heart was in an awkward state;   She felt it going, and resolved to make The noblest efforts for herself and mate,595   For honour’s, pride’s, religion’s, virtue’s sake; Her resolutions were most truly great,   And almost might have made a Tarquin quake; She pray’d the Virgin Mary for her grace, As being the best judge of a lady’s case.600 LXXVI. She vow’d she never would see Juan more,   And next day paid a visit to his mother, And look’d extremely at the opening door,   Which, by the Virgin’s grace, let in another; Grateful she was, and yet a little sore—605   Again it opens, it can be no other, ’Tis surely Juan now—­No! I’m afraid That night the Virgin was no further pray’d.

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lord byron LXXVII. She now determined that a virtuous woman   Should rather face and overcome temptation,610 That flight was base and dastardly, and no man   Should ever give her heart the least sensation; That is to say, a thought beyond the common   Preference, that we must feel upon occasion, For people who are pleasanter than others,615 But then they only seem so many brothers. LXXVIII. And even if by chance—­and who can tell?   The devil’s so very sly—­she should discover That all within was not so very well,   And, if still free, that such or such a lover620 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell   Such thoughts, and be the better when they’re over; And if the man should ask, ’tis but denial: I recommend young ladies to make trial. LXXIX. And then there are such things as love divine,625   Bright and immaculate, unmix’d and pure, Such as the angels think so very fine,   And matrons, who would be no less secure, Platonic, perfect, “just such love as mine:”   Thus Julia said—­and thought so, to be sure,630 And so I’d have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran. LXXX. Such love is innocent, and may exist   Between young persons without any danger, A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;635   For my part, to such doings I’m a stranger, But hear these freedoms form the utmost list   Of all o’er which such love may be a ranger: If people go beyond, ’tis quite a crime, But not my fault—­I tell them all in time.640



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LXXXI. Love, then, but love within its proper limits,   Was Julia’s innocent determination In young Don Juan’s favour, and to him its   Exertion might be useful on occasion; And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its645   Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her together— I really don’t know what, nor Julia either. LXXXII. Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced   In mail of proof—­her purity of soul,650 She, for the future of her strength convinced,   And that her honour was a rock, or mole, Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed   With any kind of troublesome control; But whether Julia to the task was equal655 Is that which must be mention’d in the sequel. LXXXIII. Her plan she deem’d both innocent and feasible,   And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen Not scandal’s fangs could fix on much that’s seizable,   Or if they did so, satisfied to mean660 Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable—   A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did. LXXXIV. And if in the mean time her husband died,665   But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh’d)   Never could she survive that common loss; But just suppose that moment should betide,   I only say suppose it—­inter nos,670 (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought.)

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lord byron LXXXV. I only say suppose this supposition:   Juan being then grown up to man’s estate Would fully suit a widow of condition,675   Even seven years hence it would not be too late; And in the interim (to pursue this vision)   The mischief, after all, could not be great, For he would learn the rudiments of love, I mean the seraph way of those above.680 LXXXVI. So much for Julia. Now we’ll turn to Juan,   Poor little fellow! he had no idea Of his own case, and never hit the true one;   In feelings quick as Ovid’s Miss Medea, He puzzled over what he found a new one,685   But not as yet imagined it could be a Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. LXXXVII. Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,   His home deserted for the lonely wood,690 Tormented with a wound he could not know,   His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: I’m fond myself of solitude or so,   But then, I beg it may be understood, By solitude I mean a sultan’s, not695 A hermit’s, with a haram for a grot. LXXXVIII. “Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,   Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,   And here thou art a god indeed divine.”700 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,5   With the exception of the second line, For that same twining “transport and security” Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.



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LXXXIX. The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals705   To the good sense and senses of mankind, The very thing which every body feels,   As all have found on trial, or may find, That no one likes to be disturb’d at meals   Or love.—I won’t say more about “entwined”710 Or “transport,” as we knew all that before, But beg “Security” will bolt the door. XC. Young Juan wander’d by the glassy brooks   Thinking unutterable things; he threw Himself at length within the leafy nooks715   Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; There poets find materials for their books,   And every now and then we read them through, So that their plan and prosody are eligible, Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.720 XCI. He, Juan (and not Wordsworth) so pursued   His self-­communion with his own high soul, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,   Had mitigated part, though not the whole Of its disease; he did the best he could725   With things not very subject to control, And turn’d, without perceiving his condition, Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. XCII. He thought about himself, and the whole earth,   Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,730 And how the deuce they ever could have birth;   And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, How many miles the moon might have in girth,   Of air-­balloons, and of the many bars To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;735 And then he thought of Donna Julia’s eyes.

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lord byron XCIII. In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern   Longings sublime, and aspirations high, Which some are born with, but the most part learn   To plague themselves withal, they know not why:740 ’Twas strange that one so young should thus concern   His brain about the action of the sky; If you think ’twas philosophy that this did, I can’t help thinking puberty assisted. XCIV. He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,745   And heard a voice in all the winds; and then He thought of wood nymphs and immortal bowers,   And how the goddesses came down to men: He miss’d the pathway, he forgot the hours,   And when he look’d upon his watch again,750 He found how much old Time had been a winner— He also found that he had lost his dinner. XCV. Sometimes he turn’d to gaze upon his book,   Boscan, or Garcilasso;—by the wind Even as the page is rustled while we look,755   So by the poesy of his own mind Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,   As if ’twere one whereon magicians bind Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, According to some good old woman’s tale.760 XCVI. Thus would he while his lonely hours away   Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; Nor glowing reverie, nor poet’s lay,   Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, A bosom whereon he his head might lay,765   And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, With——several other things, which I forget, Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.



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XCVII. Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,   Could not escape the gentle Julia’s eyes;770 She saw that Juan was not at his ease;   But that which chiefly may, and must surprise, Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease   Her only son with question or surmise; Whether it was she did not see, or would not,775 Or, like all very clever people, could not. XCVIII. This may seem strange, but yet ’tis very common;   For instance—­gentlemen, whose ladies take Leave to o’erstep the written rights of woman,   And break the——Which commandment is’t they break?780 (I have forgot the number, and think no man   Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake) I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. XCIX. A real husband always is suspicious,785   But still no less suspects in the wrong place, Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,   Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;   The last indeed’s infallibly the case:790 And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. C. Thus parents also are at times short-­sighted;   Though watchful as the lynx, they ne’er discover, The while the wicked world beholds delighted,795   Young Hopeful’s mistress, or Miss Fanny’s lover, Till some confounded escapade has blighted   The plan of twenty years, and all is over; And then the mother cries, the father swears, And wonders why the devil he got heirs.800

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lord byron CI. But Inez was so anxious, and so clear   Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, She had some other motive much more near   For leaving Juan to this new temptation; But what that motive was, I sha’n’t say here;805   Perhaps to finish Juan’s education, Perhaps to open Don Alfonso’s eyes, In case he thought his wife too great a prize. CII. It was upon a day, a summer’s day;—   Summer’s indeed a very dangerous season,810 And so is spring about the end of May;   The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; But whatsoe’er the cause is, one may say,   And stand convicted of more truth than treason, That there are months which nature grows more merry in,815 March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. CIII. ’Twas on a summer’s day—­the sixth of June:—   I like to be particular in dates, Not only of the age, and year, but moon;   They are a sort of post-­house, where the Fates820 Change horses, making history change its tune,   Then spur away o’er empires and o’er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, Excepting the post-­obits of theology. CIV. ’Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour825   Of half-­past six—­perhaps still nearer seven, When Julia sate within as pretty a bower   As e’er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,   To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,830 With all the trophies of triumphant song— He won them well, and may he wear them long!



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CV. She sate, but not alone; I know not well   How this same interview had taken place, And even if I knew, I should not tell—835   People should hold their tongues in any case; No matter how or why the thing befel,   But there were she and Juan, face to face— When two such faces are so, ’twould be wise, But very difficult, to shut their eyes.840 CVI. How beautiful she look’d! her conscious heart   Glow’d in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,   Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong, How self-­deceitful is the sagest part845   Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along— The precipice she stood on was immense, So was her creed in her own innocence. CVII. She thought of her own strength, and Juan’s youth,   And of the folly of all prudish fears,850 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,   And then of Don Alfonso’s fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr’d, in sooth,   Because that number rarely much endears, And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,855 Sounds ill in love, whate’er it may in money. CVIII. When people say, “I’ve told you fifty times,”   They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, “I’ve written fifty rhymes,”   They make you dread that they’ll recite them too;860 In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;  At fifty love for love is rare, ’tis true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

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lord byron CIX. Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,865   For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, By all the vows below to powers above,   She never would disgrace the ring she wore, Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;   And while she ponder’d this, besides much more,870 One hand on Juan’s carelessly was thrown, Quite by mistake—­she thought it was her own; CX. Unconsciously she lean’d upon the other,   Which play’d within the tangles of her hair; And to contend with thoughts she could not smother,875   She seem’d by the distraction of her air. ’Twas surely very wrong in Juan’s mother   To leave together this imprudent pair, She who for many years had watch’d her son so— I’m very certain mine would not have done so.880 CXI. The hand which still held Juan’s, by degrees   Gently, but palpably confirm’d its grasp, As if it said “detain me, if you please;”   Yet there’s no doubt she only meant to clasp His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze;885   She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. CXII. I cannot know what Juan thought of this,   But what he did, is much what you would do;890 His young lip thank’d it with a grateful kiss,   And then, abash’d at its own joy, withdrew In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,   Love is so very timid when ’tis new: She blush’d, and frown’d not, but she strove to speak,895 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.



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CXIII. The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:   The devil’s in the moon for mischief; they Who call’d her chaste, methinks, began too soon   Their nomenclature; there is not a day,900 The longest, not the twenty-­first of June,   Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile— And then she looks so modest all the while. CXIV. There is a dangerous silence in that hour,905   A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power   Of calling wholly back its self-­control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,   Sheds beauty and deep softness o’er the whole,910 Breathes also to the heart, and o’er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose. CXV. And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced   And half retiring from the glowing arm, Which trembled like the bosom where ’twas placed;915   Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else ’twere easy to withdraw her waist;   But then the situation had its charm, And then——God knows what next—­I can’t go on; I’m almost sorry that I e’er begun.920 CXVI. Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,   With your confounded fantasies, to more Immoral conduct by the fancied sway   Your system feigns o’er the controlless core Of human hearts, than all the long array925   Of poets and romancers:—You’re a bore, A charlatan, a coxcomb—­and have been, At best, no better than a go-­between.

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lord byron CXVII. And Julia’s voice was lost, except in sighs,   Until too late for useful conversation;930 The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,   I wish indeed they had not had occasion, But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?   Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, A little still she strove, and much repented,935 And whispering “I will ne’er consent”—consented. CXVIII. ’Tis said that Xerxes offer’d a reward   To those who could invent him a new pleasure; Methinks the requisition’s rather hard,   And must have cost his majesty a treasure:940 For my part, I’m a moderate-­minded bard,   Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); I care not for new pleasures, as the old Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. CXIX. Oh Pleasure! you’re indeed a pleasant thing,945   Although one must be damn’d for you, no doubt; I make a resolution every spring   Of reformation, ere the year run out, But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,   Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout:950 I’m very sorry, very much ashamed, And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim’d. CXX. Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take—   Start not! still chaster reader—­she’ll be nice henceForward, and there is no great cause to quake;955   This liberty is a poetic licence, Which some irregularity may make   In the design, and as I have a high sense Of Aristotle and the Rules, ’tis fit To beg his pardon when I err a bit.960



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CXXI. This licence is to hope the reader will   Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, Without whose epoch my poetic skill   For want of facts would all be thrown away), But keeping Julia and Don Juan still965   In sight, that several months have pass’d; we’ll say ’Twas in November, but I’m not so sure About the day—­the era’s more obscure. CXXII. We’ll talk of that anon.—’Tis sweet to hear   At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep970 The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier,   By distance mellow’d, o’er the waters sweep; ’Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;   ’Tis sweet to listen as the nightwinds creep From leaf to leaf; ’tis sweet to view on high975 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. CXXIII. ’Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark   Bay deep-­mouth’d welcome as we draw near home; ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark   Our coming, and look brighter when we come;980 ’Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark,   Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. CXXIV. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes985   In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes   From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,   Sweet to the father is his first-­born’s birth,990 Sweet is revenge—­especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-­money to seamen.

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lord byron CXXV. Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet   The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete,995   Who’ve made “us youth” wait too—­too long already For an estate, or cash, or country-­seat,   Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-­damn’d post-­obits.1000 CXXVI. ’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels   By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,   Particularly with a tiresome friend; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;1005   Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot. CXXVII. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,   Is first and passionate love—­it stands alone,1010 Like Adam’s recollection of his fall;   The tree of knowledge has been pluck’d—­all’s known— And life yields nothing further to recall   Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven1015 Fire which Prometheus filch’d for us from heaven. CXXVIII. Man’s a strange animal, and makes strange use   Of his own nature, and the various arts, And likes particularly to produce   Some new experiment to show his parts;1020 This is the age of oddities let loose,   Where different talents find their different marts; You’d best begin with truth, and when you’ve lost your Labour, there’s a sure market for imposture.



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CXXIX. What opposite discoveries we have seen!1025   (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) One makes new noses, one a guillotine,   One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been   A kind antithesis to Congreve’s rockets,1030 *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * CXXX. Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;   And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer’d like the apparatus1035   Of the Humane Society’s beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis:   What wondrous new machines have late been spinning! *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *1040 CXXXI. *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *1041–8 *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * CXXXII. This is the patent-­age of new inventions   For killing bodies, and for saving souls,1050 All propagated with the best intentions;   Sir Humphrey Davy’s lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,   Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,1055 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. CXXXIII. Man’s a phenomenon, one knows not what,   And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; ’Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that   Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure;1060

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lord byron Few mortals know what end they would be at,   But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gain’d, we die, you know—­and then— CXXXIV. What then?—I do not know, no more do you—1065   And so good night.—Return we to our story: ’Twas in November, when fine days are few,   And the far mountains wax a little hoary, And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;   And the sea dashes round the promontory,1070 And the loud breaker boils against the rock, And sober suns must set at five o’clock. CXXXV. ’Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;   No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright1075   With the piled wood, round which the family crowd; There’s something cheerful in that sort of light,   Even as a summer sky’s without a cloud: I’m fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, A lobster-­salad, and champaigne, and chat.1080 CXXXVI. ’Twas midnight—­Donna Julia was in bed,   Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead,   If they had never been awoke before, And that they have been so we all have read,1085   And are to be so, at the least, once more— The door was fasten’d, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then “Madam—­Madam—­hist! CXXXVII. “For God’s sake, Madam—­Madam—­here’s my master,   With more than half the city at his back—1090 Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!   ’Tis not my fault—­I kept good watch—­Alack! Do, pray undo the bolt a little faster—



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  They’re on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly—1095 Surely the window’s not so very high!” CXXXVIII. By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,   With torches, friends, and servants in great number; The major part of them had long been wived,   And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber1100 Of any wicked woman, who contrived   By stealth her husband’s temples to encumber: Examples of this kind are so contagious, Were one not punish’d, all would be outrageous. CXXXIX. I can’t tell how, or why, or what suspicion1105   Could enter into Don Alfonso’s head; But for a cavalier of his condition   It surely was exceedingly ill-­bred, Without a word of previous admonition,   To hold a levee round his lady’s bed,1110 And summon lackeys, arm’d with fire and sword, To prove himself the thing he most abhorr’d. CXL. Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep,   (Mind—­that I do not say—­she had not slept) Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;1115   Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, Contrived to fling the bed-­clothes in a heap,   As if she had just now from out them crept: I can’t tell why she should take all this trouble To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.1120 CXLI. But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,   Appear’d like two poor harmless women, who Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,   Had thought one man might be deterr’d by two, And therefore side by side were gently laid,1125   Until the hours of absence should run through,

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lord byron And truant husband should return, and say, “My dear, I was the first who came away.” CXLII. Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,   “In heaven’s name, Don Alfonso, what d’ye mean?1130 Has madness seized you? would that I had died   Ere such a monster’s victim I had been! What may this midnight violence betide,   A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?1135 Search, then, the room!”—Alfonso said, “I will.” CXLIII. He search’d, they search’d, and rummaged every where,   Closet and clothes’-press, chest and window-­seat, And found much linen, lace, and several pair   Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,1140 With other articles of ladies fair,   To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Arras they prick’d and curtains with their swords, And wounded several shutters, and some boards. CXLIV. Under the bed they search’d, and there they found—1145   No matter what—­it was not that they sought; They open’d windows, gazing if the ground   Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; And then they stared each other’s faces round:   ’Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought,1150 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, Of looking in the bed as well as under. CXLV. During this inquisition Julia’s tongue   Was not asleep—“Yes, search and search,” she cried, “Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!1155   It was for this that I became a bride! For this in silence I have suffer’d long   A husband like Alfonso at my side;



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But now I’ll bear no more, nor here remain, If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain.1160 CXLVI. “Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,   If ever you indeed deserved the name, Is’t worthy of your years?—you have threescore,   Fifty, or sixty—­it is all the same— Is’t wise or fitting causeless to explore1165   For facts against a virtuous woman’s fame? Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, How dare you think your lady would go on so? CXLVII. “Is it for this I have disdain’d to hold   The common privileges of my sex?1170 That I have chosen a confessor so old   And deaf, that any other it would vex, And never once he has had cause to scold,   But found my very innocence perplex So much, he always doubted I was married—1175 How sorry you will be when I’ve miscarried! CXLVIII. “Was it for this that no Cortejo ere   I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? Is it for this I scarce went any where,   Except to bull-­fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?1180 Is it for this, whate’er my suitors were,   I favour’d none—­nay, was almost uncivil? Is it for this that General Count O’Reilly, Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?6 CXLIX. “Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani1185   Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,   Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Were there not also Russians, English, many?   The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,1190

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lord byron And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, Who kill’d himself for love (with wine) last year. CL. “Have I not had two bishops at my feet?   The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez, And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?1195   I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: I praise your vast forbearance not to beat   Me also, since the time so opportune is— Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock’d trigger, Now, tell me, don’t you cut a pretty figure?1200 CLI. “Was it for this you took your sudden journey,   Under pretence of business indispensable With that sublime of rascals your attorney,   Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible Of having play’d the fool? though both I spurn, he1205   Deserves the worst, his conduct’s less defensible, Because, no doubt, ’twas for his dirty fee, And not from any love to you nor me. CLII. “If he comes here to take a deposition,   By all means let the gentleman proceed;1210 You’ve made the apartment in a fit condition:—   There’s pen and ink for you, sir, when you need— Let every thing be noted with precision,   I would not you for nothing should be fee’d— But, as my maid’s undrest, pray turn your spies out.”1215 “Oh!” sobb’d Antonia, “I could tear their eyes out.” CLIII. “There is the closet, there the toilet, there   The ante-­chamber—­search them under, over: There is the sofa, there the great arm-­chair,   The chimney—­which would really hold a lover.1220 I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care   And make no further noise, till you discover The secret cavern of this lurking treasure— And when ’tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure.



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CLIV. “And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown1225   Doubt upon me, confusion over all, Pray have the courtesy to make it known   Who is the man you search for? how d’ye call Him? what’s his lineage? let him but be shown—   I hope he’s young and handsome—­is he tall?1230 Tell me—­and be assured, that since you stain My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. CLV. “At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,   At that age he would be too old for slaughter, Or for so young a husband’s jealous fears—1235   (Antonia! let me have a glass of water.) I am ashamed of having shed these tears,   They are unworthy of my father’s daughter; My mother dream’d not in my natal hour That I should fall into a monster’s power.1240 CLVI. “Perhaps ’tis of Antonia you are jealous,   You saw that she was sleeping by my side When you broke in upon us with your fellows:   Look where you please—­we’ve nothing, sir, to hide; Only another time, I trust, you’ll tell us,1245   Or for the sake of decency abide A moment at the door, that we may be Drest to receive so much good company. CLVII. “And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;   The little I have said may serve to show1250 The guileless heart in silence may grieve o’er   The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:— I leave you to your conscience as before,   ’Twill one day ask you why you used me so? God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!1255 Antonia! where’s my pocket-­handkerchief?”

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lord byron CLVIII. She ceased, and turn’d upon her pillow; pale   She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,   Waved and o’ershading her wan cheek, appears1260 Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,   To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears Its snow through all;—her soft lips lie apart, And louder than her breathing beats her heart. CLIX. The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;1265   Antonia bustled round the ransack’d room, And, turning up her nose, with looks abused   Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom Not one, except the attorney, was amused;   He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,1270 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, Knowing they must be settled by the laws. CLX. With prying snub-­nose, and small eyes, he stood,   Following Antonia’s motions here and there, With much suspicion in his attitude;1275   For reputations he had little care; So that a suit or action were made good,   Small pity had he for the young and fair, And ne’er believed in negatives, till these Were proved by competent false witnesses.1280 CLXI. But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,   And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; When, after searching in five hundred nooks,   And treating a young wife with so much rigour, He gain’d no point, except some self-­rebukes,1285   Added to those his lady with such vigour Had pour’d upon him for the last half-­hour, Quick, thick, and heavy—­as a thunder-­shower.



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CLXII. At first he tried to hammer an excuse,   To which the sole reply were tears, and sobs,1290 And indications of hysterics, whose   Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:—   Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job’s; He saw too, in perspective, her relations,1295 And then he tried to muster all his patience. CLXIII. He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,   But sage Antonia cut him short before The anvil of his speech received the hammer,   With “Pray sir, leave the room, and say no more,1300 Or madam dies.”—Alfonso mutter’d “D—­n her,”   But nothing else, the time of words was o’er; He cast a rueful look or two, and did, He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. CLXIV. With him retired his “posse comitatus,”1305   The attorney last, who linger’d near the door, Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as   Antonia let him—­not a little sore At this most strange and unexplain’d “hiatus”   In Don Alfonso’s facts, which just now wore1310 An awkward look; as he revolved the case, The door was fasten’d in his legal face. CLXV. No sooner was it bolted, than—­Oh shame!   Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and Oh womankind! How can you do such things and keep your fame,1315   Unless this world, and t’other too, be blind? Nothing so dear as an unfilch’d good name!   But to proceed—­for there is more behind: With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, Young Juan slipp’d, half-­smother’d, from the bed.1320

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lord byron CLXVI. He had been hid—­I don’t pretend to say   How, nor can I indeed describe the where— Young, slender, and pack’d easily, he lay,   No doubt, in little compass, round or square; But pity him I neither must nor may1325   His suffocation by that pretty pair; ’Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. CLXVII And, secondly, I pity not, because   He had no business to commit a sin,1330 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,   At least ’twas rather early to begin; But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws   So much as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,1335 And find a deuced balance with the devil. CLXVIII. Of his position I can give no notion:   ’Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,   Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,1340 When old King David’s blood grew dull in motion,   And that the medicine answer’d very well; Perhaps ’twas in a different way applied, For David lived, but Juan nearly died. CLXIX. What’s to be done? Alfonso will be back1345   The moment he has sent his fools away. Antonia’s skill was put upon the rack,   But no device could be brought into play— And how to parry the renew’d attack?   Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:1350 Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, But press’d her bloodless lip to Juan’s cheek.



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CLXX. He turn’d his lip to hers, and with his hand   Call’d back the tangles of her wandering hair; Even then their love they could not all command,1355   And half forgot their danger and despair: Antonia’s patience now was at a stand—   “Come, come, ’tis no time now for fooling there,” She whisper’d, in great wrath—“I must deposit This pretty gentleman within the closet:1360 CLXXI. “Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night—   Who can have put my master in this mood? What will become on’t—­I’m in such a fright,   The devil’s in the urchin, and no good— Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?1365   Why, don’t you know that it may end in blood? You’ll lose your life, and I shall lose my place, My mistress, all, for that half-­girlish face. CLXXII. “Had it but been for a stout cavalier   Of twenty-­five or thirty—(Come, make haste)1370 But for a child, what piece of work is here!   I really, madam, wonder at your taste— (Come, sir, get in)—my master must be near.   There, for the present, at the least he’s fast, And, if we can but till the morning keep1375 Our counsel—(Juan, mind, you must not sleep).” CLXXIII. Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,   Closed the oration of the trusty maid: She loiter’d, and he told her to be gone,   An order somewhat sullenly obey’d;1380 However, present remedy was none,   And no great good seem’d answer’d if she staid: Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, She snuff ’d the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.

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lord byron CLXXIV. Alfonso paused a minute—­then begun1385   Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; He would not justify what he had done,   To say the best, it was extreme ill-­breeding; But there were ample reasons for it, none   Of which he specified in this his pleading:1390 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, Of rhetoric, which the learn’d call “rigmarole.” CLXXV. Julia said nought; though all the while there rose   A ready answer, which at once enables A matron, who her husband’s foible knows,1395   By a few timely words to turn the tables, Which if it does not silence still must pose,   Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; ’Tis to retort with firmness, and when he Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.1400 CLXXVI. Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,   Alfonso’s loves with Inez were well known; But whether ’twas that one’s own guilt confounds,   But that can’t be, as has been often shown, A lady with apologies abounds;1405   It might be that her silence sprang alone From delicacy to Don Juan’s ear, To whom she knew his mother’s fame was dear. CLXXVII. There might be one more motive, which makes two,   Alfonso ne’er to Juan had alluded,1410 Mention’d his jealousy, but never who   Had been the happy lover, he concluded, Conceal’d amongst his premises; ’tis true,   His mind the more o’er this its mystery brooded; To speak of Inez now were, one may say,1415 Like throwing Juan in Alfonso’s way.



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CLXXVIII. A hint, in tender cases, is enough;   Silence is best, besides there is a tact (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,   But it will serve to keep my verse compact)1420 Which keeps, when push’d by questions rather rough,   A lady always distant from the fact— The charming creatures lie with such a grace, There’s nothing so becoming to the face. CLXXIX. They blush, and we believe them; at least I1425   Have always done so; ’tis of no great use, In any case, attempting a reply,   For then their eloquence grows quite profuse; And when at length they’re out of breath, they sigh,   And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose1430 A tear or two, and then we make it up; And then—­and then—­and then—­sit down and sup. CLXXX. Alfonso closed his speech, and begg’d her pardon,   Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on,1435   Denying several little things he wanted: He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,   With useless penitence perplex’d and haunted, Beseeching she no further would refuse, When lo! he stumbled o’er a pair of shoes.1440 CLXXXI. A pair of shoes!—what then? not much, if they   Are such as fit with lady’s feet, but these (No one can tell how much I grieve to say)   Were masculine; to see them, and to seize, Was but a moment’s act.—Ah! Well-­a-­day!1445   My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze— Alfonso first examined well their fashion, And then flew out into another passion.

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lord byron CLXXXII. He left the room for his relinquish’d sword,   And Julia instant to the closet flew.1450 “Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven’s sake—­not a word—   The door is open—­you may yet slip through The passage you so often have explored—   Here is the garden-­key—­Fly—­fly—­Adieu! Haste—­haste!—I hear Alfonso’s hurrying feet—1455 Day has not broke—­there’s no one in the street.” CLXXXIII. None can say that this was not good advice,   The only mischief was, it came too late; Of all experience ’tis the usual price,   A sort of income-­tax laid on by fate:1460 Juan had reach’d the room-­door in a trice,   And might have done so by the garden-­g ate, But met Alfonso in his dressing-­gown, Who threaten’d death—­so Juan knock’d him down. CLXXXIV. Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light,1465   Antonia cried out “Rape!” and Julia “Fire!” But not a servant stirr’d to aid the fight.   Alfonso, pommell’d to his heart’s desire, Swore lustily he’d be revenged this night;   And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher,1470 His blood was up; though young, he was a Tartar, And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. CLXXXV. Alfonso’s sword had dropp’d ere he could draw it,   And they continued battling hand to hand, For Juan very luckily ne’er saw it;1475   His temper not being under great command, If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,   Alfonso’s days had not been in the land Much longer.—Think of husbands’, lovers’ lives! And how ye may be doubly widows—­wives!1480



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CLXXXVI. Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,   And Juan throttled him to get away, And blood (’twas from the nose) began to flow;   At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,1485   And then his only garment quite gave way; He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. CLXXXVII. Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found   An awkward spectacle their eyes before;1490 Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon’d,   Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Some half-­torn drapery scatter’d on the ground,   Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: Juan the gate gain’d, turn’d the key about,1495 And liking not the inside, lock’d the out. CLXXXVIII. Here ends this canto.—Need I sing, or say,   How Juan, naked, favour’d by the night, Who favours what she should not, found his way,   And reach’d his home in an unseemly plight?1500 The pleasant scandal which arose next day,   The nine days’ wonder which was brought to light, And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, Were in the English newspapers, of course. CLXXXIX. If you would like to see the whole proceedings,1505   The depositions, and the cause at full, The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings   Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, There’s more than one edition, and the readings   Are various, but they none of them are dull,1510 The best is that in short-hand ta’en by Gurney, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.

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lord byron CXC. But Donna Inez, to divert the train   Of one of the most circulating scandals That had for centuries been known in Spain,1515   At least since the retirement of the Vandals, First vow’d (and never had she vow’d in vain)   To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And then, by the advice of some old ladies, She sent her son to be shipp’d off from Cadiz.1520 CXCI. She had resolved that he should travel through   All European climes, by land or sea, To mend his former morals, and get new,   Especially in France and Italy, (At least this is the thing most people do.)1525   Julia was sent into a convent; she Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better Shown in the following copy of her letter: CXCII. “They tell me ’tis decided; you depart:   ’Tis wise—’tis well, but not the less a pain;1530 I have no further claim on your young heart,   Mine is the victim, and would be again; To love too much has been the only art   I used;—I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, ’tis not what it appears,1535 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. CXCIII. “I loved, I love you, for that love have lost   State, station, heaven, mankind’s, my own esteem, And yet can not regret what it hath cost,   So dear is still the memory of that dream;1540 Yet, if I name my guilt, ’tis not to boast,   None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— I’ve nothing to reproach, or to request.



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CXCIV. “Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,1545   ’Tis woman’s whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,   Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,   And few there are whom these can not estrange;1550 Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone. CXCV. “You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,   Beloved and loving many; all is o’er For me on earth, except some years to hide1555   My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core; These I could bear, but cannot cast aside   The passion which still rages as before, And so farewell—­forgive me, love me—­No, That word is idle now—­but let it go.1560 CXCVI. “My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;   But still I think I can collect my mind; My blood still rushes where my spirit’s set,   As roll the waves before the settled wind; My brain is feminine, nor can forget—1565   To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul. CXCVII. “I have no more to say, but linger still,   And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,1570 And yet I may as well the task fulfil,   My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;   Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu,1575 And bear with life, to love and pray for you!”

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lord byron CXCVIII. This note was written upon gilt-­edged paper   With a neat little crow-­quill, slight and new; Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,   It trembled as magnetic needles do,1580 And yet she did not let one tear escape her;   The seal a sun-­flower; “Elle vous suit partout,” The motto, cut upon a white cornelian; The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. CXCIX. This was Don Juan’s earliest scrape; but whether1585   I shall proceed with his adventures is Dependant on the public altogether;   We’ll see, however, what they say to this, Their favour in an author’s cap’s a feather,   And no great mischief ’s done by their caprice;1590 And if their approbation we experience, Perhaps they’ll have some more about a year hence. CC. My poem’s epic, and is meant to be   Divided in twelve books; each book containing, With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,1595   A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, New characters; the episodes are three:   A panorama view of hell’s in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic’s no misnomer.1600 CCI. All these things will be specified in time,   With strict regard to Aristotle’s rules, The vade mecum of the true sublime,   Which makes so many poets, and some fools; Prose poets like blank-­verse, I’m fond of rhyme,1605   Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; I’ve got new mythological machinery, And very handsome supernatural scenery.



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CCII. There’s only one slight difference between   Me and my epic brethren gone before,1610 And here the advantage is my own, I ween;   (Not that I have not several merits more, But this will more peculiarly be seen)   They so embellish, that ’tis quite a bore Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,1615 Whereas this story’s actually true. CCIII. If any person doubt it, I appeal   To history, tradition, and to facts, To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,   To plays in five, and operas in three acts;1620 All these confirm my statement a good deal,   But that which more completely faith exacts Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, Saw Juan’s last elopement with the devil. CCIV. If ever I should condescend to prose,1625   I’ll write poetical commandments, which Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those   That went before; in these I shall enrich My text with many things that no one knows,   And carry precept to the highest pitch:1630 I’ll call the work “Longinus o’er a Bottle, Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.” CCV. Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;   Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,1635   The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey: With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,   And Campbell’s Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy: Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit—­flirtation with the muse of Moore.1640

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lord byron CCVI. Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby’s Muse,   His Pegasus, nor any thing that’s his; Thou shalt not bear false witness like “the Blues,”   (There’s one, at least, is very fond of this); Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:1645   This is true criticism, and you may kiss— Exactly as you please, or not, the rod, But if you don’t, I’ll lay it on, by G—­d! CCVII. If any person should presume to assert   This story is not moral, first, I pray,1650 That they will not cry out before they’re hurt,   Then that they’ll read it o’er again, and say, (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)   That this is not a moral tale, though gay; Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show1655 The very place where wicked people go. CCVIII. If, after all, there should be some so blind   To their own good this warning to despise, Led by some tortuosity of mind,   Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,1660 And cry that they “the moral cannot find,”   I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; Should captains the remark or critics make, They also lie too—­under a mistake. CCIX. The public approbation I expect,1665   And beg they’ll take my word about the moral, Which I with their amusement will connect,   (So children cutting teeth receive a coral); Meantime, they’ll doubtless please to recollect   My epical pretensions to the laurel:1670 For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, I’ve bribed my grandmother’s review—­the British.



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CCX. I sent it in a letter to the editor,   Who thank’d me duly by return of post— I’m for a handsome article his creditor;1675   Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast, And break a promise after having made it her,   Denying the receipt of what it cost, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, All I can say is—­that he had the money.1680 CCXI. I think that with this holy new alliance   I may ensure the public, and defy All other magazines of art or science,   Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I Have not essay’d to multiply their clients,1685   Because they tell me ’twere in vain to try, And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. CCXII. “Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventâ   Consule Planco,” Horace said, and so1690 Say I; by which quotation there is meant a   Hint that some six or seven good years ago (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)   I was most ready to return a blow, And would not brook at all this sort of thing1695 In my hot youth—­when George the Third was King. CCXIII. But now at thirty years my hair is gray—   (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day)   My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I1700 Have squander’d my whole summer while ’twas May,   And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deem’d, my soul invincible.

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lord byron CCXIV. No more—­no more—­Oh! never more on me1705   The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see   Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’the bee:   Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?1710 Alas! ’twas not in them, but in thy power To double even the sweetness of a flower. CCXV. No more—­no more—­Oh! never more, my heart,   Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! Once all in all, but now a thing apart,1715   Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: The illusion’s gone for ever, and thou art   Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgment, Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.1720 CCXVI. My days of love are over, me no more7   The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,   In short, I must not lead the life I did do; The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er,1725   The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-­gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. CCXVII. Ambition was my idol, which was broken   Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;1730 And the two last have left me many a token   O’er which reflection may be made at leisure: Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen head, I’ve spoken,   “Time is, Time was, Time’s past,” a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes—1735 My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.



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CCXVIII. What is the end of fame? ’tis but to fill   A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill,   Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;1740 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,   And bards burn what they call their “midnight taper,” To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. CCXIX. What are the hopes of man? old Egypt’s King1745   Cheops erected the first pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing   To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging,   Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid:1750 Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. CCXX. But I, being fond of true philosophy,   Say very often to myself, “Alas! All things that have been born were born to die,1755   And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly,   And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass— So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.”1760 CCXXI. But for the present, gentle reader! and   Still gentler purchaser! the bard—­that’s I— Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,   And so your humble servant, and good bye! We meet again, if we should understand1765   Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample— ’Twere well if others follow’d my example.

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lord byron CCXXII. “Go, little book, from this my solitude!   I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways!1770 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,   The world will find thee after many days.” When Southey’s read, and Wordsworth understood,   I can’t help putting in my claim to praise— The four first rhymes are Southey’s every line:1775 For God’s sake, reader! take them not for mine.

BYRON’S NOTES TO CANTO I Note 1, stanza V, [line 33]. Brave men were living before Agamemnon. “Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona,” &c.—Horace Note 2, stanza XVII, [line 136]. Save thine “incomparable oil,” Macassar! “Description des vertues incomparables de l’huile de Macassar.”—See the Advertisement. Note 3, stanza XLII, [lines 333–4]. Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. See Longinus, Section 10, “ἵνα μὴ ἕν τι περὶ αὐτὴν πάθος φάινηται, παθῶν δὲ σύνοδος.” Note 4, stanza XLIV, [line 351]. They only add them all in an appendix. Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at the end. Note 5, stanza LXXXVIII, [line 701]. The bard I quote from does not sing amiss. Campbell’s Gertrude of Wyoming, (I think) the opening of canto II.; but quote from memory.



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Note 6, stanza CXLVIII, [lines 1183–84]. Is it for this that General Count O’Reilly, Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O’Reilly did not take Algiers—­but Algiers very nearly took him: he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and not much credit, from before that city in the year 17—. Note 7, stanza CCXVI, [line 1721]. My days of love are over, me no more. Me nec femina, nec puer Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui,   Nec certare juvat mero; Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

CANTO II. I. Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,   Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,   It mends their morals; never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations5   In Juan’s case were but employ’d in vain, Since in a way, that’s rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty. II. Had he but been placed at a public school,   In the third form, or even in the fourth,10 His daily task had kept his fancy cool,   At least, had he been nurtured in the north; Spain may prove an exception to the rule,   But then exceptions always prove its worth— A lad of sixteen causing a divorce15 Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. III. I can’t say that it puzzles me at all,   If all things be consider’d: first, there was

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lord byron His lady-­mother, mathematical,   A——never mind; his tutor, an old ass;20 A pretty woman—(that’s quite natural,   Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); A husband rather old, not much in unity With his young wife—­a time, and opportunity. IV. Well—­well, the world must turn upon its axis,25   And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,   And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,   The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,30 A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name. V. I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz—   A pretty town, I recollect it well— ’Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is,35   (Or was, before Peru learn’d to rebel) And such sweet girls—­I mean, such graceful ladies,   Their very walk would make your bosom swell; I can’t describe it, though so much it strike, Nor liken it—­I never saw the like:40 VI. An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb   New broke, a camelopard, a gazelle, No—­none of these will do;—and then their garb!   Their veil and petticoat—­Alas! to dwell Upon such things would very near absorb45   A canto—­then their feet and ankles—­well, Thank heaven I’ve got no metaphor quite ready, (And so, my sober Muse—­come, let’s be steady— VII. Chaste Muse!—well, if you must, you must)—the veil   Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand,50



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While the o’erpowering eye, that turns you pale,   Flashes into the heart:—All sunny land Of love! when I forget you, may I fail   To——say my prayers—­but never was there plann’d A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,55 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. VIII. But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent   Her son to Cadiz only to embark; To stay there had not answer’d her intent,   But why?—we leave the reader in the dark—60 ’Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant,   As if a Spanish ship were Noah’s ark, To wean him from the wickedness of earth, And send him like a dove of promise forth. IX. Don Juan bade his valet pack his things65   According to direction, then received A lecture and some money: for four springs   He was to travel; and though Inez grieved, (As every kind of parting has its stings)   She hoped he would improve—­perhaps believed:70 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice—­and two or three of credit. X. In the mean time, to pass her hours away,   Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school For naughty children, who would rather play75   (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; Infants of three years old were taught that day,   Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool: The great success of Juan’s education, Spurr’d her to teach another generation.80 XI. Juan embark’d—­the ship got under way,   The wind was fair, the water passing rough; A devil of a sea rolls in that Bay,   As I, who’ve cross’d it oft, know well enough;

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lord byron And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray85   Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-­tough: And there he stood to take, and take again, His first—­perhaps his last—­farewell of Spain. XII. I can’t but say it is an awkward sight   To see one’s native land receding through90 The growing waters; it unmans one quite,   Especially when life is rather new: I recollect Great Britain’s coast looks white,   But almost every other country’s blue, When gazing on them, mystified by distance,95 We enter on our nautical existence. XIII. So Juan stood, bewilder’d, on the deck:   The wind sung, cordage strain’d, and sailors swore, And the ship creak’d, the town became a speck,   From which away so fair and fast they bore.100 The best of remedies is a beef-­steak   Against sea-­sickness: try it, sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer—­so may you. XIV. Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,105   Beheld his native Spain receding far: First partings form a lesson hard to learn,   Even nations feel this when they go to war; There is a sort of unexprest concern,   A kind of shock that sets one’s heart ajar:110 At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. XV. But Juan had got many things to leave,   His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve115   Than many persons more advanced in life; And if we now and then a sigh must heave



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  At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.120 XVI. So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews   By Babel’s waters, still remembering Sion: I’d weep, but mine is not a weeping Muse,   And such light griefs are not a thing to die on; Young men should travel, if but to amuse125   Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. XVII. And Juan wept, and much he sigh’d and thought,   While his salt tears dropp’d into the salt sea,130 “Sweets to the sweet;” (I like so much to quote;   You must excuse this extract, ’tis where she, The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought   Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he Reflected on his present situation,135 And seriously resolved on reformation. XVIII. “Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!” he cried,   “Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,   Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:140 Farewell, where Guadalquivir’s waters glide!   Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o’er, Farewell, too dearest Julia!—(here he drew Her letter out again, and read it through.) XIX. “And oh! if e’er I should forget, I swear—145   But that’s impossible, and cannot be— Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,   Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, Oh! my fair!   Or think of any thing excepting thee;150

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lord byron A mind diseased no remedy can physic— (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-­sick.) XX. “Sooner shall heaven kiss earth—(here he fell sicker)   Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?— (For God’s sake let me have a glass of liquor—155   Pedro! Battista! help me down below.) Julia, my love!—(you rascal, Pedro, quicker)—   Oh Julia!—(this curst vessel pitches so)— Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!” (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)160 XXI. He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,   Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary’s art,   The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part165   Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends: No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic. XXII. Love’s a capricious power; I’ve known it hold   Out through a fever caused by its own heat,170 But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,   And find a quinsy very hard to treat; Against all noble maladies he’s bold,   But vulgar illnesses don’t like to meet, Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,175 Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. XXIII. But worst of all is nausea, or a pain   About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein,   Shrinks from the application of hot towels,180 And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,   Sea-­sickness death: his love was perfect, how else Could Juan’s passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne’er at sea before?



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XXIV. The ship, call’d the most holy “Trinidada,”185   Was steering duly for the port Leghorn: For there the Spanish family Moncada   Were settled long ere Juan’s sire was born: They were relations, and for them he had a   Letter of introduction, which the morn190 Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy. XXV. His suite consisted of three servants and   A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, Who several languages did understand,195   But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, And, rocking in his hammock, long’d for land,   His headache being increased by every billow; And the waves oozing through the port-­hole made His berth a little damp, and him afraid.200 XXVI. ’Twas not without some reason, for the wind   Increased at night, until it blew a gale; And though ’twas not much to a naval mind,   Some landsmen would have look’d a little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:205   At sunset they began to take in sail, For the sky show’d it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. XXVII. At one o’clock the wind with sudden shift   Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,210 Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,   Started the stern-­post, also shatter’d the Whole of her stern-­frame, and ere she could lift   Herself from out her present jeopardy The rudder tore away: ’twas time to sound215 The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

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lord byron XXVIII. One gang of people instantly was put   Upon the pumps, and the remainder set To get up part of the cargo, and what not,   But they could not come at the leak as yet;220 At last they did get at it really, but   Still their salvation was an even bet: The water rush’d through in a way quite puzzling, While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, XXIX. Into the opening; but all such ingredients225   Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, Despite of all their efforts and expedients,   But for the pumps: I’m glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence,   For fifty tons of water were upthrown230 By them per hour, and they had all been undone But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. XXX. As day advanced the weather seem’d to abate,   And then the leak they reckon’d to reduce, And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet235   Kept two hand and one chain-­pump still in use. The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late   A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust—­which all descriptive power transcends— Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.240 XXXI. There she lay, motionless, and seem’d upset;   The water left the hold, and wash’d the decks, And made a scene men do not soon forget;   For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, Or any other thing that brings regret,245   Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk’d of by the divers And swimmers who may chance to be survivors.



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XXXII. Immediately the masts were cut away,   Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,250 The mainmast follow’d: but the ship still lay   Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they   Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted),255 And then with violence the old ship righted. XXXIII. It may be easily supposed, while this   Was going on, some people were unquiet, That passengers would find it much amiss   To lose their lives as well as spoil their diet;260 That even the able seaman, deeming his   Days nearly o’er, might be disposed to riot, As upon such occasions tars will ask For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. XXXIV. There’s nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms265   As rum and true religion; thus it was, Some plunder’d, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,   The high wind made the treble, and as bass The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms   Of all the luckless landsmen’s sea-­sick maws:270 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, Clamour’d in chorus to the roaring ocean. XXXV. Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for   Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-­room, and stood before275   It with a pair of pistols; and their fears, As if Death were more dreadful by his door   Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.280

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lord byron XXXVI. “Give us more grog,” they cried, “for it will be   All one an hour hence.” Juan answer’d, “No! ’Tis true that death awaits both you and me,   But let us die like men, not sink below Like brutes:”—and thus his dangerous post kept he,285   And none liked to anticipate the blow; And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. XXXVII. The good old gentleman was quite aghast,   And made a loud and pious lamentation;290 Repented all his sins, and made a last   Irrevocable vow of reformation; Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)   To quit his academic occupation, In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,295 To follow Juan’s wake, like Sancho Panca. XXXVIII. But now there came a flash of hope once more;   Day broke, and the wind lull’d: the masts were gone, The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,   The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.300 They tried the pumps again, and though before   Their desperate efforts seem’d all useless grown, A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale— The stronger pump’d, the weaker thrumm’d a sail. XXXIX. Under the vessel’s keel the sail was past,305   And for the moment it had some effect; But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,   Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect? But still ’tis best to struggle to the last,   ’Tis never too late to be wholly wreck’d:310 And though ’tis true that man can only die once, ’Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.



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XL. There winds and waves had hurl’d them, and from thence,   Without their will, they carried them away; For they were forced with steering to dispense,315   And never had as yet a quiet day On which they might repose, or even commence   A jurymast or rudder, or could say The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, Still swam—­though not exactly like a duck.320 XLI. The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,   But the ship labour’d so, they scarce could hope To weather out much longer; the distress   Was also great with which they had to cope For want of water, and their solid mess325   Was scant enough: in vain the telescope Was used—­nor sail nor shore appear’d in sight, Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. XLII. Again the weather threaten’d,—again blew   A gale, and in the fore and after hold330 Water appear’d; yet, though the people knew   All this, the most were patient, and some bold, Until the chains and leathers were worn through   Of all our pumps:—a wreck complete she roll’d, At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are335 Like human beings during civil war. XLIII. Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears   In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he Could do no more; he was a man in years,   And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,340 And if he wept at length, they were not fears   That made his eyelids as a woman’s be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

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lord byron XLIV. The ship was evidently settling now345   Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, Some went to prayers again, and made a vow   Of candles to their saints—­but there were none To pay them with; and some look’d o’er the bow;   Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one350 That begg’d Pedrillo for an absolution, Who told him to be damn’d—­in his confusion. XLV. Some lash’d them in their hammocks, some put on   Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun,355   And gnash’d their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair; And others went on as they had begun,   Getting the boats out, being well aware That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.360 XLVI. The worst of all was, that in their condition,   Having been several days in great distress, ’Twas difficult to get out such provision   As now might render their long suffering less: Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;365   Their stock was damaged by the weather’s stress: Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. XLVII. But in the long-­boat they contrived to stow   Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet;370 Water, a twenty gallon cask or so;   Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below,   And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon—375 Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.



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XLVIII. The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had   Been stove in the beginning of the gale; And the long-­boat’s condition was but bad,   As there were but two blankets for a sail,380 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad   Threw in by good luck over the ship’s rail; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board. XLIX. ’Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down385   Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown   Of one who hates us, so the night was shown, And grimly darkled o’er their faces pale,   And hopeless eyes, which o’er the deep alone390 Gazed dim and desolate; twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. L. Some trial had been making at a raft,   With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laugh’d,395   If any laughter at such times could be, Unless with people who too much have quaff ’d,   And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Half epileptical, and half hysterical:— Their preservation would have been a miracle.400 LI. At half-­past eight o’clock, booms, hencoops, spars,   And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,   For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars,405   The boats put off o’ercrowded with their crews; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head foremost—­sunk, in short.

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lord byron LII. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,   Then shriek’d the timid, and stood still the brave,410 Then some leap’d overboard with dreadful yell,   As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawn’d around her like a hell,   And down she suck’d with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy,415 And strives to strangle him before he die. LIII. And first one universal shriek there rush’d,   Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush’d,   Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash420 Of billows; but at intervals there gush’d,   Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. LIV. The boats, as stated, had got off before,425   And in them crowded several of the crew; And yet their present hope was hardly more   Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reaching any shore;   And then they were too many, though so few—430 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat. LV. All the rest perish’d; near two hundred souls   Had left their bodies; and, what’s worse, alas! When over Catholics the ocean rolls,435   They must wait several weeks before a mass Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,   Because, till people know what’s come to pass, They won’t lay out their money on the dead— It costs three francs for every mass that’s said.440



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LVI. Juan got into the long-­boat, and there   Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; It seem’d as if they had exchanged their care,   For Juan wore the magisterial face Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo’s pair445   Of eyes were crying for their owner’s case: Battista, though, (a name call’d shortly Tita) Was lost by getting at some aqua-­vita. LVII. Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,   But the same cause, conducive to his loss,450 Left him so drunk, he jump’d into the wave   As o’er the cutter’s edge he tried to cross, And so he found a wine-­and-­watery grave;   They could not rescue him although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute,455 And for the boat—­the crew kept crowding in it. LVIII. A small old spaniel,—which had been Don Jóse’s,   His father’s, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes   With tenderness,—stood howling on the brink,460 Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!)   No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp’d Off, threw him in, then after him he leap’d. LIX. He also stuff ’d his money where he could465   About his person, and Pedrillo’s too, Who let him do, in fact, whate’er he would,   Not knowing what himself to say, or do, As every rising wave his dread renew’d;   And Juan, trusting they might still get through,470 And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Thus re-­embark’d his tutor and his spaniel.

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lord byron LX. ’Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,   That the sail was becalm’d between the seas, Though on the wave’s high top too much to set,475   They dared not take it in for all the breeze; Each sea curl’d o’er the stern, and kept them wet,   And made them bale without a moment’s ease, So that themselves as well as hopes were damp’d, And the poor little cutter quickly swamp’d.480 LXI. Nine souls more went in her: the long-­boat still   Kept above water, with an oar for mast, Two blankets stitch’d together, answering ill   Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast: Though every wave roll’d menacing to fill,485   And present peril all before surpass’d, They grieved for those who perish’d with the cutter, And also for the biscuit casks and butter. LXII. The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign   Of the continuance of the gale: to run490 Before the sea, until it should grow fine,   Was all that for the present could be done: A few tea-­spoonfuls of their rum and wine   Were served out to the people, who begun To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,495 And most of them had little clothes but rags. LXIII. They counted thirty, crowded in a space   Which left scarce room for motion or exertion; They did their best to modify their case,   One half sate up, though numb’d with the immersion,500 While t’other half were laid down in their place,   At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they fill’d their boat, With nothing but the sky for a great coat.



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LXIV. ’Tis very certain the desire of life505   Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians, When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,   Survive through very desperate conditions, Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife   Nor shears of Atropos before their visions:510 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, And makes men’s miseries of alarming brevity. LXV. ’Tis said that persons living on annuities   Are longer lived than others,—God knows why, Unless to plague the grantors,—yet so true it is,515   That some, I really think, do never die; Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,  And that’s their mode of furnishing supply: In my young days they lent me cash that way, Which I found very troublesome to pay.520 LXVI. ’Tis thus with people in an open boat,   They live upon the love of life, and bear More than can be believed, or even thought,   And stand like rocks the tempest’s wear and tear; And hardship still has been the sailor’s lot,525   Since Noah’s ark went cruising here and there; She had a curious crew as well as cargo, Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. LXVII. But man is a carnivorous production,   And must have meals, at least one meal a day;530 He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,   But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey: Although his anatomical construction   Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think beyond all question,535 Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

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lord byron LXVIII. And thus it was with this our hapless crew;   For on the third day there came on a calm, And though at first their strength it might renew,   And lying on their weariness like balm,540 Lull’d them like turtles sleeping on the blue   Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision. LXIX. The consequence was easily foreseen—545   They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, In spite of all remonstrances, and then   On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!   And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,550 But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual. LXX. The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,   And Ocean slumber’d like an unwean’d child: The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,555   The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild— With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)   What could they do? and hunger’s rage grew wild: So Juan’s spaniel, spite of his entreating, Was kill’d, and portion’d out for present eating.560 LXXI. On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,   And Juan, who had still refused, because The creature was his father’s dog that died,   Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, With some remorse received (though first denied)565   As a great favour one of the fore-­paws, Which he divided with Pedrillo, who Devour’d it, longing for the other too.



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LXXII. The seventh day, and no wind—­the burning sun   Blister’d and scorch’d, and, stagnant on the sea,570 They lay like carcases; and hope was none,   Save in the breeze that came not; savagely They glared upon each other—­all was done,   Water, and wine, and food,—and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise575 (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. LXXIII. At length one whisper’d his companion, who   Whisper’d another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew,   An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound,580 And when his comrade’s thought each sufferer knew,   ’Twas but his own, suppress’d till now, he found: And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellow’s food. LXXIV. But ere they came to this, they that day shared585   Some leathern caps, and what remain’d of shoes; And then they look’d around them, and, despair’d,   And none to be the sacrifice would choose; At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,   But of materials that much shock the Muse—590 Having no paper, for the want of better, They took by force from Juan Julia’s letter. LXXV. The lots were made, and mark’d, and mix’d, and handed,   In silent horror, and their distribution Lull’d even the savage hunger which demanded,595   Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or plann’d it,   ’Twas nature gnaw’d them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter— And the lot fell on Juan’s luckless tutor.600

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lord byron LXXVI. He but requested to be bled to death:   The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebb’d his breath,   You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a Catholic in faith,605   Like most in the belief in which they’re bred, And first a little crucifix he kiss’d, And then held out his jugular and wrist. LXXVII. The surgeon, as there was no other fee,   Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;610 But being thirstiest at the moment, he   Preferr’d a draught from the fast-­flowing veins: Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,   And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow’d o’er the billow—615 The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. LXXVIII. The sailors ate him, all save three or four,   Who were not quite so fond of animal food; To these was added Juan, who, before   Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could620 Feel now his appetite increased much more;   ’Twas not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master. LXXIX. ’Twas better that he did not; for, in fact,625   The consequence was awful in the extreme: For they, who were most ravenous in the act,   Went raging mad—­Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack’d,   Drinking salt-­water like a mountain-­stream,630 Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyæna laughter, died despairing.



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LXXX. Their numbers were much thinn’d by this infliction,   And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection,635   Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others ponder’d on a new dissection,   As if not warn’d sufficiently by those Who had already perish’d, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly.640 LXXXI. And next they thought upon the master’s mate,   As fattest; but he saved himself, because, Besides being much averse from such a fate,   There were some other reasons; the first was, He had been rather indisposed of late,645   And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, By general subscription of the ladies. LXXXII. Of poor Pedrillo something still remain’d,   But was used sparingly,—some were afraid,650 And others still their appetites constrain’d,   Or but at times a little supper made; All except Juan, who throughout abstain’d,   Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead: At length they caught two boobies, and a noddy,655 And then they left off eating the dead body. LXXXIII. And if Pedrillo’s fate should shocking be,   Remember Ugolino condescends To eat the head of his arch-­enemy   The moment after he politely ends660 His tale; if foes be food in hell, at sea   ’Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck’s short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante.

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lord byron LXXXIV. And the same night there fell a shower of rain,665   For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain,   Men really know not what good water’s worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,   Or with a famish’d boat’s-­crew had your birth,670 Or in the desert heard the camel’s bell, You’d wish yourself where Truth is—­in a well. LXXXV. It pour’d down torrents, but they were no richer   Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,675   And when they deem’d its moisture was complete, They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher   Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne’er till now had known the joys of drinking.680 LXXXVI. And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,   Suck’d in the moisture, which like nectar stream’d; Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,   As the rich man’s in hell, who vainly scream’d To beg the beggar, who could not rain back685   A drop of dew, when every drop had seem’d To taste of heaven—­If this be true, indeed, Some Christians have a comfortable creed. LXXXVII. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,   And with them their two sons, of whom the one690 Was more robust and hardy to the view,   But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw   One glance on him, and said, “Heaven’s will be done! I can do nothing,” and he saw him thrown695 Into the deep without a tear or groan.



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LXXXVIII. The other father had a weaklier child,   Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild   And patient spirit held aloof his fate;700 Little he said, and now and then he smiled,   As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father’s heart, With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. LXXXIX. And o’er him bent his sire, and never raised705   His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,   And when the wish’d-­for shower at length was come, And the boy’s eyes, which the dull film half glazed,   Brighten’d, and for a moment seem’d to roam,710 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child’s mouth—­but in vain. XC. The boy expired—­the father held the clay,   And look’d upon it long, and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay715   Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watch’d it wistfully, until away   ’Twas borne by the rude wave wherein ’twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.720 XCI. Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through   The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, Resting its bright base on the quivering blue;   And all within its arch appear’d to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue725   Wax’d broad and waving, like a banner free, Then changed like to a bow that’s bent, and then Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck’d men.

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lord byron XCII. It changed, of course; a heavenly cameleon,   The airy child of vapour and the sun,730 Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion,   Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, Glittering like crescents o’er a Turk’s pavilion,   And blending every colour into one, Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle,735 (For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) XCIII. Our shipwreck’d seamen thought it a good omen—   It is as well to think so, now and then; ’Twas was an old custom of the Greek and Roman,   And may become of great advantage when740 Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men   Had greater need to nerve themselves again Than these, and so this rainbow look’d like hope— Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. XCIV. About this time a beautiful white bird,745   Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size And plumage, (probably it might have err’d   Upon its course) pass’d oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard   The men within the boat, and in this guise750 It came and went, and flutter’d round them till Night fell:—this seem’d a better omen still. XCV. But in this case I also must remark,   ’Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shatter’d bark755   Was not so safe for roosting as a church; And had it been the dove from Noah’s ark,   Returning there from her successful search, Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, They would have eat her, olive-­branch and all.760



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XCVI. With twilight it again came on to blow,   But not with violence; the stars shone out, The boat made way; yet now they were so low,   They knew not where nor what they were about; Some fancied they saw land, and some said “No!”765   The frequent fog-­banks gave them cause to doubt— Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, And all mistook about the latter once. XCVII. As morning broke the light wind died away,   When he who had the watch sung out, and swore770 If ’twas not land that rose with the sun’s ray,   He wish’d that land he never might see more; And the rest rubb’d their eyes, and saw a bay,   Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore; For shore it was, and gradually grew775 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. XCVIII. 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;780 While a few pray’d—(the first time for some years)—   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,785   They found a turtle of the hawk’s-­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:790 They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance.

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lord byron 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 lost795   In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been tost,   So changeable had been the winds that blew; Some thought it was Mount Ætna, some the highlands Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.800 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 avail805   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 to810 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,815 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,820 And fell upon their glazed eyes like 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.



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CIV. The shore look’d wild, without a trace of man,825   And girt by formidable waves; but they Were made 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,830 But finding no place for their landing better, They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. CV. But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir,   Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; And having learnt to swim in that sweet river,835   Had often turn’d the art to some account: A 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.840 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,845   That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; As for the other two they could not swim, So nobody arrived on shore but him. CVII. Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,   Which, providentially for him, was wash’d850 Just as his feeble arms could strike no more,   And the hard wave o’erwhelm’d him as ’twas dash’d Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore   The waters beat while he thereto was lash’d; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he855 Roll’d on the beach, half senseless, from the sea:

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lord byron 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:860 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,865   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,870 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:875   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.880 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 away885   He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seem’d throbbing back to life, For Death, though vanquish’d, still retired with strife.



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CXII. His eyes he open’d, shut, again unclosed,   For all was doubt and dizziness; methought890 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 seen895 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;900 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe   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 flung905   Around his scarce-­clad limbs; and the fair arm Raised 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;910 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,915   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.920

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lord byron 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,925   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,930 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,935 And hurls at once his venom and his strength. CXVIII. Her brow was white and low, her cheek’s 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 one940 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 just945   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,950 They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne’er compass’d, nor less mortal chisel wrought.



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CXX. And such was she, the lady of the cave:   Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;955   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.960 CXXI. But with our damsel this was not the case:   Her dress was many-­colour’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 lace965   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; she970 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 eyes975 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:980 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 ordered dinner for new comers.

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lord byron CXXIV. I’ll tell you who they were, this female pair,985   Lest they should seem princesses in disguise; Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air   Of clap-­trap, which your recent poets prize; And so, in short, the girls they really were   They shall appear before your curious eyes,990 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,995   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.1000 CXXVI. A fisher, therefore, was he—­though of 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 gain1005   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)1010 A very handsome house from out his guilt,   And there he lived exceedingly at ease; Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt,   A sad old fellow was he, if you please, But this I know, it was a spacious building,1015 Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.



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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:1020 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, below1025   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,1030 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,1035   Or people in a trance into their grave; Because the good old man had so much “νοῦς,”   Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, He would have hospitably cured the stranger, And sold him instantly when out of danger.1040 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;1045   And their compassion grew to such a size, It open’d half the turnpike-­g ates to heaven— (St. Paul says ’tis the toll which must be given.)

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lord byron CXXXII. They made a fire, but such a fire as they   Upon the moment could contrive with such1050 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,1055 That there was fuel to have furnish’d twenty. 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,1060 They also gave a petticoat apiece,   She and her maid, and promised by day-­break 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:1065   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 Not even a vision of his former woes   Throbb’d in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread1070 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 staid,1075   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.1080



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CXXXVI. And pensive to her father’s house she went,   Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant,   She being wiser by a year or two: A year or two’s an age when rightly spent,1085   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 upon1090 His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring 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 comparative1095 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’d of a thousand wrecks, o’er which she stumbled,   And handsome corpses strew’d upon the shore;1100 And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,   And call’d her father’s old slaves up, who swore In 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,1105   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 Phœbus, while the mountains still are wet   With mist, and every bird with him awakes,1110 And night is flung off like a mourning suit Worn for a husband, or some other brute.

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lord byron CXL. I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,   I’ve seen him rise full oft, indeed of late I have sat up on purpose all the night,1115   Which hastens, as physicians say, one’s fate; And so all ye, who would be in the right   In health and purse, begin your day to date From day-­break, and when coffin’d at fourscore, Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.1120 CXLI. And Haidee met the morning face to face;   Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race   From heart to cheek is curb’d into a blush, Like to a torrent which a mountain’s base,1125   That overpowers some alpine river’s rush, Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; Or the Red Sea—­but the sea is not red. CXLII. And down the cliff the island virgin came,   And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew,1130 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame,   And young Aurora kiss’d her lips with dew, Taking her for a sister; just the same   Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair,1135 Had all the advantage too of not being air. CXLIII. And when into the cavern Haidee stepp’d   All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw That like an infant Juan sweetly slept;   And then she stopp’d, and stood as if in awe,1140 (For sleep is awful) and on tiptoe crept   And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, Should reach his blood, then o’er him still as death Bent, with hush’d lips, that drank his scarce-­drawn breath.



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CXLIV. And thus like to an angel o’er the dying1145   Who die in righteousness, she lean’d; and there All tranquilly the shipwreck’d boy was lying,   As o’er him lay the calm and stirless air: But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying,   Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair1150 Must breakfast, and betimes—­lest they should ask it, She drew out her provision from the basket. CXLV. She knew that the best feelings must have victual,   And that a shipwreck’d youth would hungry be; Besides, being less in love, she yawn’d a little,1155   And felt her veins chill’d by the neighbouring sea; And so, she cook’d their breakfast to a tittle;   I can’t say that she gave them any tea, But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, With Scio wine,—and all for love, not money.1160 CXLVI. And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and   The coffee made, would fain have waken’d Juan; But Haidee stopp’d her with her quick small hand,   And without word, a sign her finger drew on Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand;1165   And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one, Because her mistress would not let her break That sleep which seem’d as it would ne’er awake. CXLVII. For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek   A purple hectic play’d like dying day1170 On the snow-­tops of distant hills; the streak   Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, Where the blue veins look’d shadowy, shrunk, and weak;   And his black curls were dewy with the spray, Which weigh’d upon them yet, all damp and salt,1175 Mix’d with the stony vapours of the vault.

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lord byron CXLVIII. And she bent o’er him, and he lay beneath,   Hush’d as the babe upon its mother’s breast, Droop’d as the willow when no winds can breathe,   Lull’d like the depth of ocean when at rest,1180 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath,   Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; In short, he was a very pretty fellow, Although his woes had turn’d him rather yellow. CXLIX. He woke and gazed, and would have slept again,1185   But the fair face which met his eyes forbade Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain   Had further sleep a further pleasure made; For woman’s face was never form’d in vain   For Juan, so that even when he pray’d1190 He turn’d from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. CL. And thus upon his elbow he arose,   And look’d upon the lady, in whose cheek The pale contended with the purple rose,1195   As with an effort she began to speak; Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose,   Although she told him, in good modern Greek, With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat.1200 CLI. Now Juan could not understand a word,   Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird,   So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, That finer, simpler music ne’er was heard;1205   The sort of sound we echo with a tear, Without knowing why—­an overpowering tone, Whence Melody descends as from a throne.



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CLII. And Juan gazed as one who is awoke   By a distant organ, doubting if he be1210 Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke   By the watchman, or some such reality, Or by one’s early valet’s cursed knock;   At least it is a heavy sound to me, Who like a morning slumber—­for the night1215 Shows stars and women in a better light. CLIII. And Juan, too, was help’d out from his dream   Or sleep, or whatso’er it was, by feeling A most prodigious appetite: the steam   Of Zoe’s cookery no doubt was stealing1220 Upon his senses, and the kindling beam   Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling, To stir her viands, made him quite awake And long for food, but chiefly a beef-­steak. CLIV. But beef is rare within these oxless isles;1225   Goat’s flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles,   A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on: But this occurs but seldom, between whiles,   For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on,1230 Others are fair and fertile, among which This, though not large, was one of the most rich. CLV. I say that beef is rare, and can’t help thinking   That the old fable of the Minotaur— From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking,1235   Condemn the royal lady’s taste who wore A cow’s shape for a mask—­was only (sinking   The allegory) a mere type, no more, That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, To make the Cretans bloodier in battle.1240

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lord byron CLVI. For we all know that English people are   Fed upon beef—­I won’t say much of beer, Because ’tis liquor only, and being far   From this my subject, has no business here; We know, too, they are very fond of war,1245   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 saw1250 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, like1255 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:1260 But Zoe, being older than Haidee,   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,1265   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—1270 She snatch’d it, and refused another morsel, Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill.



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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,1275   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.1280 CLXI. And then fair Haidee 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 eking1285   Her speech out to her protegé 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,1290 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 exprest1295 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:1300 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 Haidee’s glance than any graven letter.

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lord byron CLXIV. ’Tis pleasing to be school’d in a strange tongue1305   By female lips and eyes—­that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young,   As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one’s right, and when one’s wrong   They smile still more, and then there intervene1310 Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss;— I learn’d the little that I know by this: CLXV. That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek,   Italian not at all, having no teachers; Much English I cannot pretend to speak,1315   Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week   I study, also Blair, the highest reachers Of eloquence in piety and prose— I hate your poets, so read none of those.1320 CLXVI. As for the ladies, I have nought to say,   A wanderer from the British world of fashion, Where I, like other “dogs, have had my day,”   Like other men too, may have had my passion— But that, like other things, has pass’d away:1325   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; but1330 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,1335 Just in the way we very often see.



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CLXVIII. And every day by day-­break—­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;1340 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 colour freshlier came,1345   And every day help’d on his convalescence; ’Twas 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 lessons1350 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,—1355   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.1360 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—1365   And repetition’s tiresome and unwise,— Well—­Juan, after bathing in the sea, Came always back to coffee and Haidee.

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lord byron CLXXII. Both were so young, and one so innocent,   That bathing pass’d for nothing; Juan seem’d1370 To her, as ’twere, 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 win1375 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 him wake:1380 To live with him forever were too much;   But then the thought of parting made her quake: He was her own, her ocean-­treasure, cast Like a rich wreck—­her first love, and her last. CLXXIV. And thus a moon roll’d on, and fair Haidee1385   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,1390 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 other1395   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.1400



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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,1405   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,1410 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 make1415 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 champaigne, When o’er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach,   That spring-­dew of the spirit! the heart’s rain!1420 Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach   Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after. CLXXIX. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;1425   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:1430 But to return,—Get very drunk; and when You wake with head-­ache, you shall see what then.

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lord byron 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;1435   For not the blest 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.1440 CLXXXI. The coast—­I think it was the coast that I   Was just describing—­Yes, it was the coast— Lay at this period quiet as the sky,   The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost, And all was stillness, save the sea-­bird’s cry,1445   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 wandered, her sire being gone,   As I have said, upon an expedition;1450 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,1455 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,1460 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.



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CLXXXIV. And thus they wander’d forth, and hand in hand,1465   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,1470 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,1475   Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the wave’s 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;1480 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,1485   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;1490 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—1495 Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

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lord byron 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,1500 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,1505   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 interpreter1510 Of nature’s oracle—­first love,—that all Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. CXC. Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask’d no vows,   Nor offer’d any; she had never heard Of plight and promises to be a spouse,1515   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.1520 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,1525   Again to be o’ercome, again to dash on; And, beating ’gainst his bosom, Haidee’s heart Felt as if never more to beat apart.



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CXCII. Alas! they were so young, so beautiful,   So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour1530 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 giving1535 Pleasure or pain to one another living. CXCIII. Alas! for Juan and Haidee! 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;1540 And Haidee, 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 eyes1545   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;1550 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,1555   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.1560

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lord byron 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, A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,1565   A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping As they who watch o’er what they love while sleeping. CXCVII. For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved,   All that it hath of life with us is living;1570 So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved,   And all unconscious of the joy ’tis giving; All it hath felt, inflicted, pass’d, and proved,   Hush’d into depths beyond the watcher’s diving; There lies the thing we love with all its errors1575 And all its charms, like death without its terrors. CXCVIII. The lady watch’d her lover—­and that hour   Of Love’s, and Night’s, and Ocean’s solitude, O’erflow’d her soul with their united power;   Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude1580 She and her wave-­worn love had made their bower,   Where nought upon their passion could intrude, And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. CXCIX. Alas! the love of women! it is known1585   To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,   And if ’tis lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone,   And their revenge is as the tiger’s spring,1590 Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.



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CC. They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,   Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;1595   Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust   Buys them in marriage—­and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all’s over.1600 CCI. Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,   Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares,   Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; Few changes e’er can better their affairs,1605   Theirs being an unnatural situation, From the dull palace to the dirty hovel: Some play the devil, and then write a novel. CCII. Haidee was Nature’s bride, and knew not this;   Haidee was Passion’s child, born where the sun1610 Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss   Of his gazelle-­eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his   Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing—­She had nought to fear,1615 Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. CCIII. And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!   How much it costs us! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,   That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob1620 Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat   Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good—­I wonder Castlereagh don’t tax ’em.

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lord byron CCIV. And now ’twas done—­on the lone shore were plighted1625   Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:   Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallow’d and united,   Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:1630 And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise. CCV. Oh Love! of whom great Cæsar was the suitor,   Titus the master, Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor,1635   Sappho the sage blue-­stocking, in whose grave All those may leap who rather would be neuter—   (Leucadia’s rock still overlooks the wave) Oh Love! thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.1640 CCVI. Thou mak’st the chaste connubial state precarious,   And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,   Have much employ’d the muse of history’s pen; Their lives and fortunes were extremely various,1645   Such worthies Time will never see again; Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. CCVII. Thou mak’st philosophers; there’s Epicurus   And Aristippus, a material crew!1650 Who to immoral courses would allure us   By theories quite practicable too; If only from the devil they would insure us,   How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new) “Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?”1655 So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.



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CCVIII. But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia?   And should he have forgotten her so soon? I can’t but say it seems to me most truly a   Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon1660 Does these things for us, and whenever newly a   Palpitation rises, ’tis her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures? CCIX. I hate inconstancy—­I loathe, detest, 1665   Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast   No permanent foundation can be laid; Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,   And yet last night, being at a masquerade,1670 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, Which gave me some sensations like a villain. CCX. But soon Philosophy came to my aid,   And whisper’d “think of every sacred tie!” “I will, my dear Philosophy!” I said,1675   “But then her teeth, and then, Oh heaven! her eye! I’ll just inquire if she be wife or maid,   Or neither—­out of curiosity.” “Stop!” cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian.)1680 CCXI. “Stop!” so I stopp’d.—But to return: that which   Men call inconstancy is nothing more Than admiration due where nature’s rich   Profusion with young beauty covers o’er Some favour’d object; and as in the niche1685   A lovely statue we almost adore, This sort of adoration of the real Is but a heightening of the “beau ideal.”

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lord byron CCXII. ’Tis the perception of the beautiful,   A fine extension of the faculties,1690 Platonic, universal, wonderful,   Drawn from the stars, and filter’d through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull;   In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just1695 To hint that flesh is form’d of fiery dust. CCXIII. Yet ’tis a painful feeling, and unwilling,   For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing   As when she rose upon us like an Eve,1700 ’Twould save us many a heart-­ache, many a shilling,   (For we must get them any how, or grieve,) Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver! CCXIV. The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,1705   But changes night and day too, like the sky; Now o’er it clouds and thunder must be driven,   And darkness and destruction as on high: But when it hath been scorch’d, and pierced, and riven,   Its storms expire in water-­drops; the eye1710 Pours forth at last the heart’s-blood turn’d to tears, Which make the English climate of our years. CCXV. The liver is the lazaret of bile,   But very rarely executes its function, For the first passion stays there such a while,1715   That all the rest creep in and form a junction, Like knots of vipers on a dunghill’s soil,   Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call’d “central.”1720



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CCXVI. In the mean time, without proceeding more   In this anatomy, I’ve finish’d now Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,   That being about the number I’ll allow Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-­four;1725   And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

LETTER TO JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE AND DOUGLAS KINNAIRD Venice. January 19th. 1819. Dear H. and dear K.—I approve and sanction all your legal proceedings with regard to my affairs, and can only repeat my thanks & approbation—­if you put off the payments of debts “till after Lady Noel’s death”—it is well—­if till after her damnation—­better—­for that will last forever—­yet I hope not:—for her sake as well as the Creditors’—I am willing to believe in Purgatory.— — With regard to the Poeshie—­I will have no “cutting & slashing” as Perry calls it—­you may omit the stanzas on Castlereagh—­indeed it is better—& the two “Bobs” at the end of the 3d. stanza of the dedication—­which will leave “high” & “adry” good rhymes without any “double (or Single) Entendre”—but no more—­I appeal—­not “to Philip fasting” but to Alexander drunk—­I appeal to Murray at his ledger—­to the people—­in short, Don Juan shall be an entire horse or none.—If the objection be to the indecency, the Age which applauds the “Bath Guide” & Little’s poems—& reads Fielding & Smollett still—­may bear with that;—if to the poetry—­I will take my chance.—I will not give way to all the Cant of Christendom—­I have been cloyed with applause & sickened with abuse;—at present—­I care for little but the Copyright,—I have imbibed a great love for money—­let me have it—­if Murray loses this time—­he won't the next—­he will be cautious—­and I shall learn the decline of his customers by his epistolary indications.— —But in no case will I submit to have the poem mutilated.—There is another Canto written—­but not copied—­in two hundred & odd Stanzas,—if this succeeds—­as to the prudery of the present day—­what is it? are we more moral than when Prior wrote—­is there anything in Don Juan so strong as in Ariosto—­ or Voltaire—­ or Chaucer?—Tell Hobhouse—­his letter to De Breme has made a great Sensation—­and is to be published in the Tuscan & other Gazettes--Count R[izzo] came to consult with me about it last Sunday—­we think of Tuscany—­for Florence and Milan are in literary war—­but the Lombard league is headed by Monti—& would make a difficulty of insertion in the Lombard Gazettes—­once published in the Pisan—­it will find its way through Italy—­by translation or reply.— —So Laud­ erdale has been telling a story!—I suppose this is my reward for presenting him at Countess Benzone’s—& shewing him—­what attention I could.— — Which “piece” does he mean?—since last year I have run the Gauntlet;—is it the Tarruscelli—­the Da Mosti—­the Spineda—­the Lotti—­the Rizzato—­the Eleanora—­the Carlotta—­the Giulietta—­the Alvisi—­the Zambieri—­The



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Eleanora da Bezzi—(who was the King of Naples’ Gioaschino’s mistress—­at least one of them) the Theresina of Mazzurati—­the Glettenheimer—& her Sister—­ the Luigia & her mother—­ the Fornaretta—­ the Santa—­ the Caligari—­the Portiera Vedova—the Bolognese figurante—­the Tentora and her sister—­cum multis aliis?—some of them are Countesses—& some of them Cobblers wives—­ some noble—­ some middling—­ some low—& all whores—­which does the damned old “Ladro—& porco fottuto” mean?— I have had them all & thrice as many to boot since 1817—Since he tells a story about me—­I will tell one about him;—when he landed at the Custom house from Corfu—­he called for “Post horses—­directly”—he was told that there were no horses except mine nearer than the Lido—­unless he wished for the four bronze Coursers of St. Mark—­which were at his Service.— I am yrs. ever— Let me have H’s Election immediately—­I mention it last as being what I was least likely to forget.— — P.S.—Whatever Brain-­money—­you get on my account from Murray—­ pray remit me—­I will never consent to pay away what I earn—­that is mine—& what I get by my brains—­I will spend on my b— —ks—­as long as I have a tester or a testicle remaining.—I shall not live long—& for that Reason—­ I must live while I can—­so—­let him disburse—& me receive—“for the Night cometh.”— —If I had but had twenty thousand a year I should not have been living now—­but all men are not born with a silver or Gold Spoon in their mouths.— —My balance—­ also—­ my balance—& a Copyright—­ I have another Canto—­too—­ready—& then there will be my half year in June—­ recollect—­I care for nothing but “monies”.—January 20th. 1819.—You say nothing of Mazeppa—­did it arrive—­with one other—­besides that you mention?— — P.S.—The Fornaretta has been restored to her husband some time—­but not without an attempt with a knife—­which was in the Lamb style.—She then threw herself into the Grand Canal—­and was fished out without much damage except throwing Madame Mocenigo & other spectators into fits—­all this was for the sake of effect & not real stabbing nor drowning—­your real Suicide don’t perform in public.—I have quite given up Concubinage.—

LETTER TO AUGUSTA LEIGH

Venice [Monday] May 17th. 1819 My dearest Love—­I have been negligent in not writing, but what can I say[.] Three years absence—& the total change of scene and habit make such a difference—­that we have now nothing in common but our affections & our relationship.— But I have never ceased nor can cease to feel for a moment that perfect & boundless attachment which bound & binds me to you—­which renders me utterly incapable of real love for any other human being—­what could they be to me after you? My own [xxxx 1 short word] we may have been very wrong—­ but I repent of nothing except that cursed marriage—& your refusing to continue to love me as you had loved me—­I can neither forget nor quite forgive you for that precious piece of reformation.—but I can never be other than I have been—­and whenever I love anything it is because it reminds me in some way or other of yourself—­for instance I not long ago attached myself to a Venetian for no earthly reason (although a pretty woman) but because she was called [xxxx 1 short word] and she often remarked (without knowing the reason) how fond I was of the name.—It is heart-­breaking to think of our long Separation—­and I am sure more than punishment enough for all our sins—­ Dante is more humane in his “Hell” for he places his unfortunate lovers (Francesca of Rimini & Paolo whose case fell a good deal short of ours—­ though sufficiently naughty) in company—­and though they suffer—­it is at least together.—If ever I return to England—­it will be to see you—­and recollect that in all time—& place—­and feelings—­I have never ceased to be the same to you in heart—­Circumstances may have ruffled my manner-—& hardened my spirit—­you may have seen me harsh & exasperated with all things around me; grieved & tortured with your new resolution,—& the soon after persecution of that infamous fiend who drove me from my Country & conspired against my life—­by endeavouring to deprive me of all that could render it precious—­but remember that even then you were the sole object that cost me a tear? and what tears! do you remember our parting? I have not spirits now to write to you upon other subjects—­I am well in health—­and have no cause of grief but the reflection that we are not together—­When you write to me speak to me of yourself—& say that you love me—­never mind common-­ place people & topics—­which can be in no degree interesting—­to me who see nothing in England but the country which holds you—­or around it but the



Letter to Augusta Leigh, 17 May 1819

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sea which divides us.—They say absence destroys weak passions—& confirms strong ones—­Alas! mine for you is the union of all passions & of all affections—­Has strengthened itself but will destroy me—­I do not speak of physical destruction—­for I have endured & can endure much—­but of the annihilation of all thoughts feelings or hopes—­which have not more or less a reference to you & to our recollections— Ever dearest [signature erased ]

LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY

Bologna. June 7th. 1819 Dear Sir—­Tell Mr. Hobhouse that I wrote to him a few days ago from Ferrara.—It will therefore be idle in him or you to wait for any further answers or returns of proofs from Venice—­as I have directed that no English letters be sent after me. The publication can be proceeded in without, and I am already sick of your remarks—­to which I think not the least attention ought to be paid. Tell Mr. Hobhouse that since I wrote to him—­that I had availed myself of my Ferrara Letters & found the Society much younger and better there than at Venice. I was very much pleased with the little the shortness of my stay permitted me to see of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and his family and friends in general.— —I have been picture-­gazing this morning at the famous Domenichino and Guido—­ both of which are superlative.— I afterwards went to the beautiful Cimetery of Bologna—­beyond the Walls—­ and found besides the Superb Burial Ground—­an original of a Custode who reminded me of the grave-­digger in Hamlet.— —He has a collection of Capuchins’ Skulls labelled on the forehead—­and taking down one of them—­ said “this was Brother Desiderio Berro who died at forty—­one of my best friends—­I begged his head of his Brethren after his decease and they gave it me—­I put it in lime and then boiled it—­here it is teeth and all in excellent preservation—­He was the merriest—­cleverest fellow I ever knew, whereever he went he brought joy, and when any one was melancholy the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again—­He walked so actively you might have taken him for a Dancer—­he joked—­he laughed—­oh! he was such a Frate—­as I never saw before nor ever shall again”.—He told me that he had himself planted all the Cypresses in the Cimetery—­that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people—­that since 1801—they had buried fifty three thousand persons.—In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman Girl of twenty—­with a bust by Bernini. She was a Princess Barberini—­ dead two centuries ago—­he said that on opening her Grave they had found her hair complete—­and “as yellow as Gold.” Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments of Bologna—­for instance “Martini Luigi   Implora pace.” “Lucrezia Picini   Implora eterna quiete.”



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Can any thing be more full of pathos! those few words say all that can be said or sought—­the dead had had enough of life—­all they wanted was rest—­ and this they “implore.” there is all the helplessness—­and humble hope and deathlike prayer that can arise from the Grave—“implora pace.” I hope, whoever may survive me and shall see me put in the foreigners’ burying-­Ground at the Lido—­within the fortress by the Adriatic—­will see those two words and no more put over me[.] I trust they won’t think of “pickling and bringing me home to Clod or Blunderbuss Hall”[.] I am sure my Bones would not rest in an English grave—­or my Clay mix with the earth of that Country:—I believe the thought would drive me mad on my death-­bed could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcase back to your soil—­ I would not even feed your worms—­if I could help it.— —So—­as Shakespeare says of Mowbray the banished Duke of Norfolk—­who died at Venice (see Richard 2d.) that he after fighting “Against black Pagans—­Turks and Saracens And toil’d with works of war, retired himself To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave His body to that pleasant Country’s Earth, And his pure Soul unto his Captain Christ Under whose colours he had fought so long.” Before I left Venice—­I had returned to you your late—­and Mr. Hobhouse’s sheets of Juan—­don’t wait for further answers from me—­but address yours to Venice as usual. I know nothing of my own movements—­I may return there in a few days—­or not for some time—­all this depends on circumstances— ­I left Mr. Hoppner very well—­as well as his son—­and Mrs. Hoppner.— My daughter Allegra was well too and is growing pretty—­her hair is growing darker and her eyes are blue.—Her temper and her ways Mr. Hoppner says are like mine—­as well as her features.—She will make in that case a manageable young lady.— —I never hear anything of Ada—­the little Electra of my Mycenae—­ the moral Clytemnestra is not very communicative of her tidings—­but there will come a day of reckoning—­even if I should not live to see it;—I have at least seen Romilly shivered—­who was one of the assassins.— —When that felon, or Lunatic—(take your choice—­he must be one and might be both) was doing his worst to uproot my whole family tree, branch, and blossoms; when after taking my retainer he went over to them—­ when he was bringing desolation on my hearth—­and destruction on my household Gods—­did he think that in less than three years a natural event—­ a severe domestic—­but an expected and common domestic Calamity would lay his Carcase in a Cross road or stamp his name in a Verdict of Lunacy?— Did he (who in his drivelling sexagenary dotage had not the courage to survive his Nurse—­for what else was a wife to him at his time of life?—) reflect or consider what my feelings must have been—­when wife—­and

lord byron 526 child—­and Sister—­and name—­and fame—­and Country were to be my sacrifice on his legal altar—­and this at a moment when my health was declining—­ my fortune embarrassed—­and my Mind had been shaken by many kinds of disappointment—­while I was yet young and might have reformed what might be wrong in my conduct—­and retrieved what was perplexing in my affairs. But the wretch is in his grave,—I detested him living and I will not affect to pity him dead—­I still loathe him as much as we can hate dust—­but that is nothing. What a long letter I have scribbled[.] yrs. [scrawl ] B P.S.—Here as in Greece they strew flowers on the tombs—­I saw a quantity of rose-­leaves and entire roses scattered over the Graves at Ferrara—­it has the most pleasing effect you can imagine.— —

LETTER TO DOUGLAS KINNAIRD

Venice, Octr. 26th. 1818 [1819] My dear Douglas—­My late expenditure has arisen from living at a distance from Venice and being obliged to keep up two establishments, from frequent journeys—­and buying some furniture and books as well as a horse or two—­ and not from any renewal of the epicurean system as you suspect. I have been faithful in my honest liaison with Countess Guiccioli—­and can assure you that She has never cost me directly or indirectly a sixpence—­indeed the ­circumstances of herself and family render this no merit.—I never offered her but one present—­a broach of brilliants—­and she sent it back to me with her own hair in it (I shall not say of what part but that is an Italian custom) and a note to say she was not in the habit of receiving presents of that value—­but hoped that I would not consider her sending it back as an affront—­nor the value diminished by the enclosure.—I have not had a whore this half-­year—­ confining myself to the strictest adultery.— —Why should you prevent Hanson from making a peer if he likes it—­I think the “Garretting” would be by far the best parliamentary privilege—­I know of. — —Damn your delicacy.—It is a low commercial quality—­and very unworthy a man who prefixes “honourable” to his nomenclature. If you say that I must sign the bonds—­I suppose I must—­but it is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts—­you have no idea of the pain it gives one.—Pray do three things—­get my property out of the funds—­get Rochdale sold—­get me some information from Perry about South America—­and 4thly. ask Lady Noel not to live so very long.— —As to Subscribing to Manchester—­if I do that—­I will write a letter to Burdett—­for publication—­to accompany the Subscription—­which will be more radical than anything yet rooted—­but I feel lazy.—I have thought of this for some time—­but alas! the air of this cursed Italy enervates—­and disenfranchises the thoughts of a man after nearly four years of respiration—­to say nothing of emission.—As to “Don Juan”—confess—­ confess—­ you dog—­and be candid—­that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing—­it may be bawdy—­but is it not good English?—it may be profligate—­but is it not life, is it not the thing?—Could any man have written it—­who has not lived in the world?—and tooled in a post-­chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis?—on a table?—and under it?—I have written about a hundred stanzas of a third Canto—­but it is damned modest—­the outcry has frightened me.—I had such projects for the

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Don—­but the Cant is so much stronger than the Cunt—­now a days,—that the benefit of experience in a man who had well weighed the worth of both monosyllables—­must be lost to despairing posterity.—After all what stuff this outcry is—­Lalla Rookh and Little—­are more dangerous than my burlesque poem can be—­Moore has been here—­we got tipsy together—­and were very amicable—­he is gone on to Rome—­I put my life (in M.S.) into his hands—(not for publication) you—­ or any body else may see it—­ at his return.—It only comes up to 1816.— —He is a noble fellow—­and looks quite fresh and poetical—­nine years (the age of a poem’s education) my Senior—­he looks younger—­this comes of marriage and being settled in the Country. I want to go to South America—­I have written to Hobhouse all about it.—I wrote to my wife—­three months ago—­under care to Murray—­ has she got the letter—­or is the letter got into Blackwood’s Magazine?— — You ask after my Christmas pye—­ Remit it any how—­ Circulars is the best—­you are right about income—­I must have it all—­how the devil do I know that I may live a year or a month?—I wish I knew that I might regulate my spending in more ways than one.—As it is one always thinks that there is but a span.—A man may as well break or be damned for a large sum as a small one—­I should be loth to pay the devil or any creditor more than sixpence in the pound.— [illegible signature] P.S.—I recollect nothing of “Davies’s landlord”—but what ever Davies says — I will swear to—­and that’s more than he would—­So pray pay—­has he a landlady too?—perhaps I may owe her something.— —With regard to the bonds I will sign them but—­it goes against the grain.— —As to the rest — you can’t err—­so long as you don’t pay.— —Paying is executor’s or executioner’s work.— —You may write somewhat oftener—­ Mr. Galignani’s messenger gives the outline of your public affairs—­but I see no results—­you have no man yet—(always excepting Burdett—& you & H[obhouse] and the Gentlemanly leaven of your two-­penny loaf of rebellion) don’t forget however my charge of horse—­and commission for the Midland Counties and by the holies!—You shall have your account in decimals.—Love to Hobby—­but why leave the Whigs?— —

LETTER TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Ravenna, April 26th, 1821 The child continues doing well, and the accounts are regular and ­favourable. It is gratifying to me that you and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the step which I have taken, which is merely temporary. I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats—­is it actually true? I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate self-­love he would probably have not been very happy. I read the review of “Endymion” in the Quarterly. It was severe,—but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others. I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress—­but not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes into the arena.   “Expect not life from pain nor danger free,   Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee.” You know my opinion of that second-­hand school of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own poetry,—because it is of no school. I read Cenci—­but, besides that I think the subject essentially undramatic, I am not an admirer of our old dramatists as models. I deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. Your Cenci, however, was a work of power, and poetry. As to my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being as free as I have been with yours. I have not yet got your Prometheus, which I long to see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know that it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I known that Keats was dead—­or that he was alive and so sensitive—­I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of writing. You want me to undertake a great Poem—­I have not the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indifference—­not to life, for we love it by

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instinct—­but to the stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly disappointed me for many reasons,—some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. Yours ever, B P.S.—Could not you and I contrive to meet this summer? Could not you take a run alone?

Don Juan III–IV–V (1821)

Figure 11  Title page, Don Juan: Cantos III–IV–V. 5th edn. ([ John Murray], 1822). The Carl  H.  Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

DON JUAN Cantos III, IV, and V [5th edition]

CANTO III I. Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping,   Pillow’d upon a fair and happy breast, And watch’d by eyes that never yet knew weeping,   And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 5   Or know who rested there a foe to rest Had soil’d the current of her sinless years, And turn’d her pure heart’s purest blood to tears. II. Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours   Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah why 10 With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,   And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,   And place them on their breast—­but place to die— Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 15 Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. III. In her first passion woman loves her lover,   In all the others all she loves is love, Which grows a habit she can ne’er get over,   And fits her loosely—­like an easy glove, 20 As you may find, whene’er you like to prove her:   One man alone at first her heart can move; She then prefers him in the plural number, Not finding that the additions much encumber.

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lord byron IV. I know not if the fault be men’s or theirs; 25   But one thing’s pretty sure; a woman planted— (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)—   After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs   Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; 30 Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne’er end with only one. V. ’Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign   Of human frailty, folly, also crime, That love and marriage rarely can combine, 35   Although they both are born in the same clime; Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine—   A sad, sour, sober beverage—­by time Is sharpen’d from its high celestial flavour Down to a very homely household savour. 40 VI. There’s something of antipathy, as ’twere,   Between their present and their future state; A kind of flattery that’s hardly fair   Is used until the truth arrives too late— Yet what can people do, except despair? 45   The same things change their names at such a rate; For instance—­passion in a lover’s glorious, But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. VII. Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;   They sometimes also get a little tired, 50 (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:   The same things cannot always be admired, Yet ’tis “so nominated in the bond,”   That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning 55 Our days, and put one’s servants into mourning.



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VIII. There’s doubtless something in domestic doings,   Which forms, in fact, true love’s antithesis; Romances paint at full length people’s wooings,   But only give a bust of marriages; 60 For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,   There’s nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife, He would have written sonnets all his life? IX. All tragedies are finish’d by a death, 65   All comedies are ended by a marriage; The future states of both are left to faith,   For authors fear description might disparage The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,   And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; 70 So leaving each their priest and prayer-­book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady. X. The only two that in my recollection   Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 75   Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruin’d the connexion   (Such things, in fact, it don’t ask much to mar); But Dante’s Beatrice and Milton’s Eve Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 80 XI. Some persons say that Dante meant theology   By Beatrice, and not a mistress—­I, Although my opinion may require apology,   Deem this a commentator’s phantasy, Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 85   Decided thus, and show’d good reason why; I think that Dante’s more abstruse ecstatics Meant to personify the mathematics.

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lord byron XII. Haidée and Juan were not married, but   The fault was theirs, not mine: it is not fair, 90 Chaste reader, then, in any way to put   The blame on me, unless you wish they were; Then if you’d have them wedded, please to shut   The book which treats of this erroneous pair, Before the consequences grow too awful; 95 ’Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. XIII. Yet they were happy,—happy in the illicit   Indulgence of their innocent desires; But more imprudent grown with every visit,   Haidée forgot the island was her sire’s; 100 When we have what we like, ’tis hard to miss it,   At least in the beginning, ere one tires; Thus she came often, not a moment losing, Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. XIV. Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 105   Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change   His title, and ’tis nothing but taxation; But he, more modest, took an humbler range   Of life, and in an honester vocation 110 Pursued o’er the high seas his watery journey, And merely practised as a sea-­attorney. XV. The good old gentleman had been detain’d   By winds and waves, and some important captures; And, in the hope of more, at sea remain’d, 115   Although a squall or two had damp’d his raptures, By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain’d   His prisoners, dividing them like chapters In number’d lots; they all had cuffs and collars, And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 120



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XVI. Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,   Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold To his Tunis correspondents, save one man   Toss’d overboard unsaleable (being old); The rest—­save here and there some richer one, 125   Reserved for future ransom in the hold, Were link’d alike, as for the common people he Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. XVII. The merchandise was served in the same way,   Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 130 Except some certain portions of the prey,   Light classic articles of female want, French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray,   Guitars and castanets from Alicant, All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 135 Robbed for his daughter by the best of fathers. XVIII. A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,   Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, He chose from several animals he saw—   A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton’s, 140 Who dying on the coast of Ithaca,   The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance; These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper altogether. XIX. Then having settled his marine affairs, 145   Dispatching single cruisers here and there, His vessel having need of some repairs,   He shaped his course to where his daughter fair Continued still her hospitable cares;   But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 150 And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, His port lay on the other side o’ the isle.

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lord byron XX. And there he went ashore without delay,   Having no custom-­house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way 155   About the time and place where he had been: He left his ship to be hove down next day,   With orders to the people to careen; So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 160 XXI. Arriving at the summit of a hill   Which overlook’d the white walls of his home, He stopp’d.—What singular emotions fill   Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill— 165   With love for many, and with fears for some; All feelings which o’erleap the years long lost, And bring our hearts back to their starting-­post. XXII. The approach of home to husbands and to sires,   After long travelling by land or water, 170 Most naturally some small doubt inspires—   A female family’s a serious matter; (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires—   But they hate flattery, so I never flatter;) Wives in their husbands’ absences grow subtler, 175 And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. XXIII. An honest gentleman at his return   May not have the good fortune of Ulysses; Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn,   Or show the same dislike to suitors’ kisses; 180 The odds are that he finds a handsome urn   To his memory, and two or three young misses Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, And that his Argus bites him by—­the breeches.



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XXIV. If single, probably his plighted fair 185   Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair   May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care   As cavalier servente, or despise her; 190 And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. XXV. And oh! ye gentlemen who have already   Some chaste liaison of the kind—­I mean An honest friendship with a married lady— 195   The only thing of this sort ever seen To last—­of all connexions the most steady,   And the true Hymen, (the first’s but a screen)— Yet for all that keep not too long away, I’ve known the absent wrong’d four times a-­day. 200 XXVI. Lambro, our sea-­solicitor, who had   Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-­smoke, felt glad;   But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, 205   Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. XXVII. He saw his white walls shining in the sun,   His garden trees all shadowy and green; 210 He heard his rivulet’s light bubbling run,   The distant dog-­bark; and perceived between The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun   The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen Of arms (in the East all arm)—and various dyes 215 Of colour’d garbs, as bright as butterflies.

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lord byron XXVIII. And as the spot where they appear he nears,   Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears—­alas! no music of the spheres,   But an unhallow’d, earthly sound of fiddling! 220 A melody which made him doubt his ears,   The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, A most unoriental roar of laughter. XXIX. And still more nearly to the place advancing, 225   Descending rather quickly the declivity, Through the waved branches, o’er the greensward glancing,   ’Midst other indications of festivity, Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing   Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 230 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, To which the Levantines are very partial. XXX. And further on a group of Grecian girls,   The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, Were strung together like a row of pearls; 235   Link’d hand in hand, and dancing; each too having Down her white neck long floating auburn curls—   (The least of which would set ten poets raving); Their leader sang—­and bounded to her song, With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 240 XXXI. And here, assembled cross-­legg’d round their trays,   Small social parties just begun to dine; Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze,   And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; 245   Above them their dessert grew on its vine, The orange and pomegranate nodding o’er, Dropp’d in their laps, scarce pluck’d, their mellow store.



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XXXII. A band of children, round a snow-­white ram,   There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; 250 While peaceful as if still an unwean’d lamb,   The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers His sober head, majestically tame,   Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 255 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. XXXIII. Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,   Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,   The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 260 The innocence which happy childhood blesses,   Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; So that the philosophical beholder Sigh’d for their sakes—­that they should e’er grow older. XXXIV. Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 265   To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,   Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, Of charms to make good gold, and cure bad ails,   Of rocks bewitch’d that open to the knockers, 270 Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, Transform’d their lords to beasts, (but that’s a fact). XXXV. Here was no lack of innocent diversion   For the imagination or the senses, Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 275   All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,   Perceiving in his absence such expenses, Dreading that climax of all human ills, The inflammation of his weekly bills. 280

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lord byron XXXVI. Ah! what is man? what perils still environ   The happiest mortals even after dinner— A day of gold from out an age of iron   Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; Pleasure (whene’er she sings, at least) ’s a siren, 285   That lures to flay alive the young beginner; Lambro’s reception at his people’s banquet Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. XXXVII. He—­being a man who seldom used a word   Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 290 (In general he surprised men with the sword)   His daughter—­had not sent before to advise Of his arrival, so that no one stirred;   And long he paused to re-­assure his eyes, In fact much more astonish’d than delighted, 295 To find so much good company invited. XXXVIII. He did not know—(Alas! how men will lie)   That a report (especially the Greeks) Avouch’d his death (such people never die),   And put his house in mourning several weeks, 300 But now their eyes and also lips were dry;   The bloom too had return’d to Haidée’s cheeks. Her tears too being return’d into their fount, She now kept house upon her own account. XXXIX. Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 305   Which turn’d the isle into a place of pleasure; The servants all were getting drunk or idling,   A life which made them happy beyond measure. Her father’s hospitality seem’d middling,   Compared with what Haidée did with his treasure; 310 ’Twas wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving.



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XL. Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast   He flew into a passion, and in fact There was no mighty reason to be pleased; 315   Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,   To teach his people to be more exact, And that, proceeding at a very high rate, He show’d the royal penchants of a pirate. 320 XLI. You’re wrong.—He was the mildest manner’d man   That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; With such true breeding of a gentleman,   You never could divine his real thought; No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 325   Gird more deceit within a petticoat; Pity he loved adventurous life’s variety, He was so great a loss to good society. XLII. Advancing to the nearest dinner tray,   Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 330 With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,   Boded no good, whatever it express’d, He asked the meaning of this holiday;   The vinous Greek to whom he had address’d His question, much too merry to divine 335 The questioner, fill’d up a glass of wine, XLIII. And without turning his facetious head,   Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, Presented the o’erflowing cup, and said,   “Talking’s dry work, I have no time to spare.” 340 A second hiccup’d, “Our old master’s dead,   You’d better ask our mistress who’s his heir.” “Our mistress!” quoth a third: “Our mistress!—pooh!— You mean our master—­not the old but new.”

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lord byron XLIV. These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 345   They thus address’d—­and Lambro’s visage fell— And o’er his eye a momentary gloom   Pass’d, but he strove quite courteously to quell The expression, and endeavouring to resume   His smile, requested one of them to tell 350 The name and quality of his new patron, Who seem’d to have turn’d Haidée into a matron. XLV. “I know not,” quoth the fellow, “who or what   He is, nor whence he came—­and little care; But this I know, that this roast capon’s fat, 355   And that good wine ne’er wash’d down better fare; And if you are not satisfied with that,   Direct your questions to my neighbour there; He’ll answer all for better or for worse, For none likes more to hear himself converse.”1 360 XLVI. I said that Lambro was a man of patience,   And certainly he show’d the best of breeding, Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations,   E’er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; He bore these sneers against his near relations, 365   His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding, The insults too of every servile glutton, Who all the time were eating up his mutton. XLVII. Now in a person used to much command—   To bid men come, and go, and come again— 370 To see his orders done too out of hand—   Whether the word was death, or but the chain— It may seem strange to find his manners bland;   Yet such things are, which I can not explain, Though doubtless he who can command himself 375 Is good to govern—­almost as a Guelf.



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XLVIII. Not that he was not sometimes rash or so,   But never in his real and serious mood; Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow,   He lay coiled like the boa in the wood; 380 With him it never was a word and blow,   His angry word once o’er, he shed no blood, But in his silence there was much to rue, And his one blow left little work for two. XLIX. He ask’d no further questions, and proceeded 385   On to the house, but by a private way, So that the few who met him hardly heeded,   So little they expected him that day; If love paternal in his bosom pleaded   For Haidée’s sake, is more than I can say, 390 But certainly to one deem’d dead returning, This revel seem’d a curious mode of mourning. L. If all the dead could now return to life,   (Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many; For instance, if a husband or his wife 395   (Nuptial examples are as good as any), No doubt whate’er might be their former strife,   The present weather would be much more rainy— Tears shed into the grave of the connexion Would share most probably its resurrection. 400 LI. He enter’d in the house no more his home,   A thing to human feelings the most trying, And harder for the heart to overcome,   Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; To find our hearthstone turn’d into a tomb, 405   And round its once warm precincts palely lying The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, Beyond a single gentleman’s belief.

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lord byron LII. He enter’d in the house—­his home no more,   For without hearts there is no home;—and felt 410 The solitude of passing his own door   Without a welcome; there he long had dwelt, There his few peaceful days Time had swept o’er,   There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt Over the innocence of that sweet child, 415 His only shrine of feelings undefiled. LIII. He was a man of a strange temperament,   Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, Moderate in all his habits, and content   With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 420 Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant   For something better, if not wholly good; His country’s wrongs and his despair to save her Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. LIV. The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 425   The hardness by long habitude produced, The dangerous life in which he had grown old,   The mercy he had granted oft abused, The sights he was accustom’d to behold,   The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised, 430 Had cost his enemies a long repentance, And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. LV. But something of the spirit of old Greece   Flash’d o’er his soul a few heroic rays, Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 435   His predecessors in the Colchian days; ’Tis true he had no ardent love for peace—   Alas! his country show’d no path to praise: Hate to the world and war with every nation He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 440



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LVI. Still o’er his mind the influence of the clime   Shed its Ionian elegance, which show’d Its power unconsciously full many a time,—   A taste seen in the choice of his abode, A love of music and of scenes sublime, 445   A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow’d Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, Bedew’d his spirit in his calmer hours. LVII. But whatsoe’er he had of love reposed   On that beloved daughter; she had been 450 The only thing which kept his heart unclosed   Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen; A lonely pure affection unopposed:   There wanted but the loss of this to wean His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 455 And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness. LVIII. The cubless tigress in her jungle raging   Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; The ocean when its yeasty war is waging   Is awful to the vessel near the rock; 460 But violent things will sooner bear assuaging,   Their fury being spent by its own shock, Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. LIX. It is a hard although a common case 465   To find our children running restive—­they In whom our brightest days we would retrace,   Our little selves re-­form’d in finer clay, Just as old age is creeping on apace,   And clouds come o’er the sunset of our day, 470 They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company—­the gout or stone.

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lord byron LX. Yet a fine family is a fine thing   (Provided they don’t come in after dinner); ’Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 475   Her children up (if nursing them don’t thin her): Like cherubs round an altar-­piece they cling   To the fire-­side (a sight to touch a sinner). A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shine like a guinea and seven-­shilling pieces. 480 LXI. Old Lambro pass’d unseen a private gate,   And stood within his hall at eventide; Meantime the lady and her lover sate   At wassail in their beauty and their pride: An ivory inlaid table spread with state 485   Before them, and fair slaves on every side; Gems, gold, and silver, form’d the service mostly, Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. LXII. The dinner made about a hundred dishes;   Lamb and pistachio nuts—­in short, all meats, 490 And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes   Were of the finest that e’er flounced in nets, Drest to a Sybarite’s most pamper’d wishes;   The beverage was various sherbets Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 495 Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use. LXIII. These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer,   And fruits, and date-­bread loaves closed the repast, And Mocha’s berry, from Arabia pure,   In small fine China cups, came in at last; 500 Gold cups of filigree made to secure   The hand from burning underneath them placed, Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil’d Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil’d.



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LXIV. The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 505   Of velvet pannels, each of different hue, And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid;   And round them ran a yellow border too; The upper border, richly wrought, display’d,   Embroider’d delicately o’er with blue, 510 Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, From poets, or the moralists their betters. LXV. These Oriental writings on the wall,   Quite common in those countries, are a kind Of monitors adapted to recall, 515   Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall,   And took his kingdom from him: You will find, Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 520 LXVI. A beauty at the season’s close grown hectic,   A genius who has drunk himself to death, A rake turn’d methodistic or eclectic—   (For that’s the name they like to pray beneath)— But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 525   Are things that really take away the breath, And show that late hours, wine, and love are able To do not much less damage than the table. LXVII. Haidée and Juan carpeted their feet   On crimson satin, border’d with pale blue; 530 Their sofa occupied three parts complete   Of the apartment—­and appear’d quite new; The velvet cushions—(for a throne more meet)—   Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun emboss’d in gold, whose rays of tissue, 535 Meridian-­like, were seen all light to issue.

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lord byron LXVIII. Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain,   Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain,   Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats, 540 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain   Their bread as ministers and favourites—(that’s To say, by degradation)—mingled there As plentiful as in a court or fair. LXIX. There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 545   The tables, most of ebony inlaid With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand,   Or were of tortoise-­shell or rare woods made, Fretted with gold or silver:—by command   The greater part of these were ready spread 550 With viands and sherbets in ice—­and wine— Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. LXX. Of all the dresses I select Haidée’s:   She wore two jelicks—­one was of pale yellow; Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise— 555   ’Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow; With buttons form’d of pearls as large as peas,   All gold and crimson shone her jelick’s fellow, And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow’d round her. 560 LXXI. One large gold bracelet clasp’d each lovely arm,   Lockless—­so pliable from the pure gold That the hand stretch’d and shut it without harm,   The limb which it adorn’d its only mould; So beautiful—­its very shape would charm, 565   And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin That e’er by precious metal was held in.2



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LXXII. Around, as princess of her father’s land,   A like gold bar above her instep roll’d3 570 Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;   Her hair was starr’d with gems; her veil’s fine fold Below her breast was fasten’d with a band   Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl’d 575 About the prettiest ankle in the world. LXXIII. Her hair’s long auburn waves down to her heel   Flow’d like an alpine torrent which the sun Dyes with his morning light,—and would conceal   Her person if allow’d at large to run,4 580 And still they seem resentfully to feel   The silken fillet’s curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene’er some Zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan. LXXIV. Round her she made an atmosphere of life, 585   The very air seem’d lighter from her eyes, They were so soft and beautiful, and rife   With all we can imagine of the skies, And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife—   Too pure even for the purest human ties; 590 Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel. LXXV. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged   (It is the country’s custom), but in vain; For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 595   The glossy rebels mock’d the jetty stain, And in their native beauty stood avenged:   Her nails were touch’d with henna; but again The power of art was turn’d to nothing, for They could not look more rosy than before. 600

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lord byron LXXVI. The henna should be deeply dyed to make   The skin relieved appear more fairly fair; She had no need of this, day ne’er will break   On mountain tops more heavenly white than her: The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 605   She was so like a vision; I might err, But Shakspeare also says ’tis very silly “To gild refined gold, or paint the lily.” LXXVII. Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,   But a white baracan, and so transparent, 610 The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,   Like small stars through the milky way apparent; His turban, furl’d in many a graceful fold,   An emerald aigrette with Haidée’s hair in’t Surmounted as its clasp—­a glowing crescent, 615 Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. LXXVIII. And now they were diverted by their suite,   Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, Which made their new establishment complete;   The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: 620 His verses rarely wanted their due feet—   And for his theme—­he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirise or flatter, As the psalm says, “inditing a good matter.” LXXIX. He praised the present, and abused the past, 625   Reversing the good custom of old days, An eastern antijacobin at last   He turn’d, preferring pudding to no praise— For some few years his lot had been o’ercast   By his seeming independent in his lays, 630 But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha With truth like Southey and with verse like Crashaw.



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LXXX. He was a man who had seen many changes,   And always changed as true as any needle; His polar star being one which rather ranges, 635   And not the fix’d—­he knew the way to wheedle: So vile he ’scaped the doom which oft avenges;   And being fluent (save indeed when fee’d ill), He lied with such a fervour of intention— There was no doubt he earn’d his laureate pension. 640 LXXXI. But he had genius,—when a turncoat has it   The “Vates irritabilis” takes care That without notice few full moons shall pass it;   Even good men like to make the public stare:— But to my subject—­let me see—­what was it? 645   Oh!—the third canto—­and the pretty pair— Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode Of living in their insular abode. LXXXII. Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less   In company a very pleasant fellow, 650 Had been the favourite of full many a mess   Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; And though his meaning they could rarely guess,   Yet still they deign’d to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause, 655 Of which the first ne’er knows the second cause. LXXXIII. But now being lifted into high society,   And having pick’d up several odds and ends Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety,   He deem’d, being in a lone isle, among friends, 660 That without any danger of a riot, he   Might for long lying make himself amends; And singing as he sung in his warm youth, Agree to a short armistice with truth.

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lord byron LXXXIV. He had travell’d ’mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 665   And knew the self-­loves of the different nations; And having lived with people of all ranks,   Had something ready upon most occasions— Which got him a few presents and some thanks.   He varied with some skill his adulations; 670 To “do at Rome as Romans do,” a piece Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. LXXXV. Thus, usually, when he was ask’d to sing,   He gave the different nations something national; ’Twas all the same to him—“God save the king,” 675   Or “Ca ira,” according to the fashion all; His muse made increment of any thing,   From the high lyrical down to the low rational: If Pindar sang horse-­races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 680 LXXXVI. In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In England, a six canto quarto tale; In Spain, he’d make a ballad or romance on   The last war—­much the same in Portugal; In Germany, the Pegasus he’d prance on 685   Would be old Goëthe’s—(see what says de Staël); In Italy, he’d ape the “Trecentisti;” In Greece, he sing some sort of hymn like this t’ye: The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!   Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 690 Where grew the arts of war and peace,—   Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, 695   The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse;   Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.” 700



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The mountains look on Marathon—   And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,   I dream’d that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians’ grave, 705 I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow   Which looks o’er sea-­born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below,   And men in nations; all were his! 710 He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set where were they? And where are they? and where art thou,   My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— 715   The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? ’Tis something, in the dearth of fame,   Though link’d among a fetter’d race, 720 To feel at least a patriot’s shame,   Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush—­for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o’er days more blest? 725  Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast   A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ! 730 What, silent still? and silent all?   Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall,   And answer, “Let one living head, But one arise,—we come, we come!” 735 ’Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain—­in vain: strike other chords;   Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,   And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! 740

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lord byron Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,   Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget 745   The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!   We will not think of themes like these! 750 It made Anacreon’s song divine:   He served—­but served Polycrates— A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese 755   Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades!   Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. 760 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!   On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore, Exists the remnant of a line   Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 765 The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks—   They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords, and native ranks,   The only hope of courage dwells; 770 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!   Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine; 775   But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-­drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep—   Where nothing, save the waves and I, 780



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May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;   There, swan-­like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! LXXXVII. Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 785   The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,   Yet in these times he might have done much worse: His strain display’d some feeling—­right or wrong;   And feeling, in a poet, is the source 790 Of others’ feeling; but they are such liars, And take all colours—­like the hands of dyers. LXXXVIII. But words are things, and a small drop of ink,   Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think; 795   ’Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link   Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper—­even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his. 800 LXXXIX. And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,   His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank   In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 805   Or graven stone found in a barrack’s station In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. XC. And glory long has made the sages smile;   ’Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind— 810 Depending more upon the historian’s style   Than on the name a person leaves behind: Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle;

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lord byron   The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough’s skill in giving knocks, 815 Until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe. XCI. Milton’s the prince of poets—­so we say;   A little heavy, but no less divine: An independent being in his day—   Learn’d, pious, temperate in love and wine; 820 But his life falling into Johnson’s way,   We’re told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college—­a harsh sire—­odd spouse, For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. XCII. All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 825   Like Shakspeare’s stealing deer, Lord Bacon’s bribes; Like Titus’ youth, and Cæsar’s earliest acts;   Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); Like Cromwell’s pranks;—but although truth exacts   These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 830 As most essential to their hero’s story, They do not much contribute to his glory. XCIII. All are not moralists, like Southey, when   He prated to the world of “Pantisocrasy;” Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 835   Season’d his pedlar poems with democracy; Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen   Lent to the Morning Post its aristocracy; When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath.) 840 XCIV. Such names at present cut a convict figure,   The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour,   Are good manure for their more bare biography. Wordsworth’s last quarto, by the way, is bigger 845   Than any since the birthday of typography;



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A drowsy frowzy poem, call’d the “Excursion,” Writ in a manner which is my aversion. XCV. He there builds up a formidable dyke   Between his own and others’ intellect; 850 But Wordsworth’s poem, and his followers, like   Joanna Southcote’s Shiloh, and her sect, Are things which in this century don’t strike   The public mind, so few are the elect; And the new births of both their stale virginities 855 Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. XCVI. But let me to my story: I must own,   If I have any fault, it is digression; Leaving my people to proceed alone,   While I soliloquize beyond expression; 860 But these are my addresses from the throne,   Which put off business to the ensuing session: Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. XCVII. I know that what our neighbours call “longueurs,” 865   (We’ve not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures   An epic from Bob Southey every spring—) Form not the true temptation which allures   The reader; but ’twould not be hard to bring 870 Some fine examples of the epopée, To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. XCVIII. We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps;   We feel without him: Wordsworth sometimes wakes, To show with what complacency he creeps, 875   With his dear “Waggoners,” around his lakes; He wishes for “a boat” to sail the deeps—   Of ocean?—No, of air; and then he makes Another outcry for “a little boat,” And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 880

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lord byron XCIX. If he must fain sweep o’er the etherial plain,   And Pegasus runs restive in his “waggon,” Could he not beg the loan of Charles’s Wain?   Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, 885   He fear’d his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? C. “Pedlars,” and “boats,” and “waggons!” Oh! ye shades   Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 890 That trash of such sort not alone evades   Contempt, but from the bathos’ vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades   Of sense and song above your graves may hiss— The “little boatman” and his “Peter Bell” 895 Can sneer at him who drew “Achitophel!” CI. T’ our tale.—The feast was over, the slaves gone,   The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; The Arab lore and poet’s song were done,   And every sound of revelry expired; 900 The lady and her lover, left alone,   The rosy flood of twilight’s sky admired;— Ave Maria! o’er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! CII. Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! 905   The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power   Sink o’er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,   Or the faint dying day-­hymn stole aloft, 910 And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem’d stirr’d with prayer.



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CIII. Ave Maria! ’tis the hour of prayer!   Ave Maria! ’tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare 915   Look up to thine and to thy Son’s above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!   Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove— What though ’tis but a pictured image strike— That painting is no idol, ’tis too like. 920 CIV. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,   In nameless print—­that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray,   And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way; 925   My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,—all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. CV. Sweet hour of twilight!—in the solitude   Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 930 Which bounds Ravenna’s immemorial wood,   Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow’d o’er, To where the last Cesarean fortress stood,   Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio’s lore And Dryden’s lay made haunted ground to me, 935 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! CVI. The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,   Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echos, save my steed’s and mine,   And vesper bell’s that rose the boughs along; 940 The spectre huntsman of Onesti’s line,   His hell-­dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn’d from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow’d my mind’s eye.

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lord byron CVII. Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things5— 945   Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent’s brooding wings,   The welcome stall to the o’erlabour’d steer; Whate’er of peace about our hearthstone clings,   Whate’er our household gods protect of dear, 950 Are gather’d round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring’st the child, too, to the mother’s breast. CVIII. Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart6   Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; 955   Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start,   Seeming to weep the dying day’s decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns! 960 CIX. When Nero perish’d by the justest doom   Which ever the destroyer yet destroy’d, Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,   Of nations freed, and the world overjoy’d, Some hands unseen strew’d flowers upon his tomb:7 965   Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. CX. But I’m digressing: what on earth has Nero,   Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 970 To do with the transactions of my hero,   More than such madmen’s fellow man—­the moon’s? Sure my invention must be down at zero,   And I grown one of many “wooden spoons” Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please 975 To dub the last of honours in degrees).



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CXI. I feel this tediousness will never do—   ’Tis being too epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two;   They’ll never find it out, unless I own 980 The fact, excepting some experienced few;   And then as an improvement ’twill be shown: I’ll prove that such the opinion of the critic is From Aristotle passim.—See ποιητικης

BYRON’S NOTES TO CANTO III Note 1, stanza XLV, [line 360]. For none likes more to hear himself converse. Rispone allor’ Margutte, a dir tel tosto, Io non credo piu al nero ch’ all’ azzurro; Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto, E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro; Nella cervigia, e quando io n’ho nel mosto, E molto piu nell’ espro che il mangurro; Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede, E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede. Pulci, Morgante Maggiore, Canto 18, Stanza 151. Note 2, stanza LXXI, [line 568]. That e’er by precious metal was held in. This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are worn in the manner described. The reader will perceive hereafter, that as the Mother of Haidée was of Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. Note 3, stanza LXXII, [line 570]. A like gold bar above her instep roll’d. The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sovereign rank in the women of the families of the deys, and is worn as such by their female relatives. Note 4, stanza LXXIII, [line 580]. Her person if allow’d at large to run. This is no exaggeration; there were four women whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their hair in this profusion; of these, three were English, the other was a

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Levantine. Their hair was of that length and quantity, that when let down, it almost entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a superfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; the Oriental’s had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. Note 5, stanza CVII, [line 945]. Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things—

Εσπερε παντα φερεις Φερεις οινον φερεις αιγα Φερεις ματερι παιδα Note 6, stanza CVIII, [line 953]. Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart. “Era gia l’ ora che volge ’l disio, A’naviganti, e’ ntenerisce il cuore; Lo di ch’ han detto a’ dolci amici a dio; E che lo nuovo peregrin’ d’ amore Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, Che paia ’l giorno pianger che si muore.” Dante’s Purgatory, Canto VIII. This last line is the first of Gray’s Elegy, taken by him without acknowledgement. Note 7, stanza CIX, [line 965]. Some hands unseen strew’d flowers upon his tomb. See Suetonius for this fact.

CANTO IV I. Nothing so difficult as a beginning   In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning   The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, Like Lucifer when hurl’d from heaven for sinning; 5   Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. II. But Time, which brings all beings to their level,   And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 10 Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the devil,   That neither of their intellects are vast:



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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, 15 We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 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: 20 Now my sere fancy “falls into the yellow   Leaf,” 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, 25   ’Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, ’Tis that our nature cannot always bring   Itself to apathy, which we must steep Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe’s spring   Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep: 30 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. V. Some have accused me of a strange design   Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: 35   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. 40 VI. To the kind reader of our sober clime   This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci was sire of the half-­serious rhyme,   Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell’d in the fancies of the time, 45   True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic;

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lord byron But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet. VII. How I have treated it, I do not know;   Perhaps no better than they have treated me 50 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, 55 And tells me to resume my story here. 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 60 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 65   Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank gray was not made to blast their hair,   But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail They were all summer: lightning might assail   And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 70 A 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 75   Cut 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,



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Would wither less than these two torn apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart— 80 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, 85   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,1   And many deaths do they escape by this: 90 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 95 Which men weep over may be meant to save. XIII. Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead.   The heavens and earth, and air, seem’d made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled;   They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: 100 Each was the other’s mirror, and but read   Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection. XIV. The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 105   The least glance better understood than words, Which still said all, and ne’er could say too much;   A language, too, but like to that of birds, Known but to them, at least appearing such   As but to lovers a true sense affords; 110

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lord byron Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne’er heard: XV. All these were theirs, for they were children still,   And children still they should have ever been; They were not made in the real world to fill 115   A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill,   A nymph and her beloved, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours. 120 XVI. Moons changing had roll’d on, and changeless found   Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys As rarely they beheld throughout their round;   And these were not of the vain kind which cloys, For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 125   By the mere senses; and that which destroys Most love, possession, unto them appear’d A thing which each endearment more endear’d. XVII. Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful!   But theirs was love in which the mind delights 130 To lose itself, when the old world grows dull,   And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, Intrigues, adventures of the common school,   Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, Where Hymen’s torch but brands one strumpet more, 135 Whose husband only knows her not a wh—­re. XVIII. Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know.   Enough.—The faithful and the fairy pair, Who never found a single hour too slow,   What was it made them thus exempt from care? 140 Young innate feelings all have felt below   Which perish in the rest, but in them were



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Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic. XIX. This is in others a factitious state, 145   An opium dream 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; 150 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 155   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. 160 XXI. I know not why, but in that hour to-­night,   Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, And swept, as ’twere, 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; 165   And thus some boding flash’d through either frame, And called 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, 170 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,

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lord byron His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 175 For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. XXIII. 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; 180 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 185   His lip 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 ’tis the best:   Some people prefer wine—’tis not amiss; 190 I have tried both; so those who would a part take May choose between the headache and the heartache. XXV. One of the two, according to your choice,   Woman or wine, you’ll have to undergo; Both maladies are taxes on our joys: 195   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. 200 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, 205   And love too much, and yet can not love less;



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But almost sanctify the sweet excess By the immortal wish and power to bless. XXVII. Mix’d in each other’s arms, and heart in heart,   Why did they not then die?—they had lived too long 210 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, 215 It was their very spirit—­not a sense. XXVIII. They should have lived together deep in woods,   Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes   Call’d social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care: 220 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, 225   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 230 A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirr’d with her dream as rose-­leaves with the air; XXX. Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream   Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o’er it, was she shaken by the dream, 235   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;

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lord byron Strange state of being! (for ’tis still to be)   Senseless to feel, and with seal’d eyes to see. 240 XXXI. 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, 245   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. XXXII. Anon—­she was released, and then she stray’d   O’er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 250 And stumbled almost every step she made;   And something roll’d before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue howe’er afraid;   ’Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp’d to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp’d, 255 And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp’d. XXXIII. 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 lurk; 260 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls   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, 265   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 270



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Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid’s song, And that brief dream appear’d a life too long. 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 275   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? O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?   ’Tis—’tis her father’s—­fix’d upon the pair! 280 XXXVI. 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: 285   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. XXXVII. Up Juan sprung to Haidée’s bitter shriek,   And caught her falling, and from off the wall 290 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; 295 Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.” XXXVIII. And Haidée clung around him; “Juan, ’tis—   ’Tis Lambro—’tis my father! Kneel with me— He will forgive us—­yes—­it must be—­yes.   Oh! dearest father, in this agony 300 Of pleasure and of pain—­even while I kiss   Thy garment’s hem with transport, can it be

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lord byron 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, 305   Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye— Not 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; 310 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, 315   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. 320 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, 325   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, 330 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;



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I love him—­I will die with him: I knew 335 Your nature’s firmness—­know your daughter’s too.” XLIII. 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; 340 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 345   How like they looked! 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: 350 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 355   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. 360 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 I,” he said, “have sought this stranger’s ill; Not I have made this desolation: few 365   Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill;

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lord byron But I must do my duty—­how thou hast Done thine, the present vouches for the past. XLVII. “Let him disarm; or, by my father’s head,   His own shall roll before you like a ball!” 370 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; 375 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, ’Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew;   In vain she struggled in her father’s grasp— 380 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 through. XLIX. The second had his cheek laid open; but 385   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 390 From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red— One on the arm, the other on the head. L. 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, 395   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;



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On board of one of these, and under hatches,   They stowed him, with strict orders to the watches. 400 LI. 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 405   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. LII. Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic,   Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! 410 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: ’Tis pity wine should be so deleterious, 415 For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, LIII. Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!   Sweet Naïad of the Phlegethontic rill! Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,   And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? 420 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. LIV. I leave Don Juan for the present, safe— 425   Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half   Of those with which his Haidée’s bosom bounded! She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe,   And then give way, subdued because surrounded; 430

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lord byron Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. LV. 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; 435   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,   And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 440 LVI. Afric is all the sun’s, and as her earth   Her human day 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: 445   Beauty and love were Haidée’s mother’s dower; But her large dark eye show’d deep Passion’s force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source. LVII. Her daughter, temper’d with a milder ray,   Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 450 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, 455 Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. LVIII. 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; 460 Thus much she view’d an instant and no more,—   Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;



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On her sire’s arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell’d. LIX. A vein had burst,2 and her sweet lips’ pure dyes 465   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 summon’d handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;   Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 470 But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. LX. 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; 475   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. 480 LXI. 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, 485   And ever-­dying Gladiator’s air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. LXII. She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,   Rather the dead, for life seem’d something new, 490 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

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lord byron Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 495 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. LXIII. 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; 500 Not speechless though she spoke not; not a sigh   Relieved 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. LXIV. Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 505   Her father watch’d, she turn’d her eyes away; She recognized 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; 510 And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, wax’d full of fearful meaning. LXV. And then a slave bethought her of a harp;   The harper came, and tuned his instrument: At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 515   On him her flashing 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 begun a long low island song   Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 520 LXVI. 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 525   To be so being; in a gushing stream



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The tears rush’d forth from her o’erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. LXVII. Short solace, vain relief!—thought came too quick,   And whirl’d her brain to madness; she arose 530 As one who ne’er had 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 phrensy which disdain’d to rave, 535 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. LXVIII. 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; 540 Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence   Avail’d 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. LXIX. Twelve days and nights she wither’d thus; at last, 545   Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show A parting pang, the spirit from her past:   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, 550 Glazed o’er her eyes—­the beautiful, the black— Oh! to possess such lustre—­and then lack! LXX. She died, but not alone; she held within   A second principle of life, which might Have dawn’d a fair and sinless child of sin: 555   But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein   Blossom and bough lie wither’d with one blight;

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lord byron In vain the dews of Heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 560 LXXI. 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 565   Brief, but delightful—­such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-­shore, whereon she loved to dwell. LXXII. That isle is now all desolate and bare,   Its dwellings down, its tenants past away; 570 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 fair,   No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea’s, 575 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; 580 If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong—   A 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. LXXIV. But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 585   And lay this sheet of sorrows 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, 590



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We’ll put about, and try another tack With Juan, left half-­kill’d some stanzas back. LXXV. Wounded and fetter’d, “cabin’d, cribb’d, confined,”   Some days and nights elapsed before that he Could altogether call the past to mind; 595   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. 600 LXXVI. There, on the green and village-­cotted hill, is   (Flank’d by the Hellespont, and by the sea) Entomb’d the bravest of the brave, Achilles;   They say so—(Bryant says the contrary): And further downward, tall and towering still, is 605   The tumulus—­of whom? Heaven knows; ’t may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus; All heroes who if living still would slay us. LXXVII. High barrows, without marble, or a name,   A vast, untill’d, and mountain-­skirted plain, 610 And Ida in the distance, still the same,   And old Scamander, (if ’tis 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, 615 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 620 Whom to the spot their school-­boy feelings bear.   A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth,

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lord byron Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there—­but the devil a Phrygian. LXXIX. Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 625   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 630 No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation. LXXX. He saw some fellow captives, who appear’d   To be Italians, as they were in fact; From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 635   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.3 640 LXXXI. 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, 645   And bore him with some gaiety and grace, Showing a much more reconciled demeanour Than did the prima donna and the tenor. LXXXII. In a few words he told their hapless story,   Saying, “Our Machiavelian impresario, 650 Making a signal off some promontory,   Hail’d a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario! We were transferr’d on board her in a hurry,   Without a single scudo of salario;



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But if the Sultan has a taste for song, 655 We will revive our fortunes before long. LXXXIII. “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, 660 With no great voice, is pleasing to behold;   Last carnival she made a deal of strife By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna From an old Roman princess at Bologna. LXXXIV. “And then there are the dancers; there’s the Nini, 665   With more than one profession gains by all; Then there’s that laughing slut the Pelegrini,   She too was fortunate last carnival, And made at least five hundred good zecchini,   But spends so fast, she has not now a paul; 670 And then there’s the Grotesca—­such a dancer! Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. LXXXV. “As for the figuranti, they are like   The rest of all that tribe; with here and there A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 675   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. 680 LXXXVI. “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; 685   His singing I no further trust can place in:

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lord byron From all the pope makes yearly ’twould perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third sex.4 LXXXVII. “The tenor’s voice is spoilt by affectation,   And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; 690 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 695 An ass was practising recitative. LXXXVIII. “ ’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: 700 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 baritone I almost had forgot, 705   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; 710 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 715   The captives back to their sad berths; each threw A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all   From the blue skies derived a double blue,



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Dancing all free and happy in the sun),   And then went down the hatchway one by one. 720 XCI. They heard next day—­that in the Dardanelles,   Waiting for his sublimity’s firmān, The most imperative of sovereign spells,   Which every body does without who can, More to secure them in their naval cells, 725   Lady to lady, well as man to man, Were to be chain’d and lotted out per couple, For the slave market of Constantinople. XCII. It seems when this allotment was made out,   There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, 730 Who (after some discussion and some doubt,   If the soprano might be deem’d to be male, They placed him o’er the women as a scout)   Were link’d together, and it happen’d the male Was Juan, who,—an awkward thing at his age, 735 Pair’d off with a Bacchante blooming visage. XCIII. With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain’d   The tenor; these two hated with a hate Found only on the stage, and each more pain’d   With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; 740 Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-­g rain’d,   Instead of bearing up without debate, That each pull’d different ways with many an oath, “Arcades ambo,” id est—­blackguards both. XCIV. Juan’s companion was a Romagnole, 745   But bred within the March of old Ancona, With eyes that look’d into the very soul   (And other chief points of a “bella donna”), Bright—­and as black and burning as a coal;   And through her dear brunette complexion shone a 750

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lord byron Great wish to please—­a most attractive dower, Especially when added to the power. XCV. But all that power was wasted upon him,   For sorrow o’er each sense held stern command; Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; 755   And though thus chain’d, as natural her hand Touch’d his, nor that—­nor any handsome limb   (And she had some not easy to withstand) Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle;   Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 760 XCVI. No matter; we should ne’er too much inquire,   But facts are facts: no knight could be more true, And firmer faith no ladye-­love desire;   We will omit the proofs, save one or two: ’Tis said no one in hand “can hold a fire 765   By thought of frosty Caucasus;” but few, I really think; yet Juan’s then ordeal Was more triumphant, and not much less real. XCVII. Here I might enter on a chaste description,   Having withstood temptation in my youth, 770 But hear that several people take exception   At the first two books having too much truth; Therefore I’ll make Don Juan leave the ship soon,   Because the publisher declares, in sooth, Through needles’ eyes it easier for the camel is 775 To pass, than those two cantos into families. XCVIII. ’Tis all the same to me; I’m fond of yielding,   And therefore leave them to the purer page Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding,   Who say strange things for so correct an age; 780 I once had great alacrity in wielding   My pen, and liked poetic war to wage,



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And recollect the time when all this cant Would have provoked remarks which now it shan’t. XCIX. As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; 785   But at this hour I wish to part in peace, Leaving such to the literary rabble,   Whether my verse’s fame be doom’d to cease, While the right hand which wrote it still is able,   Or of some centuries to take a lease; 790 The grass upon my grave will grow as long, And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. C. Of poets who come down to us through distance   Of time and tongues, the foster-­babes of Fame, Life seems the smallest portion of existence; 795   Where twenty ages gather o’er a name, ’Tis as a snowball which derives assistance   From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow,   But after all ’tis nothing but cold snow. 800 CI. And so great names are nothing more than nominal,   And love of glory’s but an airy lust, Too often in its fury overcoming all   Who would as ’twere identify their dust From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, 805   Leaves nothing till the coming of the just— Save change; I’ve stood upon Achilles’ tomb, And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome. CII. The very generations of the dead   Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 810 Until the memory of an age is fled,   And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring’s doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read?   Save a few glean’d from the sepulchral gloom

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lord byron Which once-­named myriads nameless lie beneath, 815 And lose their own in universal death. CIII. I canter by the spot each afternoon   Where perish’d in his fame the hero-­boy, Who lived too long for men, but died too soon   For human vanity, the young De Foix! 820 A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn,   But which neglect is hastening to destroy, Records Ravenna’s carnage on its face, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.5 CIV. I pass each day where Dante’s bones are laid: 825   A little cupola, more neat than solemn, Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid   To the bard’s tomb, and not the warrior’s column: The time must come, when both alike decay’d,   The chieftain’s trophy, and the poet’s volume, 830 Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, Before Pelides’ death, or Homer’s birth. CV. With human blood that column was cemented,   With human filth that column is defiled, As if the peasant’s coarse contempt were vented 835   To show his loathing of the spot he soil’d; Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented   Should ever be those blood-­hounds, from whose wild Instinct of gore and glory earth has known   Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 840 CVI. Yet there will still be bards; though fame is smoke,   Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke   Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 845   Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought



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Dash into poetry, which is but passion, Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. CVII. If in the course of such a life as was   At once adventurous and contemplative, 850 Men who partake all passions as they pass,   Acquire the deep and bitter power to give Their images again as in a glass,   And in such colours that they seem to live; You may do right forbidding them to show ’em, 855 But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. CVIII. Oh! ye, who make the fortunes of all books!   Benign ceruleans of the second sex! Who advertise new poems by your looks,   Your “imprimatur” will ye not annex,— 860 What, must I go to the oblivious cooks,—   Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? Ah! must I then the only minstrel be, Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea! CIX. What, can I prove “a lion” then no more? 865   A ball-­room bard, a foolscap, hot-­press darling? To bear the compliments of many a bore,   And sigh, “I can’t get out,” like Yorick’s starling; Why then I’ll swear, as poet Wordy swore,   (Because the world won’t read him, always snarling) 870 That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-­coat misses of a coterie. CX. Oh! “darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,”   As some one somewhere sings about the sky, And I, ye learned ladies, say of you; 875   They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why, I have examined few pair of that hue);   Blue as the garters which serenely lie

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lord byron Round the Patrician left-­legs, which adorn   The festal midnight, and the levee morn. 880 CXI. Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures—   But times are alter’d since, a rhyming lover, You read my stanzas, and I read your features:   And—­but no matter, all those things are over; Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 885   For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; I knew one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but—­quite a fool. CXII. Humboldt, “the first of travellers,” but not   The last, if late accounts be accurate, 890 Invented, by some name I have forgot,   As well as the sublime discovery’s date, An airy instrument, with which he sought   To ascertain the atmospheric state, By measuring “the intensity of blue:” 895 Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you! CXIII. But to the narrative: the vessel bound   With slaves to sell off in the capital, After the usual process, might be found   At anchor under the seraglio wall; 900 Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound,   Were landed in the market, one and all, And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, Bought up for different purposes and passions. CXIV. Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars 905   For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, Warranted virgin; beauty’s brightest colours   Had deck’d her out in all the hues of heaven: Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,   Who bade on till the hundreds reach’d eleven; 910 But when the offer went beyond, they knew ’Twas for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.

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CXV. Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price   Which the West Indian market scarce would bring; Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 915   What ’twas ere Abolition; and the thing Need not seem very wonderful, for vice   Is always much more splendid than a king: The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity,   Are saving—­vice spares nothing for a rarity. 920 CXVI. But for the destiny of this young troop,   How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, How some to burdens were obliged to stoop,   And others rose to the command of crews As renegadoes; while in hapless group, 925   Hoping no very old vizier might choose, The females stood, as one by one they pick’d ’em, To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim: CXVII. All this must be reserved for further song;   Also our hero’s lot, howe’er unpleasant, 930 (Because this Canto has become too long)   Must be postponed discreetly for the present; I’m sensible redundancy is wrong,   But could not for the muse of me put less in ’t: And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 935 Till what is call’d in Ossian the fifth Duan.

BYRON’S NOTES TO CANTO IV Note 1, stanza XII, [line 89]. “Whom the gods love die young” was said of yore. See Herodotus. Note 2, stanza LIX, [line 465]. A vein had burst. This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis Foscari, on his deposition in 1457, hearing the bells of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, “mourut subitement d’une hemorragie causée par une veine qui s’éclata dans sa poitrine,” (see Sismondi and Daru, vols i. and ii.)

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at the age of eighty years, when “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” Before I was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a melancholy instance of the same effect of mixed passions upon a young person; who, however, did not die in consequence, at that time, but fell a victim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same kind, arising from causes intimately connected with agitation of mind. Note 3, stanza LXXX, [line 640]. But sold by the impresario at no high rate. This is a fact. A few years ago a man engaged a company for some foreign theatre; embarked them at an Italian port, and carrying them to Algiers, sold them all. One of the women, returned from her captivity, I heard sing, by a strange coincidence, in Rossini’s opera of “L’Italiana in Algeri,” at Venice, in the beginning of 1817. Note 4, stanza LXXXVI, [lines 687–8]. From all the pope makes yearly ’twould perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. It is strange that it should be the Pope and the Sultan who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade—­women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter’s, and not deemed trust-­worthy as guardians of the haram. Note 5, stanza CIII, [line 824]. While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, who gained the battle, was killed in it; there fell on both sides twenty thousand men. The present state of the pillar and its site is described in the text.

CANTO V I. When amatory poets sing their loves   In liquid lines mellifluously bland, And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,   They little think what mischief is in hand; The greater their success the worse it proves, 5   As Ovid’s verse may give to understand; Even Petrarch’s self, if judged with due severity, Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. II. I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,   Except in such a way as not to attract; 10 Plain—­simple—­short, and by no means inviting,   But with a moral to each error tack’d,



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Form’d rather for instructing than delighting,   And with all passions in their turn attack’d; Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 15 This poem will become a moral model. III. The European with the Asian shore   Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream1 Here and there studded with a seventy-­four;   Sophia’s cupola with golden gleam; 20 The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;   The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, Far less describe, present the very view Which charm’d the charming Mary Montagu. IV. I have a passion for the name of “Mary,” 25   For once it was a magic sound to me; And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,   Where I beheld what never was to be; All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,   A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: 30 But I grow sad—­and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told. V. The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave   Broke foaming o’er the blue Symplegades; ’Tis a grand sight from off “the Giant’s Grave”2 35   To watch the progress of those rolling seas Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave   Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; There’s not a sea the passenger e’er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 40 VI. ’Twas a raw day of Autumn’s bleak beginning,   When nights are equal, but not so the days; The Parcæ then cut short the further spinning   Of seamen’s fates, and the loud tempests raise The waters and repentance for past sinning 45

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lord byron   In all, who o’er the great deep take their ways: They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don’t; Because if drown’d, they can’t—­if spared, they won’t. VII. A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,   And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; 50 Each bevy with the merchant in his station:   Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed. All save the blacks seem’d jaded with vexation,   From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged; The negroes more philosophy display’d,— 55 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay’d. VIII. Juan was juvenile, and thus was full,   As most at his age are, of hope, and health; Yet I must own, he looked a little dull,   And now and then a tear stole down by stealth: 60 Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull   His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth, A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, IX. Were things to shake a stoic; ne’ertheless, 65   Upon the whole his carriage was serene: His figure, and the splendour of his dress,   Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess   He was above the vulgar by his mien; 70 And then, though pale, he was so very handsome; And then—­they calculated on his ransom. X. Like a backgammon board the place was dotted   With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted: 75   Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. It chanced amongst the other people lotted,



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  A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, With resolution in his dark gray eye, Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 80 XI. He had an English look; that is, was square   In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,   And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, An open brow a little mark’d with care: 85   One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; And there he stood with such sang-­froid that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. XII. But seeing at his elbow a mere lad,   Of a high spirit evidently, though 90 At present weigh’d down by a doom which had   O’erthrown even men, he soon began to show A kind of blunt compassion for the sad   Lot of so young a partner in the woe, Which for himself he seem’d to deem no worse 95 Than any other scrape, a thing of course. XIII. “My boy!”—said he, “amidst this motley crew   Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, All ragamuffins differing but in hue,   With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 100 The only gentlemen seem I and you;   So let us be acquainted, as we ought: If I could yield you any consolation, ’T would give me pleasure.—Pray, what is your nation?” XIV. When Juan answered “Spanish!” he replied, 105   “I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek; Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed:   Fortune has play’d you here a pretty freak, But that’s her way with all men till they’re tried;

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lord byron   But never mind,—she’ll turn, perhaps, next week; 110 She has served me also much the same as you, Except that I have found it nothing new.” XV. “Pray, Sir,” said Juan, “if I may presume,   What brought you here?”—“Oh! nothing very rare— Six Tartars and a drag-­chain——” —“To this doom 115   But what conducted, if the question’s fair, Is that which I would learn.”—“I served for some   Months with the Russian army here and there, And taking lately, by Suwarrow’s bidding, A town, was ta’en myself instead of Widin.” 120 XVI. “Have you no friends?”—“I had—­but, by God’s blessing,   Have not been troubled with them lately. Now I have answer’d all your questions without pressing,   And you an equal courtesy should show.”— “Alas!” said Juan, “ ’t were a tale distressing, 125   And long besides.”—“Oh! if ’tis really so, You’re right on both accounts to hold your tongue; A sad tale saddens doubly when ’tis long. XVII. “But droop not; Fortune at your time of life,   Although a female moderately fickle, 130 Will hardly leave you (as she’s not your wife)   For any length of days in such a pickle. To strive too with our fate were such a strife   As if the corn-­sheaf should oppose the sickle: Men are the sport of circumstances, when 135 The circumstances seem the sport of men.” XVIII. “ ’Tis not,” said Juan, “for my present doom   I mourn, but for the past;—I loved a maid:” He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;   A single tear upon his eyelash staid 140 A moment, and then dropp’d; “but to resume,



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  ’Tis not my present lot, as I have said, Which I deplore so much; for I have borne Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, XIX. “On the rough deep. But this last blow—”and here 145   He stopp’d again, and turn’d away his face. “Ay,” quoth his friend, “I thought it would appear   That there had been a lady in the case; And these are things which ask a tender tear,   Such as I too would shed if in your place: 150 I cried upon my first wife’s dying day, And also when my second ran away: XX. “My third—” —“Your third!” quoth Juan, turning round;   “You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?” “No—­only two at present above ground: 155   Surely ’tis nothing wonderful to see One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!”   “Well, then, your third,” said Juan; “what did she? She did not run away, too, did she, sir?” “No, faith.”—“What then?”—“I ran away from her.” 160 XXI. “You take things coolly, sir,” said Juan. “Why,”   Replied the other, “what can a man do? There still are many rainbows in your sky,   But mine have vanish’d. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm and prospects high; 165   But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. XXII. “ ’Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh,   Or fresher, brighter, but the year gone through, 170 This skin must go the way too of all flesh,   Or sometimes only wear a week or two;— Love’s the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;

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lord byron   Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue The glittering lime-­twigs of our latter days, 175 Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.” XXIII. “All this is very fine, and may be true,”   Said Juan; “but I really don’t see how It betters present times with me or you.”   “No?” quoth the other; “yet you will allow 180 By setting things in their right point of view,   Knowledge, at least, is gain’d; for instance, now, We know what slavery is, and our disasters May teach us better to behave when masters.” XXIV. “Would we were masters now, if but to try 185   Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,” Said Juan—­swallowing a heart-­burning sigh:   “Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!” “Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,”   Rejoin’d the other, “when our bad luck mends here; 190 Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) I wish to G—­d that somebody would buy us! XXV. “But after all, what is our present state?   ’Tis bad, and may be better—­all men’s lot: Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 195   To their own whims and passions, and what not; Society itself, which should create   Kindness, destroys what little we had got: To feel for none is the true social art Of the world’s stoics—­men without a heart.” 200 XXVI. Just now a black old neutral personage   Of the third sex stept up, and peering over The captives, seemed to mark their looks and age,   And capabilities, as to discover If they were fitted for the purposed cage: 205



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  No lady e’er is ogled by a lover, Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, XXVII. As is a slave by his intended bidder.   ’Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow creatures; 210 And all are to be sold, if you consider   Their passions, and are dext’rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,   Some by a place—­as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash—­but all have prices, 215 From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. XXVIII. The eunuch having eyed them o’er with care,   Turn’d to the merchant, and begun to bid First but for one, and after for the pair;   They haggled, wrangled, swore, too—­so they did! 220 As though they were in a mere christian fair   Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle. XXIX. At last they settled into simple grumbling, 225   And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o’er, and tumbling   Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,   Until the sum was accurately scann’d, 230 And then the merchant giving change, and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining. XXX. I wonder if his appetite was good?   Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, 235   And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should   Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one,

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lord byron I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-­four. 240 XXXI. Voltaire says “No:” he tells you that Candide   Found life most tolerable after meals; He’s wrong—­unless man were a pig, indeed,   Repletion rather adds to what he feels, Unless he’s drunk, and then no doubt he’s freed 245   From his own brain’s oppression while it reels. Of food I think with Philip’s son, or rather Ammon’s (ill pleased with one world and one father); XXXII. I think with Alexander, that the act   Of eating, with another act or two, 250 Makes us feel our mortality in fact   Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout, And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back’d,   Can give us either pain or pleasure, who Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 255 Depends so much upon the gastric juice? XXXIII. The other evening (’twas on Friday last)—   This is a fact and no poetic fable— Just as my great coat was about me cast,   My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 260 I heard a shot—’twas eight o’clock scarce past—   And running out as fast as I was able,3 I found the military commandant Stretch’d in the street, and able scarce to pant. XXXIV. Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, 265   They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had   Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp’d, and look’d to,——But why should I add   More circumstances? vain was every care; 270



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The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel Kill’d by five bullets from an old gun-­barrel.4 XXXV. I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;   And though I have seen many corpses, never Saw one, whom such an accident befell, 275   So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem’d to sleep, for you could scarcely tell   (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: So as I gazed on him, I thought or said— 280 XXXVI. “Can this be death? then what is life or death?   Speak!” but he spoke not: “wake!” but still he slept:— “But yesterday and who had mightier breath?   A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, 285   ‘Go,’ and he goeth; ‘come,’ and forth he stepp’d. The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb— And now nought left him but the muffled drum.” XXXVII. And they who waited once and worshipp’d—­they   With their rough faces throng’d about the bed 290 To gaze once more on the commanding clay   Which for the last though not the first time bled: And such an end! that he who many a day   Had faced Napoleon’s foes until they fled,— The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 295 Should now be butcher’d in a civic alley. XXXVIII. The scars of his old wounds were near his new,   Those honourable scars which brought him fame; And horrid was the contrast to the view——   But let me quit the theme; as such things claim 300 Perhaps even more attention than is due   From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)

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lord byron To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith; XXXIX. But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 305   And there we go:—but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far!   And is this blood, then, form’d but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar?   And air—­earth—­water—­fire live—­and we dead? 310 We, whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before. XL. The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance   Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, Embark’d himself and them, and off they went thence 315   As fast as oars could pull and water float; They look’d like persons being led to sentence,   Wondering what next, till the caique was brought Up in a little creek below a wall O’ertopp’d with cypresses dark-­g reen and tall. 320 XLI. Here their conductor tapping at the wicket   Of a small iron door, ’twas open’d, and He led them onward, first through a low thicket   Flank’d by large groves, which tower’d on either hand: They almost lost their way, and had to pick it— 325   For night was closing ere they came to land. The eunuch made a sign to those on board, Who row’d off, leaving them without a word. XLII. As they were plodding on their winding way,   Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth: 330 (Of which I might have a good deal to say,   There being no such profusion in the North Of oriental plants, “et cetera,”   But that of late your scribblers think it worth



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Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works 335 Because one poet travell’d ’mongst the Turks:) XLIII. As they were threading on their way, there came   Into Don Juan’s head a thought, which he Whispered to his companion:—’twas the same   Which might have then occurr’d to you or me. 340 “Methinks,”— said he,—“it would be no great shame   If we should strike a stroke to set us free; Let’s knock that old black fellow on the head, And march away—’twere easier done than said.” XLIV. “Yes,” said the other, “and when done, what then? 345   How get out? how the devil got we in? And when we once were fairly out, and when   From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, To-­morrow’d see us in some other den,   And worse off than we hitherto have been; 350 Besides, I’m hungry, and just now would take, Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-­steak. XLV. “We must be near some place of man’s abode;—   For the old negro’s confidence in creeping, With his two captives, by so queer a road, 355   Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; A single cry would bring them all abroad:   ’Tis therefore better looking before leaping— And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. By Jove, a noble palace!—lighted too.” 360 XLVI. It was indeed a wide extensive building   Which open’d on their view, and o’er the front There seem’d to be besprent a deal of gilding   And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,— A gaudy taste; for they are little skill’d in 365   The arts of which these lands were once the font:

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lord byron Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-­scene. XLVII. And nearer as they came, a genial savour   Of certain stews, and roast-­meats, and pilaus, 370 Things which in hungry mortals’ eyes find favour,   Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, And put himself upon his good behaviour:   His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, Said, “In Heaven’s name let’s get some supper now, 375 And then I’m with you, if you’re for a row.” XLVIII. Some talk of an appeal unto some passion,   Some to men’s feelings, others to their reason; The last of these was never much the fashion,   For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 380 Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on,   But more or less continue still to tease on, With arguments according to their “forte;” But no one ever dreams of being short.— XLIX. But I digress: of all appeals,—although 385   I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,—no   Method’s more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow   More tender, as we every day behold, 390 Than that all-­softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul—­the dinner bell. L. Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine;   And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No christian knoll to table, saw no line 395   Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-­meat, beheld a huge fire shine,   And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared,



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And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite. 400 LI. And giving up all notions of resistance,   They follow’d close behind their sable guide, Who little thought that his own crack’d existence   Was on the point of being set aside: He motion’d them to stop at some small distance, 405   And knocking at the gate, ’twas open’d wide, And a magnificent large hall display’d The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. LII. I won’t describe; description is my forte,   But every fool describes in these bright days 410 His wond’rous journey to some foreign court,   And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise— Death to his publisher, to him ’tis sport:   While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, Resigns herself with exemplary patience 415 To guide-­books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. LIII. Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted   Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; Others in monosyllable talk chatted,   And some seem’d much in love with their own dress, 420 And divers smoked superb pipes decorated   With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.5 LIV. As the black eunuch enter’d with his brace 425   Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes A moment without slackening from their pace;   But those who sate, ne’er stirr’d in any wise: One or two stared the captives in the face,   Just as one views a horse to guess his price; 430

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lord byron Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation. LV. He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping,   On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, 435   A marble fountain echoes6 through the glooms Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping   Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil noise that is. 440 LVI. Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls   Gave light enough to hint their farther way, But not enough to show the imperial halls   In all the flashing of their full array; Perhaps there’s nothing—­I’ll not say appals, 445   But saddens more by night as well as day, Than an enormous room without a soul To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. LVII. Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing:   In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 450 There solitude, we know, has her full growth in   The spots which were her realms for evermore; But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in   More modern buildings and those built of yore, A kind of death comes o’er us all alone 455 Seeing what’s meant for many with but one. LVIII. A neat, snug study on a winter’s night,   A book, friend, single lady, or a glass Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite,   Are things which make an English evening pass; 460 Though certes by no means so grand a sight   As is a theatre lit up by gas.



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I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, And that’s the reason I’m so melancholy. LIX. Alas! man makes that great which makes him little: 465   I grant you in a church ’tis very well: What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle,   But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell Their names who rear’d it; but huge houses fit ill—   And huge tombs worse—­mankind, since Adam fell: 470 Methinks the story of the tower of Babel Might teach them this much better than I’m able. LX. Babel was Nimrod’s hunting-­box, and then   A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 475   Reign’d, till one summer’s day he took to grazing, And Daniel tamed the lions in their den,   The people’s awe and admiration raising; ’Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated Queen Semiramis.— 480 LXI. *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * LXII. But to resume,—should there be (what may not   Be in these days?) some infidels, who don’t, 490 Because they can’t find out the very spot   Of that same Babel, or because they won’t, (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got,   And written lately two memoirs upon’t) Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 495 Must be believed, though they believe not you;

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lord byron LXIII. Yet let them think that Horace has exprest   Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest,   Who give themselves to architecture wholly; 500 We know where things and men must end at best:   A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And “Et sepulchri immemor struis domos” Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. LXIV. At last they reach’d a quarter most retired, 505   Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; Though full of all things which could be desired,   One wonder’d what to do with such a number Of articles which nobody required;   Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 510 With furniture an exquisite apartment, Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant. LXV. It seem’d, however, but to open on   A range or suite of further chambers, which Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one 515   The movables were prodigally rich: Sofas ’twas half a sin to sit upon,   So costly were they; carpets every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish You could glide o’er them like a golden fish. 520 LXVI. The black, however, without hardly deigning   A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining,   As if the milky way their feet was under With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining 525   A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder In that remote recess which you may see— Or if you don’t the fault is not in me,



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LXVII. I wish to be perspicuous; and the black,   I say, unlocking the recess, pull’d forth 530 A quantity of clothes fit for the back   Of any Mussulman, whate’er his worth; And of variety there was no lack—   And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, He chose himself to point out what he thought 535 Most proper for the Christians he had bought. LXVIII. The suit he thought most suitable to each   Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach,   And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 540 But such as fit an Asiatic breech;   A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. LXIX. While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 545   Hinted the vast advantages which they Might probably attain both in the end,   If they would but pursue the proper way Which Fortune plainly seemed to recommend;   And then he added, that he needs must say, 550 “ ’Twould greatly tend to better their condition, If they would condescend to circumcision. LXX. “For his own part, he really should rejoice   To see them true believers, but no less Would leave his proposition to their choice.” 555   The other, thanking him for this excess Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice   In such a trifle, scarcely could express “Sufficiently (he said) his approbation Of all the customs of this polish’d nation. 560

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lord byron LXXI. “For his own share—­he saw but small objection   To so respectable an ancient rite; And, after swallowing down a slight refection,   For which he own’d a present appetite, He doubted not a few hours of reflection 565   Would reconcile him to the business quite.” “Will it?” said Juan, sharply: “Strike me dead, But they as soon shall circumcise my head! LXXII. “Cut off a thousand heads, before——” —“Now, pray,”   Replied the other, “do not interrupt: 570 You put me out in what I had to say.   Sir!—as I said, as soon as I have supt, I shall perpend if your proposal may   Be such as I can properly accept; Provided always your great goodness still 575 Remits the matter to our own free-­will.” LXXIII. Baba eyed Juan, and said “Be so good   As dress yourself—” and pointed out a suit In which a Princess with great pleasure would   Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, 580 As not being in a masquerading mood,   Gave it a slight kick with his christian foot; And when the old negro told him to “Get ready,” Replied, “Old gentleman, I’m not a lady.” LXXIV. “What you may be, I neither know nor care,” 585   Said Baba; “but pray do as I desire: I have no more time nor many words to spare.”   “At least,” said Juan, “sure I may inquire The cause of this odd travesty?”—“Forbear,”   Said Baba, “to be curious; ’twill transpire, 590 No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: I have no authority to tell the reason.”



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LXXV. “Then if I do,” said Juan, “I’ll be——” “Hold!”   Rejoin’d the Negro, “pray be not provoking; This spirit’s well, but it may wax too bold, 595   And you will find us not too fond of joking.” “What, sir,” said Juan, “shall it e’er be told   That I unsexed my dress?” But Baba stroking The things down, said—“Incense me, and I call Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 600 LXXVI. “I offer you a handsome suit of clothes:   A woman’s, true; but then there is a cause Why you should wear them.”—“What, though my soul loathes   The effeminate garb?”—thus, after a short pause, Sigh’d Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 605   “What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?” Thus he profanely term’d the finest lace Which e’er set off a marriage-­morning face. LXXVII. And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp’d   A pair of trowsers of flesh-­colour’d silk, 610 Next with a virgin zone he was equipp’d,   Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; But tugging on his petticoat he tripp’d,   Which—­as we say—­or as the Scotch say whilk, (The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes 615 Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)— LXXVIII. Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to   His garment’s novelty, and his being awkward; And yet at last he managed to get through   His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: 620 The negro Baba help’d a little too,   When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard; And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, He paused and took a survey up and down.

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lord byron LXXIX. One difficulty still remain’d,—his hair 625   Was hardly long enough; but Baba found So many false long tresses all to spare,   That soon his head was most completely crown’d, After the manner then in fashion there;   And this addition with such gems was bound 630 As suited the ensemble of his toilet, While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. LXXX. And now being femininely all array’d,   With some small aid from scissars, paint, and tweezers, He look’d in almost all respects a maid, 635   And Baba smilingly exclaimed “You see, sirs, A perfect transformation here display’d;   And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, That is—­the Lady:” clapping his hands twice, Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 640 LXXXI. “You, sir,” said Baba, nodding to the one,   “Will please to accompany those gentlemen To supper; but you, worthy christian nun,   Will follow me; no trifling, sir; for when I say a thing, it must at once be done. 645   What fear you? think you this a lion’s den? Why, ’tis a palace; where the truly wise Anticipate the prophet’s paradise. LXXXII. “You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.”   “So much the better,” Juan said, “for them; 650 Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm,   Which is not quite so light as you may deem. I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm   If any take me for that which I seem: So that I trust for every body’s sake, 655 That this disguise may lead to no mistake.”



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LXXXIII. “Blockhead! come on, and see,” quoth Baba; while   Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile   Upon the metamorphosis in view, 660 “Farewell!” they mutually exclaim’d: “this soil   Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; One’s turn’d half Mussulman, and one a maid, By this old black enchanter’s unsought aid.” LXXXIV. “Farewell!” said Juan; “should we meet no more, 665   I wish you a good appetite.”—“Farewell!” Replied the other; “though it grieves me sore;   When we next meet, we’ll have a tale to tell: We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore.   Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.” 670 “Nay,” quoth the maid, “the Sultan’s self shan’t carry me, Unless his highness promises to marry me.” LXXXV. And thus they parted, each by separate doors;   Baba led Juan onward room by room Through glittering galleries, and o’er marble floors, 675   Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, Haughty and huge, along the distance lours;   And wafted far arose a rich perfume: It seem’d as though they came upon a shrine, For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 680 LXXXVI. The giant door was broad, and bright, and high,   Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; Warriors thereon were battling furiously;   Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish’d lies; There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 685   And in perspective many a squadron flies: It seems the work of times before the line Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.

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lord byron LXXXVII. This massy portal stood at the wide close   Of a huge hall, and on its either side 690 Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,   Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied In mockery to the enormous gate which rose   O’er them in almost pyramidic pride: The gate so splendid was in all its features,7 695 You never thought about those little creatures, LXXXVIII. Until you nearly trod on them, and then   You started back in horror to survey The wond’rous hideousness of those small men,   Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor gray, 700 But an extraneous mixture, which no pen   Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb— Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. LXXXIX. Their duty was—­for they were strong, and though 705   They look’d so little, did strong things at times— To ope this door, which they could really do,   The hinges being as smooth as Rogers’ rhymes; And now and then with tough strings of the bow,   As is the custom of those eastern climes, 710 To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; For mutes are generally used for that. XC. They spoke by signs—­that is, not spoke at all;   And looking like two incubi, they glared As Baba with his fingers made them fall 715   To heaving back the portal folds: it scared Juan a moment, as this pair so small   With shrinking serpent optics on him stared; It was as if their little looks could poison Or fascinate whome’er they fix’d their eyes on. 720



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XCI. Before they enter’d, Baba paused to hint   To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: “If you could just contrive,” he said, “to stint   That somewhat manly majesty of stride, ’Twould be as well, and,—(though there’s not much in’t) 725   To swing a little less from side to side, Which has at times an aspect of the oddest; And also could you look a little modest, XCII. “ ’Twould be convenient; for these mutes have eyes   Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats; 730 And if they should discover your disguise,   You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats; And you and I may chance, ere morning rise,   To find our way to Marmora without boats, Stitch’d up in sacks—­a mode of navigation 735 A good deal practised here upon occasion.” XCIII. With this encouragement, he led the way   Into a room still nobler than the last; A rich confusion form’d a disarray   In such sort, that the eye along it cast 740 Could hardly carry any thing away,   Object on object flash’d so bright and fast; A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, Magnificently mingled in a litter. XCIV. Wealth had done wonders—­taste not much; such things 745   Occur in orient palaces, and even In the more chasten’d domes of western kings   (Of which I have also seen some six or seven) Where I can’t say or gold or diamond flings   Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven; 750 Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, On which I cannot pause to make my strictures.

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lord byron XCV. In this imperial hall, at distance lay   Under a canopy, and there reclined Quite in a confidential queenly way, 755   A lady; Baba stopp’d, and kneeling sign’d To Juan, who though not much used to pray,   Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind What all this meant: while Baba bow’d and bended His head, until the ceremony ended. 760 XCVI. The lady rising up with such an air   As Venus rose with from the wave, on them Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair   Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem; And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 765   She sign’d to Baba, who first kiss’d the hem Of her deep-­purple robe, and speaking low, Pointed to Juan, who remain’d below. XCVII. Her presence was as lofty as her state;   Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 770 Whose force description only would abate:   I’d rather leave it much to your own mind, Than lessen it by what I could relate   Of forms and features; it would strike you blind Could I do justice to the full detail; 775 So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. XCVIII. Thus much however I may add,—her years   Were ripe, they might make six and twenty springs, But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,   And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 780 Such as was Mary’s Queen of Scots; true—­tears   And love destroy; and sapping sorrow wrings Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow Ugly; for instance—­Ninon de l’Enclos.



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XCIX. She spake some words to her attendants, who 785   Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, And were all clad alike; like Juan, too,   Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen: They form’d a very nymph-­like looking crew,   Which might have call’d Diana’s chorus “cousin,” 790 As far as outward show may correspond; I won’t be bail for any thing beyond. C. They bow’d obeisance and withdrew, retiring,   But not by the same door through which came in Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 795   At some small distance, all he saw within This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring   Marvel and praise; for both or none things win; And I must say, I ne’er could see the very Great happiness of the “Nil Admirari.” 800 CI. “Not to admire is all the art I know   (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) To make men happy, or to keep them so;   (So take it in the very words of Creech).” Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; 805   And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-­teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired? CII. Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn,   Motion’d to Juan to approach, and then 810 A second time desired him to kneel down,   And kiss the lady’s foot; which maxim when He heard repeated, Juan with a frown   Drew himself up to his full height again, And said, “It grieved him, but he could not stoop 815 To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.”

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lord byron CIII. Baba, indignant at this ill-­timed pride,   Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat He mutter’d (but the last was given aside)   About a bow-­string—­quite in vain; not yet 820 Would Juan bend, though ’twere to Mahomet’s bride:   There’s nothing in the world like etiquette In kingly chambers or imperial halls, As also at the race and county balls. CIV. He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 825   About his ears, and nathless would not bend; The blood of all his line’s Castilian lords   Boil’d in his veins, and rather than descend To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords   A thousand times of him had made an end; 830 At length perceiving the “foot” could not stand, Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. CV. Here was an honourable compromise,   A half-­way house of diplomatic rest, Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise; 835   And Juan now his willingness exprest To use all fit and proper courtesies,   Adding, that this was commonest and best, For through the South, the custom still commands The gentleman, to kiss the lady’s hands. 840 CVI. And he advanced, though with but a bad grace,   Though on more thorough-­bred or fairer fingers8 No lips e’er left their transitory trace:   On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 845   As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers In contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger’s An almost twelvemonth’s constancy endangers.



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CVII. The lady eyed him o’er and o’er, and bade   Baba retire, which he obey’d in style, 850 As if well-­used to the retreating trade;   And taking hints in good part all the while, He whisper’d Juan not to be afraid,   And looking on him with a sort of smile, Took leave with such a face of satisfaction, 855 As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. CVIII. When he was gone, there was a sudden change:   I know not what might be the lady’s thought, But o’er her bright brow flash’d a tumult strange,   And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 860 Blood-­red as sunset summer clouds which range   The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought A mixture of sensations might be scann’d, Of half voluptuousness and half command. CIX. Her form had all the softness of her sex, 865   Her features all the sweetness of the devil, When he put on the cherub to perplex   Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil. The sun himself was scarce more free from specks   Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil; 870 Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting, As if she rather order’d than was granting.— CX. Something imperial, or imperious, threw   A chain o’er all she did; that is, a chain Was thrown as ’twere about the neck of you,— 875   And rapture’s self will seem almost a pain With aught which looks like despotism in view:   Our souls at least are free, and ’tis in vain We would against them make the flesh obey— The spirit in the end will have its way. 880

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lord byron CXI. Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;   Her very nod was not an inclination; There was a self-­will even in her small feet,   As though they were quite conscious of her station— They trod as upon necks; and to complete 885   Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) A poniard deck’d her girdle, as the sign She was a sultan’s bride, (thank Heaven, not mine.) CXII. “To hear and to obey” had been from birth   The law of all around her; to fulfil 890 All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth,   Had been her slaves’ chief pleasure, as her will; Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth:   Judge, then, if her caprices e’er stood still; Had she but been a Christian, I’ve a notion 895 We should have found out the “perpetual motion.” CXIII. Whate’er she saw and coveted was brought;   Whate’er she did not see, if she supposed It might be seen, with diligence was sought,   And when ’twas found straightway the bargain closed: 900 There was no end unto the things she bought,   Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused; Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardon’d all except her face. CXIV. Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 905   Her eye in passing on his way to sale; She order’d him directly to be bought,   And Baba, who had ne’er been known to fail In any kind of mischief to be wrought,   At all such auctions knew how to prevail: 910 She had no prudence, but he had; and this Explains the garb which Juan took amiss.



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CXV. His youth and features favour’d the disguise,   And, should you ask how she, a sultan’s bride, Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 915   This I must leave sultanas to decide: Emperors are only husbands in wives’ eyes,   And kings and consorts oft are mystified, As we may ascertain with due precision, Some by experience, others by tradition. 920 CXVI. But to the main point, where we have been tending:—   She now conceived all difficulties past, And deemed herself extremely condescending   When, being made her property at last, Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 925   Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, And merely saying, “Christian, canst thou love?” Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. CXVII. And so it was, in proper time and place;   But Juan, who had still his mind o’erflowing 930 With Haidée’s isle and soft Ionian face,   Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, Rush back upon his heart, which fill’d apace,   And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing: These words went through his soul like Arab-­spears, 935 So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. CXVIII. She was a good deal shock’d; not shock’d at tears,   For women shed and use them at their liking; But there is something when man’s eye appears   Wet, still more disagreeable and striking: 940 A woman’s tear-­drop melts, a man’s half sears,   Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) To them ’tis a relief, to us a torture.

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lord byron CXIX. And she would have consoled, but knew not how; 945   Having no equals, nothing which had e’er Infected her with sympathy till now,   And never having dreamt what ’twas to bear Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although   There might arise some pouting petty care 950 To cross her brow, she wonder’d how so near Her eyes another’s eye could shed a tear. CXX. But nature teaches more than power can spoil,   And, when a strong although a strange sensation, Moves—­female hearts are such a genial soil 955   For kinder feelings, whatsoe’er their nation, They naturally pour the “wine and oil,”   Samaritans in every situation; And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 960 CXXI. But tears must stop like all things else; and soon   Juan, who for an instant had been moved To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone   Of one who dared to ask if “he had loved,” Call’d back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 965   Bright with the very weakness he reproved; And although sensitive to beauty, he Felt most indignant still at not being free. CXXII. Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days,   Was much embarrass’d, never having met 970 In all her life with aught save prayers and praise;   And as she also risk’d her life to get Him whom she meant to tutor in love’s ways   Into a comfortable tête-­à-­tête, To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 975 And they had wasted now almost a quarter.



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CXXIII. I also would suggest the fitting time,   To gentlemen in any such like case, That is to say—­in a meridian clime,   With us there is more law given to the chase, 980 But here a small delay forms a great crime:   So recollect that the extremest grace Is just two minutes for your declaration— A moment more would hurt your reputation. CXXIV. Juan’s was good; and might have been still better, 985   But he had got Haidée into his head: However strange, he could not yet forget her,   Which made him seem exceedingly ill-­bred. Gulbeyaz, who look’d on him as her debtor   For having had him to her palace led, 990 Began to blush up to the eyes, and then Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. CXXV. At length, in an imperial way, she laid   Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes, Which needed not an empire to persuade, 995   Look’d into his for love, where none replies: Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid,   That being the last thing a proud woman tries; She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 1000 CXXVI. This was an awkward test, as Juan found,   But he was steel’d by sorrow, wrath, and pride: With gentle force her white arms he unwound,   And seated her all drooping by his side. Then rising haughtily he glanced around, 1005   And looking coldly in her face, he cried, “The prison’d eagle will not pair, nor I Serve a sultana’s sensual phantasy.

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lord byron CXXVII. “Thou ask’st, if I can love? be this the proof   How much I have loved—­that I love not thee! 1010 In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof,   Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! I am not dazzled by this splendid roof;   Whate’er thy power, and great it seems to be, Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 1015 And hands obey—­our hearts are still our own.” CXXVIII. This was a truth to us extremely trite,   Not so to her, who ne’er had heard such things; She deem’d her least command must yield delight,   Earth being only made for queens and kings. 1020 If hearts lay on the left side or the right   She hardly knew, to such perfection brings Legitimacy its born votaries, when Aware of their due royal rights o’er men. CXXIX. Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 1025   As even in a much humbler lot had made A kingdom or confusion anywhere,   And also, as may be presumed, she laid Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e’er,   By their possessors thrown into the shade; 1030 She thought hers gave a double “right divine,” And half of that opinion’s also mine. CXXX. Remember, or (if you can not) imagine,   Ye! who have kept your chastity when young, While some more desperate dowager has been waging 1035   Love with you, and been in the dog-­days stung By your refusal, recollect her raging!   Or recollect all that was said or sung On such a subject; then suppose the face Of a young downright beauty in this case. 1040



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CXXXI. Suppose, but you already have supposed,   The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, Phedra, and all which story has disclosed   Of good examples; pity that so few by Poets and private tutors are exposed, 1045   To educate—­ye youth of Europe—­you by! But when you have supposed the few we know, You can’t suppose Gulbeyaz’ angry brow. CXXXII. A tigress robb’d of young, a lioness,   Or any interesting beast of prey, 1050 Are similes at hand for the distress   Of ladies who can not have their own way; But though my turn will not be served with less,   These don’t express one half what I should say For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 1055 To cutting short their hopes of having any? CXXXIII. The love of offspring’s nature’s general law,   From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; There’s nothing whets the beak or arms the claw   Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings; 1060 And all who have seen a human nursery, saw   How mothers love their children’s squalls and chucklings; This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. CXXXIV. If I said fire flash’d from Gulbeyaz’ eyes, 1065   ’Twere nothing—­for her eyes flash’d always fire; Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes,   I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, So supernatural was her passion’s rise;   For ne’er till now she knew a check’d desire: 1070 Even ye who know what a check’d woman is (Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.

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lord byron CXXXV. Her rage was but a minute’s, and ’twas well—   A moment’s more had slain her; but the while It lasted ’twas like a short glimpse of hell: 1075   Nought’s more sublime than energetic bile, Though horrible to see yet grand to tell,   Like ocean warring ’gainst a rocky isle; And the deep passions flashing through her form Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 1080 CXXXVI. A vulgar tempest ’twere to a Typhoon   To match a common fury with her rage, And yet she did not want to reach the moon,   Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; Her anger pitch’d into a lower tune, 1085   Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age— Her wish was but to “kill, kill, kill,” like Lear’s, And then her thirst of blood was quench’d in tears. CXXXVII. A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass’d,   Pass’d without words—­in fact she could not speak; 1090 And then her sex’s shame broke in at last,   A sentiment till then in her but weak, But now it flow’d in natural and fast,   As water through an unexpected leak, For she felt humbled—­and humiliation 1095 Is sometimes good for people in her station. CXXXVIII. It teaches them that they are flesh and blood,   It also gently hints to them that others, Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud;   That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 1100 And works of the same pottery, bad or good,   Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: It teaches—­Heaven knows only what it teaches, But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.



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CXXXIX. Her first thought was to cut off Juan’s head; 1105   Her second, to cut only his—­acquaintance; Her third, to ask him where he had been bred;   Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed;   Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 1110 The lash to Baba;—but her grand resource Was to sit down again, and cry of course. CXL. She thought to stab herself, but then she had   The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward; For eastern stays are little made to pad, 1115   So that a poniard pierces if ’tis stuck hard: She thought of killing Juan—­but, poor lad!   Though he deserved it well for being so backward, The cutting off his head was not the art Most likely to attain her aim—­his heart. 1120 CXLI. Juan was moved: he had made up his mind   To be impaled, or quarter’d as a dish For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined,   Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, And thus heroically stood resign’d, 1125   Rather than sin—­except to his own wish: But all his great preparatives for dying Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. CXLII. As through his palms Bob Acres’ valour oozed,   So Juan’s virtue ebb’d, I know not how; 1130 And first he wonder’d why he had refused;   And then, if matters could be made up now; And next his savage virtue he accused,   Just as a friar may accuse his vow, Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 1135 Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.

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lord byron CXLIII. So he began to stammer some excuses;   But words are not enough in such a matter, Although you borrow’d all that e’er the muses   Have sung, or even a Dandy’s dandiest chatter, 1140 Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses;   Just as a languid smile began to flatter His peace was making, but before he ventured Further, old Baba rather briskly enter’d. CXLIV. “Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!” 1145   (’Twas thus he spake,) “and Empress of the Earth! Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune,   Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, Your slave brings tidings—­he hopes not too soon—   Which your sublime attention may be worth: 1150 The Sun himself has sent me like a ray To hint that he is coming up this way.” CXLV. “Is it,” exclaimed Gulbeyaz, “as you say?   I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning! But bid my women form the milky way. 1155   Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning— And, christian! mingle with them as you may,   And as you’d have me pardon your past scorning——” Here they were interrupted by a humming Sound, and then by a cry, “the sultan’s coming!” 1160 CXLVI. First came her damsels, a decorous file,   And then his Highness’ eunuchs, black and white; The train might reach a quarter of a mile:   His majesty was always so polite As to announce his visits a long while 1165   Before he came, especially at night; For being the last wife of the Emperour, She was of course the favourite of the four.



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CXLVII. His highness was a man of solemn port,   Shawl’d to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 1170 Snatch’d from a prison to preside at court,   His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; He was as good a sovereign of the sort   As any mention’d in the histories Of Cantemir, or Knōllěs, where few shine 1175 Save Solyman, the glory of their line.9 CXLVIII. He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers   With more than “Oriental scrupulosity;” He left to his vizier all state affairs,   And show’d but little royal curiosity: 1180 I know not if he had domestic cares—   No process proved connubial animosity; Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, Were ruled as calmly as a christian queen. CXLIX. If now and then there happen’d a slight slip, 1185   Little was heard of criminal or crime; The story scarcely pass’d a single lip—   The sack and sea had settled all in time, From which the secret nobody could rip:   The Public knew no more than does this rhyme; 1190 No scandals made the daily press a curse— Morals were better, and the fish no worse. CL. He saw with his own eyes the moon was round,   Was also certain that the earth was square, Because he had journey’d fifty miles and found 1195   No sign that it was circular any where; His empire also was without a bound:   ’Tis true, a little troubled here and there, By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, But then they never came to “the Seven Towers;” 1200

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lord byron CLI. Except in shape of envoys, who were sent   To lodge there when a war broke out, according To the true law of nations, which ne’er meant   Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 1205   Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording Their lies, yclep’d despatches, without risk or The singeing of a single inky whisker. CLII. He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons,   Of whom all such as came of age were stow’d, 1210 The former in a palace, where like nuns   They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once,   Sometimes at six years old—­though this seems odd, ’Tis true; the reason is, that the Bashaw 1215 Must make a present to his sire in law. CLIII. His sons were kept in prison, till they grew   Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, One or the other, but which of the two   Could yet be known unto the fates alone; 1220 Meantime the education they went through   Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: So that the heir apparent still was found No less deserving to be hang’d than crown’d. CLIV. His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 1225   With all the ceremonies of his rank, Who clear’d her sparkling eyes and smooth’d her brows,   As suits a matron who has play’d a prank; These must seem doubly mindful of their vows,   To save the credit of their breaking bank: 1230 To no men are such cordial greetings given As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.



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CLV. His Highness cast around his great black eyes,   And looking, as he always look’d, perceived Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 1235   At which he seem’d no whit surprised nor grieved, But just remark’d with air sedate and wise,   While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, “I see you’ve bought another girl; ’tis pity That a mere christian should be half so pretty.” 1240 CLVI. This compliment, which drew all eyes upon   The new-­bought virgin, made her blush and shake. Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone:   Oh! Mahomet! that his majesty should take Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 1245   Of them his lips imperial ever spake! There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. CLVII. The Turks do well to shut—­at least, sometimes—   The women up—­because in sad reality, 1250 Their chastity in these unhappy climes   Is not a thing of that astringent quality, Which in the north prevents precocious crimes,   And makes our snow less pure than our morality; The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 1255 Has quite the contrary effect on vice. CLVIII. Thus in the East they are extremely strict,  And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same; Excepting only when the former’s pick’d   It ne’er can be replaced in proper frame; 1260 Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick’d:   But then their own Polygamy’s to blame; Why don’t they knead two virtuous souls for life Into that moral centaur, man and wife?

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lord byron CLIX. Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause, 1265   Though not for want of matter; but ’tis time, According to the ancient epic laws,   To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. Let this fifth canto meet with due applause,   The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime; 1270 Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps You’ll pardon to my muse a few short naps.

BYRON’S NOTES TO CANTO V Note 1, stanza III, [line 18]. the ocean stream. This expression of Homer has been much criticised. It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the Bosphorus, with the Ægean intersected with islands. Note 2, stanza V, [line 35]. “the Giant’s Grave.” “The Giant’s Grave” is a height on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday parties: like Harrow and Highgate. Note 3, stanza XXXIII, [line 262]. And running out as fast as I was able. The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth of December, 1820, in the streets of R——, not a hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The circumstances were as described. Note 4, stanza XXXIV, [line 272]. Kill’d by five bullets from an old gun-­barrel. There was found close by him an old gun barrel, sawn half off: it had just been discharged, and was still warm. Note 5, stanza LIII, [line 424]. Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. In Turkey nothing is more common than for the Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as six of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined the better for it: I tried the experiment, but fared like the Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called kittiewiaks were admirable whets, ate six of them, and complained that “he was no hungrier than when he began.”



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Note 6, stanza LV, [lines 435–36]. Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes. A common furniture.—I recollect being received by Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and fountain, &c. &c. &c. Note 7, stanza LXXXVII, [line 695]. The gate so splendid was in all its features. Features of a gate—­a ministerial metaphor; “the feature upon which this question hinges.”—See the “Fudge Family,” or hear Castlereagh. Note 8, stanza CVI, [line 842]. Though on more thorough-­bred or fairer fingers. There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth than the hand: it is almost the only sign of blood which aristocracy can generate. Note 9, stanza CXLVII, [line 1176]. Save Solyman, the glory of their line. It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in his essay on “Empire,” hints that Solyman was the last of his line; on what authority, I know not. These are his words: “The destruction of Mustapha was so fatal to Solyman’s line, as the succession of the Turks from Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, and of strange blood; for that Selymus the second was thought to be suppositious.” But Bacon, in his historical authorities, is often in­accur­ate. I could give half a dozen instances from his apophthegms only. [Examples from Bacon omitted] Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch on one or two as trifling in the edition of the British Poets, by the justly celebrated Campbell.—But I will do this in good will, and trust it will be so taken.—If any thing could add to my opinion of the talents and true feeling of that gentleman, it would be his classical, honest, and triumphant defence of Pope, against the vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Grub-­street. The inadvertencies to which I allude are,— Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of having taken “his leading characters from Smollett.” Anstey’s Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smollett’s Humphry Clinker (the only work of Smollett’s from which Tabitha, &c. &c. could have been taken) as written during Smollett’s last residence at Leghorn in 1770.—“Argal,” if there has been any borrowing, Anstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor. I refer Mr. Campbell to his own data in the lives of Smollett and Anstey. Secondly, Mr. Campbell says in the life of Cowper (note to page 358, vol. 7) that “he knows not to whom Cowper alludes in these lines”: “Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born, Built God a church, and laugh’d his word to scorn.” The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Ferney, with its inscription “Deo erexit Voltaire.”

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Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shakespeare thus,— “To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, Or add fresh perfume to the violet.” This version by no means improves the original, which is as follows: “To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet,” &c.

King John

A great poet quoting another should be correct; he should also be accurate, when he accuses a Parnassian brother of that dangerous charge “borrowing:” a poet had better borrow any thing (excepting money) than the thoughts of another—­they are always sure to be reclaimed; but it is very hard having been the lender, to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of Anstey versus Smollett. As there is “honour amongst thieves,” let there be some amongst poets, and give each his due,—none can afford to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who with a high reputation for originality, and a fame which cannot be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except Rogers), who can be reproached (and in him it is indeed a reproach) with having written too little.

from DETACHED THOUGHTS

[15 October 1821–18 May 1822] 13. Whenever an American requests to see me—(which is not unfrequently) I  comply:—1stly, because I respect a people who acquired their freedom by  firmness without excess—­and 2ndly, because these transatlantic visits “few and far between” make me feel as if talking with Posterity from the other side of the Styx;—in a century or two, the new English and Spanish Atlantides will be masters of the old Countries in all probability—­as Greece and Europe overcame their Mother Asia in the older or earlier ages as they are called. [. . .] 33. I have a notion that Gamblers are as happy as most people—­being always excited;—women—­wine—­fame—­the table—­even Ambition—­sate now & then—­but every turn of the card—& cast of the dice—­keeps the Gambler alive—­besides one can Game ten times longer than one can do any thing else.—I was very fond of it when young—­that is to say of “Hazard” for I hate all Card Games, even Faro—­When Macco (or whatever they spell it) was introduced I gave up the whole thing—­for I loved and missed the rattle and dash of the box & dice—­and the glorious uncertainty, not only of good luck or bad luck—­but of any luck at all—­as one had sometimes to throw often to decide at all.——I have thrown as many as fourteen mains running—­and carried off all the cash upon the table occasionally—­but I had no coolness or judgement or calculation.—It was the delight of the thing that pleased me.— Upon the whole I left off in time without being much a winner or loser.— Since One and twenty years of age—­I played but little & then never above a hundred or two—­or three.—— [. . .] 52. In the year 1814—as Moore and I were going to dine with Lord Grey in P[ortman] Square—­I pulled out a “Java Gazette” (which Murray had sent to me) in which there was a controversy on our respective merits as poets.——It was amusing enough that we should be proceeding peaceably to the same table—­while they were squabbling about us in the Indian Seas (to be sure the paper was dated six months before) and filling columns with Batavian Criticism.—But this is fame, I presume.—

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53. In general I do not draw well with Literary men—­not that I dislike them but—­I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.—There are several exceptions to be sure—­but they have either been men of the world—­such as Scott—& Moore &c. or visionaries out of it—­ such as Shelley &c. but your literary every day man—­and I never went well in company—— [. . .] 55. I sometimes wish that—­I had studied languages with more attention—­those which I know, even the classical (Greek and Latin in the usual proportion of a sixth form boy) and a smattering of modern Greek—­the Armenian & Arabic Alphabets—­a few Turkish & Albanian phrases, oaths, or requests—­Italian tolerably—­Spanish less than tolerably—­French to read with ease—­but speak with difficulty—­or rather not at all——all have been acquired by ear or eye—& never by anything like Study:—like “Edie Ochiltree”——“I never dowed to bide a hard turn o’wark in my life.”——To be sure—­I set in zealously for the Armenian and Arabic—­but I fell in love with some absurd womankind both times before I had overcome the Characters and at Malta & Venice left the profitable Orientalists for—­for—(no matter what—) notwithstanding that my master the Padre Pasquale Aucher (for whom by the way I compiled the major part of two Armenian & English Grammars) assured me “that the terrestrial Paradise had been certainly in Armenia.”—I went seeking it—­God knows where—­did I find it?—Umph!—Now & then—­for a minute or two. [. . .] 60. No man would live his life over again—­is an old & true saying which all can resolve for themselves.—At the same time there are probably moments in most men’s lives—­which they would live over the rest of life to regain?—Else why do we live at all? because Hope recurs to Memory—­both false—­but—­but—­ but—­but—­and—­this but drags on till—­ What? I do not know—& who does?—“He that died o’ Wednesday”—by the way—­there is a poor devil to be shot tomorrow here—(Ravenna) for murder;—he hath eaten half a Turkey for his dinner—­besides fruit & pudding—­and he refuses to confess!—shall I go to see him exhale?—No.—And why?—because it is to take place at Nine;— Now—­could I save him—­or a fly even from the same catastrophe—­I would out-­watch years—­but as I cannot—­I will not get up earlier to see another man shot—­than I would to run the same risk in person.—Besides—­I have seen more men than one die that death (and other deaths) before to-­day.—It is not cruelty which actuates mankind—­but excitement—­on such occasions—­ at least I suppose so;—it is detestable to take life in that way—­unless it be to preserve two lives.——



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[. . .] 66. One of my notions different from those of my contemporaries, is, that the present is not a high age of English Poetry——there are more poets (soi-­ disant) than ever there were and proportionally less poetry.——This thesis—­ I have maintained for some years—­but strange to say—­it meeteth not with favour with my brethren of the Shell.—even Moore shakes his head—& firmly believe[s] that it is the grand Era of British Poesy.—— [. . .] 73. People have wondered at the Melancholy which runs through my writings.— Others have wondered at my personal gaiety——but I recollect once after an hour in which I had been sincerely and particularly gay—­and rather brilliant in company—­my wife replying to me when I said (upon her remarking my high spirits) “and yet Bell—­I have been called and mis-­called Melancholy—­ you must have seen how falsely, frequently.” “No—­B—(she answered)—it is not so—­at heart you are the most melancholy of mankind, and often when apparently gayest.[”]—— 74. If I could explain at length the real causes which have contributed to increase this perhaps natural temperament of mine—­this Melancholy which hath made me a bye-­word—­nobody would wonder—­but this is impossible without doing much mischief.——I do not know what other men’s lives have been—­but I cannot conceive anything more strange than some of the earlier parts of mine——I have written my memoirs—­but omitted all the really ­consequential & important parts—­from deference to the dead—­to the living—­ and to those who must be both.— 75. I sometimes think that I should have written the whole—­as a lesson——but it might have proved a lesson to be learnt—­rather than avoided—­for passion is a whirlpool, which is not to be viewed nearly without attraction from its Vortex.—— 76. I must not go on with these reflections—­or I shall be letting out some secret or other—­to paralyze posterity. 77. One night, Scrope Davies at a Gaming House—(before I was of age) being tipsy as he mostly was at the Midnight hour—& having lost monies—­was in vain intreated by his friends one degree less intoxicated than himself to come or go home.—In despair—­he was left to himself and to the demons of the

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dice-­box.——Next day—­being visited about two of the Clock by some friends just risen with a severe headache and empty pockets—(who had left him ­losing at four or five in the morning) he was found in a sound sleep—­without a nightcap—& not particularly encumbered with bed-­ cloathes——a Chamber-­pot stood by his bed-­side—­brim-full of — Bank Notes!—all won—­ God knows how—­and crammed—­Scrope knew not where—­but there they were—­all good legitimate notes—­and to the amount of some thousand pounds. [. . .] 80. My passions were developed very early—­so early—­that few would believe me—­if I were to state the period—­and the facts which accompanied it.— Perhaps this was one of the reasons which caused the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts—­having anticipated life.—My earlier poems are the thoughts of one at least ten years older than the age at which they were written,— I don’t mean for their solidity—­but their Experience—­the two first Cantos of C[hild]e H[arol]d were completed at twenty two—­and they are written as if by a man—­older than I shall probably ever be.— [81 omitted by Byron.] 82. Upon Parnassus going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri), in 1809—I saw a flight of twelve Eagles—(Hobhouse says they are Vultures—­at least in conversation) and I seized the Omen.—On the day before, I composed the lines to Parnassus—(in Childe Harold) and on beholding the birds—­had a hope—­ that Apollo had accepted my homage.——I have at least had the name and fame of a Poet—­during the poetical period of life (from twenty to thirty) whether it will last is another matter—­but I have been—­a votary of the Deity—­and the place—­and am grateful for what he has done in my behalf—­ leaving the future in his hands as I left the past.— [. . .] 84. Two or three years ago, I thought of going to one of the Americas—­English or  Spanish.—But the accounts sent from England in consequence of my enquiries—­discouraged me.—After all—­I believe most countries properly balanced are equal to a Stranger (by no means to the native though)—— I remembered General Ludlow’s domal inscription— “Omne solum forti patria”—

And sate down free in a country of Slavery for many centuries.——But there is no freedom—­even for Masters—­in the midst of slaves——it makes my blood boil to see the thing.—I sometimes wish that I was the Owner of Africa—­ to do at once—­ what Wilberforce will do in time—­ viz—­ sweep



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Slavery from her desarts—­and look on upon the first dance of their Freedom.——As to political slavery—­so general—­it is men’s own fault—­if they will be slaves let them!——yet it is but “a word and a blow”—see how England formerly—­France—­Spain—­Portugal—­America—­Switzerland—­ freed themselves!——there is no one instance of a long contest in which men did not triumph over Systems.—If Tyranny misses her first spring she is ­cowardly as the tiger and retires to be hunted.—— [ . . . ] 95. If I had to live over again—­I do not know what I would change in my life—­ unless it were for—­not to have lived at all. All history and experience—­and the  rest—­teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this  existence—­and that what is most to be desired is an easy passage out of it.——What can it give us but years? & those have little of good but their ending.— [. . .] 97. Matter is eternal—­always changing—­but reproduced and as far as we can comprehend Eternity—­Eternal—­and why not Mind?—Why should not the Mind act with and upon the Universe?—as portions of it act upon and with the congregated dust—­called Mankind?—See—­how one man acts upon himself and others—­or upon multitudes?—The same Agency in a higher and purer degree, may act upon the Stars &c. ad infinitum. 98. I have often been inclined to Materialism in philosophy—­but could never bear its introduction into Christianity—­which appears to me essentially founded upon the Soul.—For this reason, Priestley’s Christian Materialism—­ always struck me as deadly.—Believe the resurrection of the body—­if you will—­but not without a Soul—­the devil’s in it—­if after having had a Soul— (as surely the Mind or whatever you call it—­is)—in this world we must part with it in the next—­even for an Immortal Materiality:—I own my partiality for Spirit.— 99. I am always most religious upon a sun­shiny day—­as if there was some association between an internal approach to greater light and purity—­and the kindler of this dark lanthorn of our external existence.—— 100. The Night is also a religious concern—­and even more so—­when I viewed the Moon and Stars through Herschell’s telescope—­and saw that they were worlds.—

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[. . .] 119. My daughter Ada on her recent birthday the other day (the 10th. of December 1821) completed her sixth year.—Since she was a Month old—­or rather ­better—­I have not seen her.—But I hear that she is a fine child, with a violent temper.—I have been thinking of an odd circumstance.—My daughter—­my wife—­my half sister—­my mother—­my sister’s mother—­my natural daughter—­ and myself are or were all only children . . . . Such a complication of only ­children all tending to one family is singular enough, & looks like fatality almost.—­But the fiercest Animals have the rarest numbers in their litters—­as Lions—­tigers—­and even Elephants which are mild in comparison.

The Vision of Judgment (1822)

Figure 12  Title page, The Liberal: Verse and Prose from the South. 2nd edn. ( John Hunt, 1822). The Carl  H.  Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.



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The Vision of Judgment by quevedo redivivus. suggested by the composition so entitled by the author of “wat tyler.” “A Daniel come to judgement! yea, a Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.” I. Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,   His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, So little trouble had been given of late;   Not that the place by any means was full, But since the Gallic era “eighty-­eight,”5   The devils had ta’en a longer, stronger pull, And “a pull altogether,” as they say At sea—­which drew most souls another way. II. The angels all were singing out of tune,   And hoarse with having little else to do,10 Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,   Or curb a runaway young star or two, Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon   Broke out of bounds o’er the ethereal blue, Splitting some planet with its playful tail,15 As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. III. The guardian seraphs had retired on high,   Finding their charges past all care below; Terrestrial business fill’d nought in the sky   Save the recording angel’s black bureau;20 Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply   With such rapidity of vice and woe, That he had stripp’d off both his wings in quills, And yet was in arrear of human ills.

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lord byron IV. His business so augmented of late years,25   That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)   For some resource to turn himself about, And claim the help of his celestial peers,   To aid him ere he should be quite worn out30 By the increased demand for his remarks; Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. V. This was a handsome board—­at least for heaven;   And yet they had even then enough to do, So many conquerors’ cars were daily driven,35   So many kingdoms fitted up anew; Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,   Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, They threw their pens down in divine disgust— The page was so besmear’d with blood and dust.40 VI. This by the way; ’tis not mine to record   What angels shrink from: even the very devil On this occasion his own work abhorr’d,   So surfeited with the infernal revel; Though he himself had sharpen’d every sword,45   It almost quench’d his innate thirst of evil. (Here Satan’s sole good work deserves insertion— ’Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) VII. Let’s skip a few short years of hollow peace,   Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,50 And heaven none—­they form the tyrant’s lease   With nothing but new names subscribed upon ’t; ’Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,   “With seven heads and ten horns,” and all in front, Like Saint John’s foretold beast; but ours are born55 Less formidable in the head than horn.



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VIII. In the first year of freedom’s second dawn   Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn   Left him nor mental nor external sun:60 A better farmer never brushed dew from lawn,   A weaker king never left a realm undone! He died—­but left his subjects still behind, One half as mad—­and t’other no less blind. IX. He died!—his death made no great stir on earth;65   His burial made some pomp; there was profusion Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth   Of aught but tears—­save those shed by collusion; For these things may be bought at their true worth:   Of elegy there was the due infusion—70 Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, X. Form’d a sepulchral melo-­drame. Of all   The fools who flock’d to swell or see the show, Who cared about the corpse? The funeral75   Made the attraction, and the black the woe. There throbb’d not there a thought which pierced the pall;   And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, It seem’d the mockery of hell to fold The rottenness of eighty years in gold.80 XI. So mix his body with the dust! It might   Return to what it must far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight   Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; But the unnatural balsams merely blight85   What nature made him at his birth, as bare As the mere million’s base unmummied clay— Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

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lord byron XII. He’s dead—­and upper earth with him has done:   He’s buried; save the undertaker’s bill,90 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone   For him, unless he left a German will; But where’s the proctor who will ask his son?   In whom his qualities are reigning still, Except that household virtue, most uncommon,95 Of constancy to an unhandsome woman. XIII. “God save the king!” It is a large economy   In God to save the like; but if he will Be saving, all the better; for not one am I   Of those who think damnation better still:100 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I   In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, The eternity of hell’s hot jurisdiction. XIV. I know this is unpopular; I know105   ’Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn’d For hoping no one else may e’er be so;   I know my catechism; I know we are cramm’d With the best doctrines till we quite o’erflow;   I know that all save England’s church have shamm’d,110 And that the other twice two hundred churches And synagogues have made a damn’d bad purchase. XV. God help us all! God help me too! I am,   God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, And not a whit more difficult to damn115   Than is to bring to land a late-­hook’d fish, Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;   Not that I’m fit for such a noble dish As one day will be that immortal fry Of almost every body born to die.120



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XVI. Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,   And nodded o’er his keys; when lo! there came A wond’rous noise he had not heard of late—   A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; In short, a roar of things extremely great,125   Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim; But he, with first a start and then a wink, Said, “There’s another star gone out, I think!” XVII. But ere he could return to his repose,   A cherub flapp’d his right wing o’er his eyes—130 At which Saint Peter yawn’d, and rubb’d his nose:   “Saint porter,” said the Angel, “prithee rise!” Waving a goodly wing, which glow’d, as glows   An earthly peacock’s tail, with heavenly dyes; To which the Saint replied, “Well, what’s the matter?135 Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?” XVIII. “No,” quoth the Cherub; “George the Third is dead.”   “And who is George the Third?” replied the Apostle; “What George? what Third?” “The King of England,” said   The Angel. “Well! he wont find kings to jostle140 Him on his way; but does he wear his head?   Because the last we saw here had a tussle, And ne’er would have got into heaven’s good graces, Had he not flung his head in all our faces. XIX. “He was, if I remember, king of France;145   That head of his, which could not keep a crown On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance   A claim to those of martyrs—­like my own: If I had had my sword, as I had once   When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;150 But having but my keys, and not my brand, I only knock’d his head from out his hand.

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lord byron XX. “And then he set up such a headless howl,   That all the saints came out, and took him in; And there he sits by St Paul, cheek by jowl;155   That fellow Paul—­the parvenù! The skin Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl   In heaven, and upon earth redeem’d his sin So as to make a martyr, never sped Better than did this weak and wooden head.160 XXI. “But had it come up here upon its shoulders,   There would have been a different tale to tell: The fellow feeling in the saint’s beholders   Seems to have acted on them like a spell, And so this very foolish head heaven solders165   Back on its trunk: it may be very well, And seems the custom here to overthrow Whatever has been wisely done below.” XXII. The Angel answer’d, “Peter! do not pout;   The king who comes has head and all entire,170 And never knew much what it was about—   He did as doth the puppet—­by its wire, And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt:   My business and your own is not to inquire Into such matters, but to mind our cue—175 Which is to act as we are bid to do.” XXIII. While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,   Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan   Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,180 Or Thames, or Tweed) and midst them an old man   With an old soul, and both extremely blind, Halted before the gate, and in his shroud Seated their fellow-­traveller on a cloud.



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XXIV. But bringing up the rear of this bright host185   A Spirit of a different aspect waved His wings, like thunder-­clouds above some coast   Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; His brow was like the deep when tempest-­tost;   Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved190 Eternal wrath on his immortal face, And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. XXV. As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate   Ne’er to be enter’d more by him or sin, With such a glance of supernatural hate,195   As made Saint Peter wish himself within; He potter’d with his keys at a great rate,   And sweated through his apostolic skin: Of course his perspiration was but ichor, Or some such other spiritual liquor.200 XXVI. The very cherubs huddled altogether,   Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt A tingling to the tip of every feather,   And form’d a circle like Orion’s belt Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither205   His guards had led him, though they gently dealt With royal manes (for by many stories, And true, we learn the angels all are Tories.) XXVII. As things were in this posture, the gate flew   Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges210 Flung over space an universal hue   Of many-­coloured flame, until its tinges Reach’d even our speck of earth, and made a new   Aurora borealis spread its fringes O’er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-­bound,215 By Captain Parry’s crews, in “Melville’s Sound.”

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lord byron XXVIII. And from the gate thrown open issued beaming   A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming   Victorious from some world-­o’erthrowing fight:220 My poor comparisons must needs be teeming   With earthly likenesses, for here the night Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. XXIX. ’Twas the Archangel Michael: all men know225   The make of angels and archangels, since There’s scarce a scribbler has not one to show,   From the fiends’ leader to the angels’ prince. There also are some altar-­pieces, though   I really can’t say that they much evince230 One’s inner notions of immortal spirits; But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. XXX. Michael flew forth in glory and in good;   A goodly work of him from whom all glory And good arise; the portal past—­he stood;235   Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary, (I say young, begging to be understood   By looks, not years; and should be very sorry To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, But merely that they seem’d a little sweeter.)240 XXXI. The cherubs and the saints bow’d down before   That arch-­angelic Hierarch, the first Of Essences angelical, who wore   The aspect of a god; but this ne’er nurst Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core245   No thought, save for his Maker’s service, durst Intrude, however glorified and high; He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.



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XXXII. He and the sombre silent Spirit met—   They knew each other both for good and ill;250 Such was their power, that neither could forget   His former friend and future foe; but still There was a high, immortal, proud regret   In either’s eye, as if ’twere less their will Than destiny to make the eternal years255 Their date of war, and their “Champ Clos” the spheres. XXXIII. But here they were in neutral space: we know   From Job, that Sathan hath the power to pay A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;   And that “the Sons of God,” like those of clay,260 Must keep him company; and we might show,   From the same book, in how polite a way The dialogue is held between the Powers Of Good and Evil—­but ’twould take up hours. XXXIV. And this is not a theologic tract,265   To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic If Job be allegory or a fact,   But a true narrative; and thus I pick From out the whole but such and such an act   As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.270 ’Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, And accurate as any other vision. XXXV. The spirits were in neutral space, before   The gate of heaven; like eastern thresholds is The place where Death’s grand cause is argued o’er,275   And souls despatched to that world or to this; And therefore Michael and the other wore   A civil aspect: though they did not kiss, Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness There passed a mutual glance of great politeness.280

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lord byron XXXVI. The Archangel bowed, not like a modern beau,   But with a graceful Oriental bend, Pressing one radiant arm just where below   The heart in good men is supposed to tend. He turned as to an equal, not too low,285   But kindly; Sathan met his ancient friend With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. XXXVII. He merely bent his diabolic brow   An instant; and then raising it, he stood290 In act to assert his right or wrong, and show   Cause why King George by no means could or should Make out a case to be exempt from woe   Eternal, more than other kings endued With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions,295 Who long have “paved hell with their good intentions.” XXXVIII. Michael began: “What wouldst thou with this man,   Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill Hath he wrought since his mortal race began,   That thou can’st claim him? Speak! and do thy will,300 If it be just: if in his earthly span   He hath been greatly failing to fulfil His duties as a king and mortal, say, And he is thine; if not, let him have way.” XXXIX. “Michael!” replied the Prince of Air, “even here,305   Before the gate of him thou servest, must I claim my subject; and will make appear   That as he was my worshipper in dust, So shall he be in spirit, although dear   To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust310 Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne He reign’d o’er millions to serve me alone.



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XL. “Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was,   Once, more thy master’s: but I triumph not In this poor planet’s conquest, nor, alas!315   Need he thou servest envy me my lot: With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass   In worship round him, he may have forgot Yon weak creation of such paltry things; I think few worth damnation save their kings,320 XLI. “And these but as a kind of quit-­rent, to   Assert my right as lord; and even had I such an inclination, ’twere (as you   Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad, That hell has nothing better left to do325   Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad And evil by their own internal curse, Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. XLII. “Look to the earth, I said, and say again:   When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm,330 Began in youth’s first bloom and flush to reign,   The world and he both wore a different form, And much of earth and all the watery plain   Of ocean call’d him king: through many a storm His isles had floated on the abyss of Time;335 For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. XLIII. “He came to his sceptre, young; he leaves it, old:   Look to the state in which he found his realm, And left it; and his annals too behold,   How to a minion first he gave the helm;340 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold,   The beggar’s vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance Thine eye along America and France!

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lord byron XLIV. “ ’Tis true, he was a tool from first to last;345   (I have the workmen safe); but as a tool So let him be consumed! From out the past   Of ages, since mankind have known the rule Of monarchs—­from the bloody rolls amass’d   Of sin and slaughter—­from the Cæsar’s school,350 Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign More drench’d with gore, more cumber’d with the slain! XLV. “He ever warr’d with freedom and the free:   Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, So that they utter’d the word ‘Liberty!’355   Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose History was ever stain’d as his will be   With national and individual woes? I grant his household abstinence; I grant His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want;360 XLVI. “I know he was a constant consort; own   He was a decent sire, and middling lord. All this is much, and most upon a throne;   As temperance, if at Apicius’ board, Is more than at an anchorite’s supper shown.365   I grant him all the kindest can accord; And this was well for him, but not for those Millions who found him what oppression chose. XLVII. “The new world shook him off; the old yet groans   Beneath what he and his prepared, if not370 Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones   To all his vices, without what begot Compassion for him—­his tame virtues; drones   Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot A lesson which shall be re-­taught them, wake375 Upon the throne of Earth; but let them quake!



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XLVIII. “Five millions of the primitive, who hold   The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored A part of that vast all they held of old,—   Freedom to worship—­not alone your Lord,380 Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold   Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr’d The foe to Catholic participation In all the licence of a Christian nation. XLIX. “True! he allow’d them to pray God; but as385   A consequence of prayer, refused the law Which would have placed them upon the same base   With those who did not hold the saints in awe.” But here Saint Peter started from his place,   And cried, “You may the prisoner withdraw:390 Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelf, While I am guard, may I be damn’d myself! L. “Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange   My office (and his is no sinecure) Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range395   The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!” “Saint!” replied Sathan, “you do well to avenge   The wrongs he made your satellites endure; And if to this exchange you should be given, I’ll try and coax our Cerberus up to heaven.”400 LI. Here Michael interposed: “Good saint! and devil!   Pray not so fast; you both out-­run discretion. Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil:   Sathan! excuse this warmth of his expression, And condescension to the vulgar’s level:405   Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. Have you got more to say?”—“No!”—“If you please, I’ll trouble you to call your witnesses.”

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lord byron LII. Then Sathan turn’d and wav’d his swarthy hand,   Which stirr’d with its electric qualities410 Clouds farther off than we can understand,   Although we find him sometimes in our skies; Infernal thunder shook both sea and land   In all the planets, and hell’s batteries Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions415 As one of Sathan’s most sublime inventions. LIII. This was a signal unto such damn’d souls   As have the privilege of their damnation Extended far beyond the mere controls   Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station420 Is theirs particularly in the rolls   Of hell assigned; but where their inclination Or business carries them in search of game, They may range freely—­being damn’d the same. LIV. They are proud of this—­as very well they may,425   It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key Stuck in their loins; or like to an “entré”   Up the back stairs, or such free-­masonry: I borrow my comparisons from clay,   Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be430 Offended with such base low likenesses; We know their posts are nobler far than these. LV. When the great signal ran from heaven to hell,—   About ten million times the distance reckon’d From our sun to its earth, as we can tell435   How much time it takes up, even to a second, For every ray that travels to dispel   The fogs of London; through which, dimly beacon’d, The weathercocks are gilt, some thrice a year, If that the summer is not too severe:—440



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LVI. I say that I can tell—’twas half a minute;   I know the solar beams take up more time Ere, pack’d up for their journey, they begin it;   But then their telegraph is less sublime, And if they ran a race, they would not win it445   Gainst Sathan’s couriers bound for their own clime. The sun takes up some years for every ray To reach its goal—­the devil not half a day. LVII. Upon the verge of space, about the size   Of half-­a-­crown, a little speck appear’d,450 (I’ve seen a something like it in the skies   In the Ægean, ere a squall;) it near’d, And, growing bigger, took another guise;   Like an aërial ship it tack’d, and steer’d Or was steer’d (I am doubtful of the grammar455 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer;— LVIII. But take your choice;) and then it grew a cloud,   And so it was—­a cloud of witnesses. But such a cloud! No land ere saw a crowd   Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these;460 They shadow’d with their myriads space; their loud   And varied cries were like those of wild-­geese, (If nations may be liken’d to a goose) And realized the phrase of “hell broke loose.” LIX. Here crash’d a sturdy oath of stout John Bull,465   Who damn’d away his eyes as heretofore: There Paddy brogued “by Jasus!”—“What’s your wull?”   The temperate Scot exclaim’d: the French ghost swore In certain terms I shan’t translate in full,   As the first coachman will; and midst the roar470 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, “Our President is going to war, I guess.”

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lord byron LX. Beside these were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane;   In short, an universal shoal of shades From Otaheite’s Isle to Salisbury Plain,475   Of all climes and professions, years and trades, Ready to swear against the good king’s reign,   Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades: All summon’d by this grand “subpœna,” to Try if kings mayn’t be damn’d, like me or you.480 LXI. When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale,   As angels can; next, like Italian twilight, He turned all colours—­as a peacock’s tail,   Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight In some old abbey, or a trout not stale,485   Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. LXII. Then he address’d himself to Sathan: “Why—   My good old friend, for such I deem you, though490 Our different parties make us fight so shy,   I ne’er mistake you for a personal foe; Our difference is political, and I   Trust that, whatever may occur below, You know my great respect for you; and this495 Makes me regret whate’er you do amiss— LXIII. “Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse   My call for witnesses? I did not mean That you should half of earth and hell produce;   ’Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean,500 True testimonies are enough: we lose   Our time, nay, our eternity, between The accusation and defence: if we Hear both, ’twill stretch our immortality.”



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LXIV. Sathan replied, “To me the matter is505   Indifferent, in a personal point of view: I can have fifty better souls than this   With far less trouble than we have gone through Already; and I merely argued his   Late Majesty of Britain’s case with you510 Upon a point of form: you may dispose Of him; I’ve kings enough below, God knows!” LXV. Thus spoke the Demon (late call’d “multifaced”   By multo-­scribbling Southey.) “Then we’ll call One or two persons of the myriads placed515   Around our congress, and dispense with all The rest,” quoth Michael: “Who may be so graced   As to speak first? there’s choice enough—­who shall It be?” Then Sathan answered, “There are many; But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any.”520 LXVI. A merry, cock-­eyed, curious looking Sprite,   Upon the instant started from the throng, Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite;   For all the fashions of the flesh stick long By people in the next world; where unite525   All the costumes since Adam’s, right or wrong, From Eve’s fig-­leaf down to the petticoat, Almost as scanty, of days less remote. LXVII. The Spirit look’d around upon the crowds   Assembled, and exclaim’d, “My friends of all530 The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds;   So let’s to business: why this general call? If those are freeholders I see in shrouds,   And ’tis for an election that they bawl, Behold a candidate with unturn’d-­coat!535 Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?”

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lord byron LXVIII. “Sir,” replied Michael, “you mistake: these things   Are of a former life, and what we do Above is more august; to judge of kings   Is the tribunal met; so now you know.”540 “Then I presume those gentlemen with wings,”   Said Wilkes, “are cherubs; and that soul below Looks much like George the Third; but to my mind A good deal older—­Bless me! is he blind?” LXIX. “He is what you behold him, and his doom545   Depends upon his deeds,” the Angel said. “If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb   Gives licence to the humblest beggar’s head To lift itself against the loftiest.”—“Some,”   Said Wilkes, “don’t wait to see them laid in lead,550 For such a liberty—­and I, for one, Have told them what I thought beneath the sun.” LXX. “Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast   To urge against him,” said the Archangel. “Why,” Replied the Spirit, “since old scores are past,555   Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. Besides, I beat him hollow at the last,   With all his Lords and Commons: in the sky I don’t like ripping up old stories, since His conduct was but natural in a prince.560 LXXI. “Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress   A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; But then I blame the man himself much less   Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling To see him punish’d here for their excess,565   Since they were both damn’d long ago, and still in Their place below; for me, I have forgiven, And vote his ‘habeas corpus’ into heaven.”



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LXXII. “Wilkes,” said the Devil, “I understand all this;   You turn’d to half a courtier ere you died,570 And seem to think it would not be amiss   To grow a whole one on the other side Of Charon’s ferry; you forget that his   Reign is concluded; whatsoe’er betide, He won’t be sovereign more: you’ve lost your labour,575 For at the best he will but be your neighbour. LXXIII. “However, I knew what to think of it,   When I beheld you in your jesting way Flitting and whispering round about the spit   Where Belial, upon duty for the day,580 With Fox’s lard was basting William Pitt,   His pupil; I knew what to think, I say: That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills; I’ll have him gagg’d—’twas one of his own bills. LXXIV. “Call Junius!” From the crowd a Shadow stalk’d,585   And at the name there was a general squeeze, So that the very ghosts no longer walk’d   In comfort, at their own aërial ease, But were all ramm’d, and jamm’d (but to be balk’d,   As we shall see) and jostled hands and knees,590 Like wind compress’d and pent within a bladder, Or like a human cholic, which is sadder. LXXV. The Shadow came! a tall, thin, gray-­hair’d figure,   That look’d as it had been a shade on earth; Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour,595   But nought to mark its breeding or its birth: Now it wax’d little, then again grew bigger,   With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; But as you gazed upon its features, they Changed every instant—­to what, none could say.600

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lord byron LXXVI. The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less   Could they distinguish whose the features were; The Devil himself seem’d puzzled even to guess;   They varied like a dream—­now here, now there; And several people swore from out the press,605   They knew him perfectly; and one could swear He was his father; upon which another Was sure he was his mother’s cousin’s brother: LXXVII. Another, that he was a duke, or knight,   An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,610 A nabob, a man-­midwife; but the wight   Mysterious changed his countenance at least As oft as they their minds: though in full sight   He stood, the puzzle only was increased; The man was a phantasmagoria in615 Himself—­he was so volatile and thin! LXXVIII. The moment that you had pronounced him one,   Presto! his face changed, and he was another; And when that change was hardly well put on,   It varied, till I don’t think his own mother620 (If that he had a mother) would her son   Have known, he shifted so from one to t’other, Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, At this epistolary “iron mask.” LXXIX. For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem—625   “Three gentlemen at once,” (as sagely says Good Mrs. Malaprop;) then you might deem   That he was not even one; now many rays Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam   Hid him from sight—­like fogs on London days:630 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people’s fancies, And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.



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LXXX. I’ve an hypothesis—’tis quite my own;   I never let it out till now, for fear Of doing people harm about the throne,635   And injuring some minister or peer On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown;   It is—­my gentle public, lend thine ear! ’Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call, Was really, truly, nobody at all.640 LXXXI. I don’t see wherefore letters should not be   Written without hands, since we daily view Them written without heads; and books we see   Are fill’d as well without the latter too: And really till we fix on somebody645   For certain sure to claim them as his due, Their author, like the Niger’s mouth, will bother The world to say if there be mouth or author. LXXXII. “And who and what art thou?” the Archangel said.  “For that, you may consult my title-­page,”650 Replied this mighty Shadow of a Shade:   “If I have kept my secret half an age, I scarce shall tell it now.”—“Can’st thou upbraid,”   Continued Michael, “George Rex, or allege Aught further?” Junius answer’d, “You had better655 First ask him for his answer to my letter: LXXXIII. “My charges upon record will outlast   The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.” “Repent’st thou not,” said Michael, “of some past   Exaggeration? something which may doom660 Thyself, if false, as him if true? Thou wast   Too bitter—­is it not so? in thy gloom Of passion?” “Passion!” cried the Phantom dim, “I loved my country, and I hated him.

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lord byron LXXXIV. “What I have written, I have written: let665   The rest be on his head or mine!” So spoke Old “Nominis Umbra;” and while speaking yet,   Away he melted in celestial smoke. Then Sathan said to Michael, “Don’t forget   To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke,670 And Franklin:”—but at this time there was heard A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr’d. LXXXV. At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid   Of cherubim appointed to that post, The devil Asmodeus to the circle made675   His way, and look’d as if his journey cost Some trouble. When his burden down he laid,   “What’s this?” cried Michael; “why, ’tis not a ghost?” “I know it,” quoth the incubus; “but he Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me.680 LXXXVI. “Confound the Renegado! I have sprain’d   My left wing, he’s so heavy; one would think Some of his works about his neck were chain’d.   But to the point: while hovering o’er the brink Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain’d),685   I saw a taper, far below me, wink, And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel— No less on History than the Holy Bible. LXXXVII. “The former is the devil’s scripture, and   The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair690 Belongs to all of us, you understand.   I snatch’d him up just as you see him there, And brought him off for sentence out of hand:   I’ve scarcely been ten minutes in the air— At least a quarter it can hardly be:695 I dare say that his wife is still at tea.”



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LXXXVIII. Here Sathan said, “I know this man of old,   And have expected him for some time here; A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,   Or more conceited in his petty sphere:700 But surely it was not worth while to fold   Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear! We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored With carriage) coming of his own accord. LXXXIX. “But since he’s here, let’s see what he has done.”705   “Done!” cried Asmodeus, “he anticipates The very business you are now upon,   And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,   When such an ass as this, like Balaam’s, prates?”710 “Let’s hear,” quoth Michael, “what he has to say; You know we’re bound to that in every way.” XC. Now the Bard, glad to get an audience, which   By no means often was his case below, Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch715   His voice into that awful note of woe To all unhappy hearers within reach   Of poets when the tide of rhyme’s in flow; But stuck fast with his first hexameter, Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.720 XCI. But ere the spavin’d dactyls could be spurr’d   Into recitative, in great dismay Both cherubim and seraphim were heard   To murmur loudly through their long array; And Michael rose ere he could get a word725   Of all his founder’d verses under way, And cried, “For God’s sake stop, my friend! ’twere best— ‘Non Di, non homines—’ you know the rest.”

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lord byron XCII. A general bustle spread throughout the throng,   Which seem’d to hold all verse in detestation;730 The angels had of course enough of song   When upon service; and the generation Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long   Before, to profit by a new occasion; The Monarch, mute till then, exclaim’d, “What! what!735 Pye come again? No more—­no more of that!” XCIII. The tumult grew, an universal cough   Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, When Castlereagh has been up long enough,   (Before he was first minister of state,740 I mean—­the slaves hear now;) some cried “off, off,”   As at a farce; till grown quite desperate, The Bard Saint Peter pray’d to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose. XCIV. The varlet was not an ill-­favour’d knave;745   A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk’s eye, which gave   A smart and sharper looking sort of grace To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,   Was by no means so ugly as his case;750 But that indeed was hopeless as can be, Quite a poetic felony “de se.” XCV. Then Michael blew his trump, and still’d the noise   With one still greater, as is yet the mode On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,755   Which now and then will make a slight inroad Upon decorous silence, few will twice   Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow’d; And now the Bard could plead his own bad cause, With all the attitudes of self-­applause.760



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XCVI. He said—(I only give the heads)—he said,   He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way Upon all topics; ’twas, besides, his bread,   Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread)765   And take up rather more time than a day, To name his works—­he would but cite a few— Wat Tyler—­Rhymes on Blenheim—­Waterloo. XCVII. He had written praises of a regicide;   He had written praises of all kings whatever;770 He had written for republics far and wide,   And then against them bitterer than ever; For pantisocracy he once had cried   Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever; Then grew a hearty antijacobin—775 Had turn’d his coat—­and would have turn’d his skin. XCVIII. He had sung against all battles, and again   In their high praise and glory: he had call’d Reviewing* “the ungentle craft,” and then   Become as base a critic as ere crawl’d—780 Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men   By whom his muse and morals had been maul’d: He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, And more of both than any body knows. XCIX. He had written Wesley’s life:—here, turning round785   To Sathan, “Sir, I’m ready to write yours, In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,   With notes and preface, all that most allures The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground   For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:790 *  See [Southey’s] “Life of H. Kirke White.”

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lord byron So let me have the proper documents, That I may add you to my other saints.” C. Sathan bow’d, and was silent. “Well, if you,   With amiable modesty, decline My offer, what says Michael? There are few795   Whose memoirs could be render’d more divine. Mine is a pen of all work; not so new   As it was once, but I would make you shine Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.800 CI. “But talking about trumpets, here’s my Vision!   Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall Judge with my judgment! and by my decision   Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall! I settle all these things by intuition,805   Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, Like King Alfonso!* When I thus see double, I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.” CII. He ceased; and drew forth an MS.; and no   Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints,810 Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so   He read the first three lines of the contents; But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show   Had vanish’d, with variety of scents, Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,815 Like lightning, off from his “melodious twang.”† CIII. Those grand heroics acted as a spell:   The angels stopp’d their ears and plied their pinions; The devils ran howling, deafen’d, down to hell;

*  King Alphonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, said, that “had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities.” †   See Aubrey’s account of the apparition which disappeared “with a curious perfume and a melodious twang;” or see the Antiquary, Vol. I.



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  The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions—820 (For ’tis not yet decided where they dwell,   And I leave every man to his opinions;) Michael took refuge in his trump—­but lo! His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! CIV. Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known825   For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, And at the fifth line knock’d the Poet down;   Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, Into his lake, for there he did not drown,   A different web being by the Destinies830 Woven for the Laureate’s final wreath, whene’er Reform shall happen either here or there. CV. He first sunk to the bottom—­like his works,   But soon rose to the surface—­like himself; For all corrupted things are buoy’d, like corks,* 835   By their own rottenness, light as an elf, Or wisp that flits o’er a morass: he lurks,   It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some “Life” or “Vision,” As Wellborn says—“the devil turn’d precisian.”840 CVI. As for the rest, to come to the conclusion   Of this true dream, the telescope is gone Which kept my optics free from all delusion,   And show’d me what I in my turn have shown: All I saw farther in the last confusion,845   Was, that King George slipp’d into heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

*  A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten; it then floats, as most people know.

LETTER TO AUGUSTA LEIGH

Genoa. Decr. 12 1822 My dearest A.— [. . .] There has been tell her a stupid story in the papers about the burial of my poor little natural baby—­which I directed to be as private as possible; they say that she was to be buried and epitaphed opposite Lady B’s pew— —now—­ firstly—­God help me! I did not know Lady B had ever been in Harrow Church and should have thought it the very last place she would have chosen—­and 2dly. my real instructions are in a letter to Murray of last Summer—­and the simplest possible as well as the inscription.—But it has been my lot through life to be never pardoned and almost always misunderstood—­ however I will go on & fight it out, at least till I survive (if it should be so) the few who would be sorry that they had outlived me.—The story of this Child’s burial is the epitome or miniature of the Story of my life.—My regard for her—& my attachment for the spot where she is buried—­made me wish that she should be buried where—­though I never was happy—­I was once less miserable as a boy—­in thinking that I should be buried—­and you see how they have distorted this as they do every thing into some story about Lady B.—of whom Heaven knows—­I have thought much less than perhaps I should have done in these last four or five years.— — I have not read the book you mention nor indeed heard of it—­but the outcry against it seems to be one proof more of the hypocrisy of your people.— — I am glad that you like “Werner” and care very little who may or may not like it—­I know nothing yet of opinions about it—­except your own.—The Story “the German’s tale” from which I took it [ha]d a strange effect upon me when I read it as a boy—­and it has haunted me ever since—­from some singular conformity between it & my ideas.— —You will have time to think of the project by Spring—& can then decide as you please—­you must not believe the nonsense about the Hunts &c. residing with me—­I do not see them three times in a month and they reside at some distance—­and if you came to Nice and I went there—­they would be probably in Tuscany—­at any rate not near me.—The political circumstances of Count Gamba’s family—­I already explained to you—­and that it is by the English minister’s desire that they are now near me—­as a protection to them for the present.—You would see ­nothing of them.—I must tell you an anecdote of her—­the Sister and daughter of the Counts G[amba]—When Allegra died—­as she—(the Countess Guiccioli) had left everything and was persecuted by her husband before the



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Pope—&c.—I wish[ed] to bequeath to her the same sum (5000 £) which I had left in my will to Allegra—­but She refused in the most positive terms—­not only—­as she said—­as a degradation to her—­but injustice to Lady B[yron]’s daughter—& to your children. yrs. ever, NB

PREFACE It hath been wisely said, that “One fool makes many;” and it hath been poet­ic­al­ly observed, “That fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”—Pope. If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business and where he never was before, and never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and impious cant of the poem by the author of Wat Tyler, are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself—­containing the quintessence of his own attributes. So much for his poem—­a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed “Satanic School,” the which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature, thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, except in his imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have “talked of him; for they laughed consumedly.” I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done more good in the charities of life to their fellow-­ creatures in any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 1stly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler? 2ndly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest Judge of his beloved England, because it was a blasphemous and seditious publication? 3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament, “a ran­cor­ ous Renegado?” 4thly. Is he not Poet Laureate, with his own lines on Martin the Regicide staring him in the face? And, 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, with what conscience dare he call the attention of the laws to the publications of others, be they what they may? I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor less, than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publications, as he was of yore in the “Anti-­jacobin” by his present patrons. Hence all this



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“skimble scamble stuff ” about “Satanic,” and so forth. However, it is worthy of him—“Qualis ab incepto.” If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public, in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has written every thing else, for aught that the writer cared—­had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonize a Monarch, who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king,—inasmuch as several years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France,—like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in this new “Vision,” his public career will not be more favourably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt. With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. I don’t think that there is much more to say at present. Quevedo Redivivus. P.S.—It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which saints, angels, and spiritual persons, discourse in this “Vision.” But for precedents upon such points I must refer him to Fielding’s “Journey from this World to the next,” and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or discussed; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not “like a school divine,” but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of Heaven; and Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, Pulci’s Morgante Maggiore, Swift’s Tale of a Tub, and the other works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with which saints, &c. may be permitted to converse in works not intended to be serious. Q. R. [*** Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, ­threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the mean time have acquired a little more judgment, ­properly so called: otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth grievously “one Mr. Landor,” who cultivates much private renown in

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the shape of Latin verses; and not long ago, the Poet Laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of a poem called Gebir. Who would suppose, that in this same Gebir, the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey’s heaven,— yea, even George the Third! See also how personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of our late gracious Sovereign:— (Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades of his royal ances­ tors are, at his request, called up to his view, and he exclaims to his ghostly guide)— “Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow? Listen! him yonder, who, bound down supine, Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-­hung. He too amongst my ancestors! I hate The despot, but the dastard I despise. Was he our countryman?”             “Alas, O King! Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst Inclement winds blew blighting from north-­east.” “He was a warrior then, nor fear’d the gods?” “Gebir, he fear’d the Demons, not the Gods, Though them indeed his daily face ador’d; And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives Squander’d, as stones to exercise a sling! And the tame cruelty and cold caprice— Oh madness of mankind! addrest, adored!’— Gebir, p. 28.

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it; but certainly these teachers of “great moral lessons” are apt to be found in strange company.]

LETTER TO JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE

Genoa April 7th. 1823 My dear H.—I saw Capt. Blaquiere and the Greek Companion of his mission on Saturday.—Of course I entered very sincerely into the object of their journey—­and have even offered to go up to the Levant in July—­if the Greek provisional Government think that I could be of any use.— —It is not that I could pretend to anything in a military capacity—­I have not the presumption of the philosopher at Ephesus—­who lectured before Hannibal on the art of war—­nor is it much that an individual foreigner can do in any other way—­ but perhaps as a reporter of the actual state of things there—­or in carrying on any correspondence between them and their western friends—­I might be of use—­at any rate I would try.—Capt. Blaquiere (who is to write to you) wishes to have me named a member of the Committee in England—­I fairly told him that my name in its present unpopularity there—­would probably do more harm than good—­but of this you can judge—­and certainly without offence to me—­for I have no wish either to shine—­or to appear officious;—in the mean time he is to correspond with me.—I gave him a letter to Ld. Sydney Osborne at Corfu—­but a mere letter of introduction as Osborne will be hampered by his office in any political point of view.—There are some obstacles too to my own going up to the Levant—­which will occur to you.—My health—­though pretty good—­is not quite the same as when it subdued the Olympian Malaria in 1810—and the unsettled state of my lawsuit with Mr. Deardon—­and the affairs still in Hanson’s hands—­tend to keep me nearer home.—Also you may imagine—­that the “absurd womankind” as Monkbarns calls them—­are by no means favourable to such an enterprise.—Madame Guiccioli is of course—­and naturally enough opposed to my quitting her—­though but for a few months—­and as she had influence enough to prevent my return to England in 1819—she may be not less successful in detaining me from Greece in 1823.—Her brother Count Gamba the younger—­who is a very fine spirited young fellow—­as Blaquiere will tell you—­is of a very different opinion—­and ever since the ruin of Italian hopes in 1820—has been eager to go to Spain or to Greece—­and very desirous to accompany me to one or other of those countries—­or at any rate to go himself.—I wish you could have seen him—­you would have found a very different person from the usual run of young Italians.— With regard to my peculium—­I am pretty well off—­I have still a surplus of three thousand pounds of last year’s income—­a thousand pounds in

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Exchequer bills in England—­and by this time—­as also in July—­there ought to be further monies paid to my account in Kinnaird’s bank.—From literary matters—­I know not if any thing will be produced—­but even out of my own—­K[innair]d will I suppose furnish me with a further credit—­if I should require it—­since all my receipts will pass through his bank.—I have desired him not to pass further sums (except for the Insurances of Ly. B[yron]’s Life) to the payment of what remaining debts (and they are but few) may be extant till the end of the year—­when I shall know more precisely what I am to have—­ and what I may then still owe. You must be aware that it would not do to go without means into a country where means are so much wanted—­and that I should not like to be an ­incumbrance—­go where I would.— —Now I wish to know whether there—­or (if that should not take place—) here I can do anything—­by correspondence or otherwise to forward the objects of the Well-­wishers to the Hellenic struggle.—Will you state this to them—­and desire them to command me—­if they think it could be of any service—­of course—­I must in no way interfere with Blaquiere—­so as to give him umbrage—­or to any other person.—I have great doubts—­not of my own inclination—­but from the circumstances already stated—­whether I shall be able to go up myself—­as I fain would do—­but Blanquiere seemed to think that I might be of some use—­even here;—though what he did not exactly specify— —If there were any things which you wished to have forwarded for the Greeks—­as Surgeons—­medicines powder—­and swivels &c. of which they tell me that they were in want—­you would find me ready to follow any directions—­and what is more to the purpose—­to contribute my own share to the expence.— —Will you let me hear from you—­at any rate your opinion—­and believe me Ever yrs. NB P.S.—You may show this letter to D[ouglas] K[innair]d—­or to any one you please— —including such members of the Committee as you think proper—­ and explain to them that I shall confine myself to following their directions—­if they give me any instructions— —my uncertainty as to whether I can so manage as to go personally—­prevents me from being more explicit—(I hear that Strangers are not very welcome to the Greeks—­from jealousy) except as far as regards anything I might be able to do here—­by obtaining good information—­or affording assistance.

Don Juan VI–­VII–­VIII (1823)

Figure 13  Title page, Don Juan: Cantos VI–VII–VIII. 1st edn., 18mo., Harvard Library ( John Hunt, 1823).

DON JUAN Cantos VI.—VII.—VIII.

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more Cakes and Ale?—Yes, by St. Anne; and Ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too!”—Twelfth Night; or What You Will Shakespeare

PREFACE TO CANTOS VI.—VII.—VIII. The details of the Siege of Ismail in two of the following Cantos (i.e. the 7th and 8th) are taken from a French work entitled “Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie.” Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving the infant, which was the actual case of the late Duc de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian service, and afterwards the founder and benefactor of Odessa, where his name and memory can never cease to be regarded with reverence. In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time before his decease. —Had that person’s Oligarchy died with him, they would have been supprest; as it is, I am aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of his life to prevent the free expression of the opinions of all whom his whole existence was consumed in endeavouring to enslave. That he was an amiable man in private life, may or may not be true; but with this the Public have nothing to do; and as to lamenting his death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. As a Minister, I, for one of millions, looked upon him as the most despotic in intention and the weakest in intellect that ever tyrannized over a country. It is the first time indeed since the Normans, that England has been insulted by a Minister (at least) who could not speak English, and that Parliament permitted itself to be dictated to in the language of Mrs. Malaprop. Of the manner of his death little need be said, except that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or Watson, had cut his throat he would have been buried in a cross-­road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and mallet. But the Minister was an elegant Lunatic—­a sentimental Suicide—­he merely cut the “carotid artery” (blessings on their learning,) and lo! the Pageant, and the Abbey! and “the Syllables of Dolour yelled forth” by the Newspapers—­and the harangue of the Coroner in an eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased—(an Anthony worthy of such a Caesar)—and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded Crew of Conspirators against all that is sincere

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or honourable. In his death he was necessarily one of two things by the law—­a felon or a madman—­and in either case no great subject for panegyric.* In his life he was—­what all the world knows, and half of it will feel for years to come, unless his death prove a “moral lesson” to the surviving Sejani† of Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation to the Nations, that their Oppressors are not happy, and in some instances judge so justly of their own actions as to anticipate the sentence of mankind.—Let us hear no more of this man, and let Ireland remove the Ashes of her Grattan from the Sanctuary of Westminster. Shall the Patriot of Humanity repose by the Werther of Politics!!! With regard to the objections which have been made on another score to the already published Cantos of this poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from Voltaire:— “La pudeur s’est enfuite des cœurs, et c’est refugiée sur les levres.” “Plus les mœurs sont depravés, plus les expressions deviennent mesurées; on croit regagner en langage ce qu’on a perdu en vertu.” This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and hypocritical mass which leavens the present English generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The hackneyed and lavished title of Blasphemer—­which, with rad­ ical, liberal, jacobin, reformer, &c. are the changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of those who will listen—­should be welcome to all who recollect on whom it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death publicly as Blasphemers, and so have been and may be many who dare to oppose the most notorious abuses of the name of God and the mind of man. But Persecution is not refutation, nor even triumph: the “wretched Infidel,” as he is called, is probably happier in his prison than the proudest of his Assailants. With his opinions I have nothing to do—­they may be right or wrong—­but he has suffered for them, and that very Suffering for conscience-­ sake will make more proselytes to Deism than the example of ­heterodox‡ prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to oppression, or over-­ pensioned homicides to the impious alliance which insults the world with the name of “Holy!” I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the dead; but it would be well if the adherents to the Classes from whence those persons sprung should abate a little of the Cant which is the crying sin of this double-­dealing and false-­speaking time of selfish Spoilers, and— —but enough for the present. *  I say by the law of the land—­the laws of Humanity judge more gently; but as the legitimates have always the law in their mouths, let them here make the most of it. †   From this number must be excepted Canning: Canning is a genius, almost an universal one, an orator, a wit, a poet, a statesman, and no man of talent can long pursue the path of his late predecessor Lord C. If ever man saved his country, Canning can; but will he? I, for one, hope so. ‡  When Lord Sandwich said “he did not know the difference between Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy”—Warburton the bishop replied, “Orthodoxy---my Lord---is my doxy, and Heterodoxy is another man’s doxy.”—A prelate of the present day has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, which has not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect that which Bentham calls “Church-­of-­Englandism.”



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CANTO VI I. “There is a tide in the affairs of men   Which taken at the flood”—you know the rest, And most of us have found it, now and then;   At least we think so, though but few have guess’d The moment, till too late to come again.5   But no doubt every thing is for the best— Of which the surest sign is in the end: When things are at the worst they sometimes mend. II. There is a tide in the affairs of women   “Which taken at the flood leads”—God knows where:10 Those navigators must be able seamen   Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair; Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen   With its strange whirls and eddies can compare— Men with their heads reflect on this and that—15 But women with their hearts or heaven knows what! III. And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,   Young, beautiful, and daring—­who would risk A throne, the world, the universe, to be   Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk20 The stars from out the sky, than not be free   As are the billows when the breeze is brisk— Though such a she’s a devil (if that there be one) Yet she would make full many a Manichean. IV. Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset25   By commonest Ambition, that when Passion O’erthrows the same, we readily forget,   Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. If Anthony be well remembered yet,   ’Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion;30 But Actium, lost for Cleopatra’s eyes, Outbalance all the Cæsar’s victories.

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lord byron V. He died at fifty for a queen of forty;   I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport—­I35   Remember when, though I had no great plenty Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I   Gave what I had—­a heart:—as the world went, I Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever.40 VI. ’Twas the boy’s “mite,” and like the “widow’s” may   Perhaps be weighed hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do, or do not, weigh,   All who have loved, or love, will still allow Life has nought like it. God is love, they say,45   And Love’s a God, or was before the brow Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears Of—­but Chronology best knows the years. VII. We left our hero and third heroine in   A kind of state more aukward than uncommon,50 For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin   For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin,   And don’t agree at all with the wise Roman, Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,55 Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. VIII. I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong;   I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; But I detest all fiction even in song,   And so must tell the truth, howe’er you blame it.60 Her reason being weak, her passions strong,   She thought that her lord’s heart (even could she claim it) Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-­nine Years, and a fifteen-­hundredth concubine.



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IX. I am not, like Cassio, “an arithmetician,”65   But by “the bookish theoric” it appears, If ’tis summed up with feminine precision,   That, adding to the account his Highness’ years, The fair Sultana erred from inanition;   For were the Sultan just to all his dears,70 She could but claim the fifteenth hundred part Of what should be monopoly—­the heart. X. It is observed that ladies are litigious   Upon all legal objects of possession, And not the least so when they are religious,75   Which doubles what they think of the transgression. With suits and prosecutions they besiege us,   As the tribunals show through many a session, When they suspect that any one goes shares In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.80 XI. Now if this holds good in a Christian land,   The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, Are apt to carry things with a high hand,   And take, what kings call “an imposing attitude;” And for their rights connubial make a stand,85   When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude; And as four wives must have quadruple claims, The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. XII. Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said)   The favourite; but what’s favour amongst four?90 Polygamy may well be held in dread,   Not only as a sin, but as a bore:— Most wise men with one moderate woman wed,   Will scarcely find philosophy for more; And all (except Mahometans) forbear95 To make the nuptial couch a “Bed of Ware.”

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lord byron XIII. His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,—   So styled according to the usual forms Of every monarch, till they are consigned   To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,100 Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,—   His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz’ charms, Expecting all the welcome of a lover, (A “Highland welcome” all the wide world over.) XIV. Now here we should distinguish; for howe’er105   Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, May look like what is—­neither here nor there;   They are put on as easily as a hat, Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear,   Trimmed either heads or hearts to decorate,110 Which form an ornament, but no more part Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. XV. A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind   Of gentle feminine delight, and shown More in the eyelids than the eyes, resigned115   Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, Are the best tokens (to a modest mind)   Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, A sincere woman’s breast,—for over warm Or over cold annihilates the charm.120 XVI. For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth;   If true, ’tis no great lease of its own fire; For no one, save in very early youth,   Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth,125   And apt to be transferred to the first buyer At a sad discount: while your over chilly Women, on t’other hand, seem somewhat silly.



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XVII. That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste,   For so it seems to lovers swift or slow,130 Who fain would have a mutual flame confest,   And see a sentimental passion glow, Even were St. Francis’ paramour their guest,   In his Monastic Concubine of Snow;— In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is135 Horatian, “Medio tu tutissimus ibis.” XVIII. The “tu” ’s too much,—but let it stand—­the verse   Requires it, that’s to say, the English rhyme, And not the pink of old Hexameters:   But, after all, there’s neither tune nor time140 In the last line, which cannot well be worse,   And was thrust in to close the octave’s chime: I own no prosody can ever rate it As a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. XIX. If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part,145   I know not—­it succeeded, and success Is much in most things, not less in the heart   Than other articles of female dress. Self-­love in man too beats all female art;   They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less150 And no one virtue yet, except Starvation, Could stop that worst of vices—­Propagation. XX. We leave this royal couple to repose;   A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, Whate’er their dreams be, if of joys or woes;155   Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep As any man’s clay mixture undergoes.   Our least of sorrows are such as we weep; ’Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.160

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lord byron XXI. A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill   To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted At a per-­centage; a child cross, dog ill,   A favourite horse fallen lame just as he’s mounted; A bad old woman making a worse will,165   Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted As certain;—these are paltry things, and yet I’ve rarely seen the man they did not fret. XXII. I’m a philosopher; confound them all!   Bills, beasts, and men, and—­no! not Womankind!170 With one good hearty curse I vent my gall,   And then my Stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call,   And I can give my whole soul up to mind; Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth,175 Is more than I know—­the deuce take them both. XXIII. So now all things are d—­n’d, one feels at ease,   As after reading Athanasius’ curse, Which doth your true believer so much please:   I doubt if any now could make it worse180 O’er his worst enemy when at his knees,   ’Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, And decorates the book of Common Prayer, As doth a Rainbow the just clearing air. XXIV. Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or185   At least one of them—­Oh the heavy night! When wicked wives who love some bachelor   Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light Of the gray morning, and look vainly for   Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite,190 To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake Lest their too lawful bed-­fellow should wake.



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XXV. These are beneath the canopy of heaven,   Also beneath the canopy of beds Four-­posted and silk curtained, which are given195   For rich men and their brides to lay their heads Upon, in sheets white as what bards call “driven   Snow.” Well! ’tis all hap-­hazard when one weds. Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been Perhaps as wretched if a peasant’s quean.200 XXVI. Don Juan in his feminine disguise,   With all the damsels in their long array, Had bowed themselves before the imperial eyes,   And at the usual signal ta’en their way Back to their chambers, those long galleries205   In the Seraglio, where the ladies lay Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms Beating for love, as the caged bird’s for air. XXVII. I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse   The tyrant’s wish, “that mankind only had210 One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:”   My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, And much more tender on the whole than fierce;   It being (not now, but only while a lad) That Womankind had but one rosy mouth,215 To kiss them all at once from North to South. XXVIII. Oh enviable Briareus! with thy hands   And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion!—But my Muse withstands   The giant thought of being a Titan’s bride,220 Or travelling in Patagonian lands;   So let us back to Lilliput, and guide Our hero through the labyrinth of love In which we left him several lines above.

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lord byron XXIX. He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,225   At the given signal joined to their array; And though he certainly ran many risks,   Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, (Although the consequences of such frisks   Are worse than the worst damages men pay230 In moral England, where the thing’s a tax,) From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. XXX. Still he forgot not his disguise:—along   The galleries from room to room they walked, A virgin-­like and edifying throng,235   By eunuchs flanked; while at their head there stalked A dame who kept up discipline among   The female ranks, so that none stirred or talked Without her sanction on their she-­parades: Her title was “the Mother of the Maids.”240 XXXI. Whether she was a “mother,” I know not,   Or whether they were “maids” who called her mother; But this is her seraglio title, got   I know not how, but good as any other; So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott:245   Her office was, to keep aloof or smother All bad propensities in fifteen hundred Young women, and correct them when they blundered. XXXII. A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made   More easy by the absence of all men250 Except his Majesty, who, with her aid,   And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then A slight example, just to cast a shade   Along the rest, contrived to keep this den Of beauties cool as an Italian convent,255 Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.



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XXXIII. And what is that? Devotion, doubtless—­how   Could you ask such a question?—but we will Continue. As I said, this goodly row   Of ladies of all countries at the will260 Of one good man, with stately march and slow,   Like water-­lilies floating down a rill, Or rather lake—­for rills do not run slowly,— Paced on most maiden-­like and melancholy. XXXIV. But when they reached their own apartments, there,265   Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, Waves at spring-­tide, or women any where   When freed from bonds (which are of no great use After all) or like Irish at a fair,   Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce270 Established between them and bondage, they Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile and play. XXXV. Their talk of course ran most on the new comer,   Her shape, her hair, her air, her every thing: Some thought her dress did not so much become her,275   Or wondered at her ears without a ring; Some said her years were getting nigh their summer,   Others contended they were but in spring; Some thought her rather masculine in height, While others wished that she had been so quite.280 XXXVI. But no one doubted on the whole, that she   Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, And fresh, and “beautiful exceedingly,”   Who with the brightest Georgians might compare: They wondered how Gulbeyaz too could be285   So silly as to buy slaves who might share (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) Her throne and power, and every thing beside.

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lord byron XXXVII. But what was strangest in this virgin crew,   Although her beauty was enough to vex,290 After the first investigating view,   They all found out as few, or fewer, specks In the fair form of their companion new,   Than is the custom of the gentle sex, When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen,295 In a new face “the ugliest creature breathing.” XXXVIII. And yet they had their little jealousies   Like all the rest; but upon this occasion, Whether there are such things as sympathies   Without our knowledge or our approbation,300 Although they could not see through his disguise,   All felt a soft kind of concatenation, Like Magnetism, or Devilism, or what You please—­we will not quarrel about that: XXXIX. But certain ’tis they all felt for their new305   Companion something newer still, as ’twere A sentimental friendship through and through,   Extremely pure, which made them all concur In wishing her their sister, save a few   Who wished they had a brother just like her,310 Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. XL. Of those who had most genius for this sort   Of sentimental friendship, there were three, Lolah, Katinka, and Dudù; in short,315   (To save description) fair as fair can be Were they, according to the best report,   Though differing in stature and degree, And clime and time, and country and complexion; They all alike admired their new connexion.320



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XLI. Lolah was dusk as India and as warm;   Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm,   And feet so small they scarce seemed made to tread, But rather skim the earth; while Dudù’s form325   Looked more adapted to be put to bed, Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy, Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. XLII. A kind of sleepy Venus seemed Dudù,   Yet very fit to “murder sleep” in those330 Who gazed upon her cheek’s transcendent hue,   Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose: Few angles were there in her form, ’tis true,   Thinner she might have been and yet scarce lose; Yet, after all, ’twould puzzle to say where335 It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. XLIII. She was not violently lively, but   Stole on your spirit like a May-­day breaking; Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-­shut,   They put beholders in a tender taking;340 She looked (this simile’s quite new) just cut   From marble, like Pigmalion’s statue waking, The Mortal and the Marble still at strife, And timidly expanding into life. XLIV. Lolah demanded the new damsel’s name—345   “Juanna.”—Well, a pretty name enough. Katinka asked her also whence she came—   “From Spain.”—“But where is Spain?”—“Don’t ask such stuff, Nor show your Georgian ignorance—­for shame!”   Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough,350 To poor Katinka: “Spain’s an island near Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.”

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lord byron XLV. Dudù said nothing, but sat down beside   Juanna, playing with her veil or hair; And looking at her steadfastly, she sighed,355   As if she pitied her for being there, A pretty stranger without friend or guide,   And all abashed too at the general stare Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, With kind remarks upon their mien and faces.360 XLVI. But here the Mother of the Maids drew near,   With, “Ladies, it is time to go to rest. I’m puzzled what to do with you, my dear,”   She added to Juanna, their new guest: “Your coming has been unexpected here,365   And every couch is occupied; you had best Partake of mine; but by to-­morrow early We will have all things settled for you fairly.” XLVII. Here Lolah interposed—“Mama, you know   You don’t sleep soundly, and I cannot bear370 That anybody should disturb you so;   I’ll take Juanna; we’re a slenderer pair Than you would make the half of;—don’t say no;   And I of your young charge will take due care.” But here Katinka interfered and said,375 “She also had compassion and a bed.” XLVIII. “Besides, I hate to sleep alone,” quoth she.   The matron frowned: “Why so?”—“For fear of ghosts,” Replied Katinka; “I am sure I see   A phantom upon each of the four posts;380 And then I have the worst dreams that can be,   Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.” The Dame replied, “Between your dreams and you, I fear Juanna’s dreams would be but few.



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XLIX. “You, Lolah, must continue still to lie385   Alone, for reasons which don’t matter; you The same, Katinka, until by and bye;   And I shall place Juanna with Dudù, Who’s quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy,   And will not toss and chatter the night through.390 What say you, child?”—Dudù said nothing, as Her talents were of the more silent class; L. But she rose up, and kissed the matron’s brow   Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks Katinka too; and with a gentle bow395   (Curtseys are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) She took Juanna by the hand to show   Their place of rest, and left to both their piques The others pouting at the matron’s preference Of Dudù, though they held their tongues from deference.400 LI. It was a spacious chamber (Oda is   The Turkish title) and ranged round the wall Were couches, toilets—­and much more than this   I might describe, as I have seen it all, But it suffices—­little was amiss;405   ’Twas on the whole a nobly furnished hall, With all things ladies want, save one or two, And even those were nearer than they knew. LII. Dudù, as has been said, was a sweet creature,   Not very dashing, but extremely winning,410 With the most regulated charms of feature,   Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion—­the wild strokes of nature   Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike,415 And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.

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lord byron LIII. But she was a soft Landscape of mild Earth,   Where all was harmony and calm and quiet, Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth,   Which if not happiness, is much more nigh it420 Than are your mighty passions and so forth,   Which some call “the sublime:” I wish they’d try it: I’ve seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen. LIV. But she was pensive more than melancholy,425   And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either—­not unholy   Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly   Unconscious, albeit turned of quick seventeen,430 That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; She never thought about herself at all. LV. And therefore was she kind and gentle as   The Age of Gold (when Gold was yet unknown, By which its nomenclature came to pass;435   Thus most appropriately has been shewn “Lucus a non Lucendo,” not what was,   But what was not; a sort of style that’s grown Extremely common in this age, whose metal The Devil may decompose, but never settle;440 LVI. I think it may be of “Corinthian Brass,”   Which was a Mixture of all Metals, but The Brazen uppermost.) Kind reader! pass   This long parenthesis: I could not shut It sooner for the soul of me, and class445   My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put A kind construction upon them and me: But that you won’t—­then don’t—­I am not less free.



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LVII. ’Tis time we should return to plain narration,   And thus my narrative proceeds:—Dudù,450 With every kindness short of ostentation,   Shewed Juan, or Juanna, through and through This labyrinth of females, and each station   Described—­what’s strange—­in words extremely few: I have but one simile, and that’s a blunder,455 For wordless woman, which is silent Thunder. LVIII. And next she gave her (I say her, because   The Gender still was Epicene, at least In outward show, which is a saving clause)   An outline of the Customs of the East,460 With all their chaste integrity of laws,   By which the more a Harem is encreased, The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties Of any supernumerary beauties. LIX. And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss:465   Dudù was fond of kissing—­which I’m sure That nobody can ever take amiss,   Because ’tis pleasant, so that it be pure, And between females means no more than this—   That they have nothing better near, or newer.470 “Kiss” rhymes to “bliss” in fact as well as verse— I wish it never led to something worse. LX. In perfect Innocence she then unmade   Her toilet, which cost little, for she was A Child of Nature, carelessly arrayed:475   If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, ’Twas like the Fawn which, in the lake displayed,   Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, When first she starts, and then returns to peep, Admiring this new Native of the deep.480

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lord byron LXI. And one by one her articles of dress   Were laid aside; but not before she offered Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess   Of Modesty declined the assistance profferred: Which past well off—­as she could do no less;485   Though by this politesse she rather suffered, Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, Which surely were invented for our sins,— LXII. Making a woman like a porcupine,   Not to be rashly touched. But still more dread,490 Oh ye! whose fate it is, as once ’twas mine,   In early youth, to turn a lady’s maid;— I did my very boyish best to shine   In tricking her out for a masquerade: The pins were placed sufficiently, but not495 Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. LXIII. But these are foolish things to all the wise,   And I love wisdom more than she loves me; My tendency is to philosophize   On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;500 But still the spouseless Virgin Knowledge flies.   What are we? and whence came we? what shall be Our ultimate existence? what’s our present? Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. LXIV. There was deep silence in the chamber: dim505   And distant from each other burned the lights, And Slumber hovered o’er each lovely limb   Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, They should have walked there in their spriteliest trim,   By way of change from their sepulchral sites,510 And shewn themselves as Ghosts of better taste Than haunting some old Ruin or wild Waste.



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LXV. Many and beautiful lay those around,   Like flowers of different hue and clime and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found,515   With cost and care and warmth induced to shoot. One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,   And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath And lips apart, which shewed the pearls beneath.520 LXVI. One with her flushed cheek laid on her white arm,   And raven ringlets gathered in dark crowd Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm;   And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud The Moon breaks, half unveiled each further charm,525   As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night All bashfully to struggle into light. LXVII. This is no bull, although it sounds so; for   ’Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said.530 A third’s all pallid aspect offered more   The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betrayed Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore   Beloved and deplored; while slowly strayed (As Night Dew, on a Cypress glittering, tinges535 The black bough) tear-­drops through her eyes’ dark fringes. LXVIII. A fourth as marble, statue-­like and still,   Lay in a breathless, hushed, and stony sleep; White, cold and pure, as looks a frozen rill,   Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep,540 Or Lot’s wife done in salt,—or what you will;—   My similes are gathered in a heap, So pick and chuse—­perhaps you’ll be content With a carved lady on a monument.

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lord byron LXIX. And lo! a fifth appears;—and what is she?545   A lady of a “certain age,” which means Certainly aged—­what her years might be   I know not, never counting past their teens, But there she slept, not quite so fair to see,   As ere that awful period intervenes550 Which lays both men and women on the shelf, To meditate upon their sins and self. LXX. But all this time how slept, or dreamed, Dudù?   With strict enquiry I could ne’er discover, And scorn to add a syllable untrue;555   But ere the middle watch was hardly over, Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue,   And phantoms hovered, or might seem to hover To those who like their company, about The apartment, on a sudden she screamed out:560 LXXI. And that so loudly, that upstarted all   The Oda, in a general commotion: Matron and maids, and those whom you may call   Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, One on the other, throughout the whole hall,565   All trembling, wondering, without the least notion, More than I have myself, of what could make The calm Dudù so turbulently wake. LXXII. But wide awake she was, and round her bed,   With floating draperies and with flying hair,570 With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread,   And bosoms, arms, and ancles glancing bare, And bright as any meteor ever bred   By the North Pole,—they sought her cause of care, For she seemed agitated, flushed and frightened,575 Her eye dilated and her colour heightened.



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LXXIII. But what is strange—­and a strong proof how great   A blessing is sound sleep—­Juanna lay As fast as ever husband by his mate   In holy matrimony snores away.580 Not all the clamour broke her happy state   Of slumber, ere they shook her,—so they say At least,—and then she too unclosed her eyes, And yawned a good deal with discreet surprize. LXXIV. And now commenced a strict investigation,585   Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration,   Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce To answer in a very clear oration.   Dudù had never passed for wanting sense,590 But being “no orator as Brutus is,” Could not at first expound what was amiss. LXXV. At length she said, that in a slumber sound,   She dreamed a dream, of walking in a wood— A “wood obscure” like that where Dante found*595   Himself in at the age when all grow good; Life’s half-­way house, where dames with virtue crowned,   Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;600 LXXVI. And in the midst a golden apple grew,—   A most prodigious pippin—­but it hung Rather too high and distant; that she threw   Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung Stones and whatever she could pick up, to605   Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung *  “Nel’ mezzo del’ Cammin ’di nostra vita    “Mi ritrovai per una Selva oscura,” &c. &c. &c.

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lord byron To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, But always at a most provoking height;— LXXVII. That on a sudden, when she least had hope,   It fell down of its own accord, before610 Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop   And pick it up, and bite it to the core; That just as her young lip began to ope   Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, A bee flew out and stung her to the heart,615 And so—­she woke with a great scream and start. LXXVIII. All this she told with some confusion and   Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand   To expound their vain and visionary gleams.620 I’ve known some odd ones which seemed really planned   Prophetically, or that which one deems “A strange coincidence,” to use a phrase By which such things are settled now a days. LXXIX. The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm,625   Began, as is the consequence of fear, To scold a little at the false alarm   That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. The matron too was wroth to leave her warm   Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear,630 And chafed at poor Dudù, who only sighed, And said, that she was sorry she had cried. LXXX. “I’ve heard of stories of a cock and bull;   But visions of an apple and a bee, To take us from our natural rest, and pull635   The whole Oda from their beds at half-­past three, Would make us think the moon is at its full.   You surely are unwell, child! we must see, To-­morrow what his Highness’s physician Will say to this hysteric of a vision.640



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LXXXI. “And poor Juanna too! the child’s first night   Within these walls, to be broke in upon With such a clamour—­I had thought it right   That the young stranger should not lie alone, And as the quietest of all, she might645   With you, Dudù, a good night’s rest have known; But now I must transfer her to the charge Of Lolah—­though her couch is not so large.” LXXXII. Lolah’s eyes sparkled at the proposition;   But poor Dudù, with large drops in her own,650 Resulting from the scolding or the vision,   Implored that present pardon might be shewn For this first fault, and that on no condition,   (She added in a soft and piteous tone) Juanna should be taken from her, and655 Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. LXXXIII. She promised never more to have a dream,   At least to dream so loudly as just now; She wondered at herself how she could scream—   ’Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow,660 A fond hallucination, and a theme   For laughter—­but she felt her spirits low, And begged they would excuse her; she’d get over This weakness in a few hours, and recover. LXXXIV. And here Juanna kindly interposed,665   And said she felt herself extremely well Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed   When all around rang like a tocsin bell: She did not find herself the least disposed   To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell670 Apart from one who had no sin to show Save that of dreaming once “mal-­à-­propos.”

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lord byron LXXXV. As thus Juanna spoke, Dudù turned round   And hid her face within Juanna’s breast; Her neck alone was seen, but that was found675   The colour of a budding rose’s crest. I can’t tell why she blushed, nor can expound   The mystery of this rupture of their rest; All that I know is, that the facts I state Are true as truth has ever been of late.680 LXXXVI. And so good night to them,—or, if you will,   Good morrow—­for the cock had crown, and light Began to clothe each Asiatic hill,   And the mosque crescent struggled into sight Of the long caravan, which in the chill685   Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt, which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds. LXXXVII. With the first ray, or rather grey of morn,   Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale690 As Passion rises, with its bosom worn,   Arrayed herself with mantle, gem, and veil. The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,   Which Fable places in her breast of Wail, Is lighter far of heart and voice than those695 Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. LXXXVIII. And that’s the moral of this composition,   If people would but see its real drift;— But that they will not do without suspicion,   Because all gentle readers have the gift700 Of closing ’gainst the light their orbs of vision;   While gentle writers also love to lift Their voices ’gainst each other, which is natural, The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.



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LXXXIX. Rose the Sultana from a bed of splendour,705   Softer than the soft Sybarite’s, who cried Aloud because his feelings were too tender   To brook a ruffled rose-­leaf by his side,— So beautiful that art could little mend her,   Though pale with conflicts between love and pride:—710 So agitated was she with her error, She did not even look into the mirror. XC. Also arose about the self same time,   Perhaps a little later, her great lord, Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime,715   And of a wife by whom he was abhorred; A thing of much less import in that clime—   At least to those of incomes which afford The filling up their whole connubial cargo— Than where two wives are under an embargo.720 XCI. He did not think much on the matter, nor   Indeed on any other: as a man He liked to have a handsome paramour   At hand, as one may like to have a fan, And therefore of Circassians had good store,725   As an amusement after the Divan; Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, Had made him lately bask in his bride’s beauty. XCII. And now he rose; and after due ablutions   Exacted by the customs of the East,730 And prayers and other pious evolutions,   He drank six cups of coffee at the least, And then withdrew to hear about the Russians,   Whose victories had recently increased In Catherine’s reign, whom glory still adores735 As greatest of all sovereigns and w——s.

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lord byron XCIII. But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander!   Her son’s son, let not this last phrase offend Thine ear, if it should reach,—and now rhymes wander   Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend740 A dreadful impulse to each loud meander   Of murmuring Liberty’s wide waves, which blend Their roar even with the Baltic’s,—­so you be Your father’s son, ’tis quite enough for me. XCIV. To call men love-­begotten or proclaim745   Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, That hater of mankind, would be a shame,   A libel, or whate’er you please to rhyme on: But people’s ancestors are history’s game;   And if one lady’s slip could leave a crime on750 All generations, I should like to know What pedigree the best would have to show? XCV. Had Catherine and the Sultan understood   Their own true interests, which kings rarely know, Until ’tis taught by lessons rather rude,755   There was a way to end their strife, although Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good,   Without the aid of Prince or Plenipo: She to dismiss her guards and he his harem, And for their other matters, meet and share ’em.760 XCVI. But as it was, his Highness had to hold   His daily council upon ways and means, How to encounter with this martial scold,   This modern Amazon and Queen of Queans; And the perplexity could not be told765   Of all the Pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.



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XCVII. Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her King was gone,   Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place770 For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone,   And rich with all contrivances which grace Those gay recesses:—many a precious stone   Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase Of porcelain held in the fettered flowers,775 Those captive soothers of a captive’s hours. XCVIII. Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble,   Vied with each other on this costly spot; And singing birds without were heard to warble;   And the stained glass which lighted this fair grot780 Varied each ray;—but all descriptions garble   The true effect, and so we had better not Be too minute; an outline is the best,— A lively reader’s fancy does the rest. XCIX. And here she summoned Baba, and required785   Don Juan at his hands, and information Of what had past since all the slaves retired,   And whether he had occupied their station; If matters had been managed as desired,   And his disguise with due consideration790 Kept up; and above all, the where and how He had passed the night, was what she wished to know. C. Baba, with some embarrassment, replied   To this long catechism of questions asked More easily than answered,—that he had tried795   His best to obey in what he had been tasked; But there seemed something that he wished to hide,   Which hesitation more betrayed than masqued;— He scratched his ear, the infallible resource   To which embarrassed people have recourse.800

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lord byron CI. Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience,   Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations;   And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones;805   And as his speech grew still more broken-­kneed, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow’s blue veins to swell and darkle. CII. When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew   To bode him no great good, he deprecated810 Her anger, and beseech’d she’d hear him through—   He could not help the thing which he related. Then out it came at length, that to Dudù   Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba’s fault, he said, and swore on815 The holy camel’s hump, besides the Koran. CIII. The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom   The discipline of the whole Haram bore, As soon as they re-­entered their own room,   For Baba’s function stopt short at the door,820 Had settled all; nor could he then presume   (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, Without exciting such suspicion as Might make the matter still worse than it was. CIV. He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure825   Juan had not betrayed himself; in fact ’Twas certain that his conduct had been pure,   Because a foolish or imprudent act Would not alone have made him insecure,   But ended in his being found out and sacked,830 And thrown into the sea.—Thus Baba spoke Of all save Dudù’s dream, which was no joke.



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CV. This he discreetly kept in the back ground,   And talked away—­and might have talked till now, For any further answer that he found,835   So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz’ brow; Her cheek turned ashes, ears rung, brain whirled round,   As if she had received a sudden blow, And the heart’s dew of pain sprang fast and chilly O’er her fair front, like Morning’s on a lily.840 CVI. Although she was not of the fainting sort,   Baba thought she would faint, but there he erred— It was but a convulsion, which though short   Can never be described; we all have heard, And some of us have felt thus “all amort,”845   When things beyond the common have occurred;— Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony What she could ne’er express—­then how should I? CVII. She stood a moment as a Pythoness   Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full850 Of Inspiration gathered from Distress,   When all the heart-­strings like wild horses pull The heart asunder;—then, as more or less   Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,855 And bowed her throbbing head o’er trembling knees. CVIII. Her face declined and was unseen; her hair   Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,   Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,860 A low, soft Ottoman) and black Despair   Stirred up and down her bosom like a billow, Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.

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lord byron CIX. Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping865   Concealed her features better than a veil; And one hand o’er the Ottoman lay drooping,   White, waxen, and as alabaster pale: Would that I were a painter! to be grouping   All that a poet drags into detail!870 Oh that my words were colours! but their tints May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. CX. Baba, who knew by experience when to talk   And when to hold its tongue, now held it till This passion might blow o’er, nor dared to balk875   Gulbeyaz’ taciturn or speaking will. At length she rose up, and began to walk   Slowly along the room, but silent still, And her brow cleared, but not her troubled eye; The Wind was down, but still the Sea ran high.880 CXI. She stopt, and raised her head to speak—­but paused,   And then moved on again with rapid pace; Then slackened it, which is the march most caused   By deep Emotion:—you may sometimes trace A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed885   By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased By all the Demons of all Passions, showed Their work even by the way in which he trode. CXII. Gulbeyaz stopped and beckoned Baba:—“Slave!   Bring the two slaves!” she said in a low tone,890 But one which Baba did not like to brave,   And yet he shuddered, and seemed rather prone To prove reluctant, and begged leave to crave   (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown What slaves her Highness wished to indicate,895 For fear of any error, like the late.



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CXIII. “The Georgian and her paramour,” replied   The Imperial Bride—­and added, “Let the boat Be ready by the secret portal’s side:   You know the rest.” The words stuck in her throat,900 Despite her injured love and fiery pride;   And of this Baba willingly took note, And begged by every hair of Mahomet’s beard, She would revoke the order he had heard. CXIV. “To hear is to obey,” he said; “but still,905   Sultana, think upon the consequence: It is not that I shall not all fulfil   Your orders, even in their severest sense; But such precipitation may end ill,   Even at your own imperative expense:910 I do not mean destruction and exposure In case of any premature disclosure; CXV. “But your own feelings.—Even should all the rest   Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide Already many a once love-­beaten breast915   Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide— You love this boyish, new, Seraglio guest,   And if this violent remedy be tried— Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, That killing him is not the way to cure you.”920 CXVI. “What dost thou know of love or feeling?—wretch!   Begone!” she cried, with kindling eyes—“And do My bidding!” Baba vanished, for to stretch   His own remonstrance further he well knew Might end in acting as his own “Jack Ketch;”925   And though he wished extremely to get through This awkward business without harm to others, He still preferred his own neck to another’s.

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lord byron CXVII. Away he went then upon his commission,   Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase930 Against all women of whate’er condition,   Especially Sultanas and their ways; Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision,   Their never knowing their own mind two days, The trouble that they gave, their Immorality,935 Which made him daily bless his own Neutrality. CXVIII. And then he called his Brethren to his aid,   And sent one on a summons to the pair, That they must instantly be well arrayed,   And above all be combed even to a hair,940 And brought before the Empress, who had made   Enquiries after them with kindest care: At which Dudù looked strange, and Juan silly; But go they must at once, and Will I—­Nill I. CXIX. And here I leave them at their preparation945   For the Imperial presence, wherein whether Gulbeyaz shewed them both commiseration,   Or got rid of the parties altogether, Like other angry ladies of her nation,—   Are things the turning of a hair or feather950 May settle; but far be’t from me to anticipate In what way feminine Caprice may dissipate. CXX. I leave them for the present with good wishes,   Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange Another part of History, for the dishes955   Of this our banquet we must sometimes change: And trusting Juan may escape the fishes,   Although his situation now seems strange And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.960



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CANTO VII I. Oh Love! O Glory! what are ye? who fly   Around us ever, rarely to alight: There’s not a meteor in the Polar sky   Of such transcendant and more fleeting flight. Chill, and chained to cold earth, we lift on high5   Our eyes in search of either lovely light; A thousand and a thousand colours they Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. II. And such as they are, such my present tale is,   A non-­descript and ever-­varying rhyme,10 A versified Aurora Borealis,   Which flashes o’er a waste and icy clime. When we know what all are, we must bewail us,   But, ne’er the less I hope it is no crime To laugh at all things: for I wish to know15 What after all, are all things—­but a Show? III. They accuse me—­Me—­the present writer of   The present poem, of—­I know not what,— A tendency to under-­rate and scoff   At human power and virtue, and all that;20 And this they say in language rather rough.   Good God! I wonder what they would be at! I say no more than has been said in Dante’s Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes; IV. By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,25   By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato; By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,   Who knew this life was not worth a potato. ’Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so—   For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,30 Nor even Diogenes—­We live and die, But which is best, you know no more than I.

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lord byron V. Socrates said, our only knowledge was   “To know that nothing could be known;” a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass35   Each Man of Wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton (that Proverb of the Mind) alas!   Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only “like a youth Picking up shells by the great Ocean—­Truth.”40 VI. Ecclesiastes said, that all is Vanity—   Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity;   In short, all know, or very soon may know it. And in this scene of all-­confessed inanity,45   By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, From holding up the Nothingness of life? VII. Dogs, or Men! (for I flatter you in saying   That ye are dogs—­your betters far) ye may50 Read, or read not, what I am now essaying   To show ye what ye are in every way. As little as the Moon stops for the baying   Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray From out her skies—­then howl your idle wrath!55 While she still silvers o’er your gloomy path. VIII. “Fierce loves and faithless wars”—I am not sure   If this be the right reading—’tis no matter; The fact’s about the same, I am secure;—   I sing them both, and am about to batter60 A town which did a famous siege endure,   And was beleaguer’d both by land and water By Suvaroff, or anglicè Suwarrow, Who loved blood as an Alderman loves marrow.



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IX. The Fortress is called Ismail, and is placed65   Upon the Danube’s left branch and left bank, With buildings in the Oriental taste,   But still a fortress of the foremost rank, Or was at least, unless ’tis since defaced,   Which with your conquerors is a common prank:70 It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, And measures round of toises thousands three. X. Within the extent of this fortification   A Borough is comprized along the height Upon the left, which from its loftier station75   Commands the city, and upon its scite A Greek had raised around this elevation   A quantity of palisades upright, So placed as to impede the fire of those Who held the place, and to assist the foe’s.80 XI. This circumstance may serve to give a notion   Of the high talents of this new Vauban: But the town ditch below was deep as ocean,   The rampart higher than you’d wish to hang: But then there was a great want of precaution,85   (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang) Nor work advanced, nor covered way was there, To hint at least “Here is no thoroughfare.” XII. But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,   And walls as thick as most sculls born as yet;90 Two batteries, cap-­apèe, as our St. George,   Case-­mated one, and t’other “a barbette,” Of Danube’s bank took formidable charge;   While two and twenty cannon duly set Rose over the town’s right side, in bristling tier,95 Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

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lord byron XIII. But from the river the town’s open quite,   Because the Turks could never be persuaded A Russian vessel e’er would heave in sight;   And such their creed was, till they were invaded,100 When it grew rather late to set things right.   But as the Danube could not well be waded, They looked upon the Muscovite flotilla, And only shouted, “Allah!” and “Bis Millah!” XIV. The Russians now were ready to attack;105   But oh, ye Goddesses of war and glory, How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque   Who were immortal, could one tell their story? Alas! what to their memory can lack?   Achilles’ self was not more grim and gory110 Than thousands of this new and polished nation, Whose names want nothing but—­pronunciation. XV. Still I’ll record a few, if but to encrease   Our euphony—­there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff, Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece,115   And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff, And others of twelve consonants a piece;   And more might be found out, if I could poke enough Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet) It seems has got an ear as well as trumpet,120 XVI. And cannot tune those discords of narration,   Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme, Yet there were several worth commemoration,   As e’er was virgin of a nuptial chime; Soft words too fitted for the peroration125   Of Londonderry drawling against time, Ending in “ischskin,” “ousckin,” “iffskchy,” “ouski,” Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, —



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XVII. Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti,   Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin,130 All proper men of weapons, as e’er scoffed high   Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti,   Unless to make their kettle-­drums a new skin Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear135 And no more handy substitute been near. XVIII. Then there were foreigners of much renown,   Of various nations, and all volunteers; Not fighting for their country or its crown,   But wishing to be one day brigadiers;140 Also to have the sacking of a town;   A pleasant thing to young men at their years. ’Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, Sixteen called Thomson, and nineteen named Smith. XIX. Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson;—all the rest145   Had been called “Jemmy,” after the great bard; I don’t know whether they had arms or crest,   But such a godfather’s as good a card. Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best   Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward,150 Was he, since so renowned “in country quarters At Halifax;” but now he served the Tartars. XX. The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills;   But when I’ve added that the elder Jack Smith Was born in Cumberland among the hills,155   And that his father was an honest blacksmith, I’ve said all I know of a name that fills   Three lines of the dispatch in taking “Schmacksmith,” A village of Moldavia’s waste, wherein   He fell, immortal in a bulletin.160

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lord byron XXI. I wonder (although Mars no doubt’s a God I   Praise) if a man’s name in a bulletin May make up for a bullet in his body?   I hope this little question is no sin, Because, though I am but a simple noddy,165   I think one Shakespear puts the same thought in The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, Which many people pass for wits by quoting. XXII. Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay:   But I’m too great a patriot to record170 Their Gallic names upon a glorious day;   I’d rather tell ten lies than say a word Of truth;—such truths are treason: they betray   Their country, and as traitors are abhorred, Who name the French in English, save to show175 How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman’s foe. XXIII. The Russians, having built two batteries on   An Isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down   The public buildings, and the private too,180 No matter what poor souls might be undone.   The City’s shape suggested this, ’tis true; Formed like an amphitheatre, each dwelling Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. XIV. The second object was to profit by185   The moment of the general consternation, To attack the Turk’s flotilla, which lay nigh,   Extremely tranquil, anchored at its station: But a third motive was as probably   To frighten them into capitulation;190 A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, Unless they are game as Bull-­dogs and Fox-­terriers.



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XXV. A habit rather blameable, which is   That of despising those we combat with, Common in many cases, was in this195   The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; One of the valourous “Smiths” whom we shall miss   Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to “pith;” But ’tis a name so spread o’er “Sir” and “Madam,” That one would think the first who bore it “Adam.”200 XXVI. The Russian batteries were incomplete,   Because they were constructed in a hurry. Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet,   And throws a cloud o’er Longman and John Murray, When the sale of new books is not so fleet205   As they who print them think is necessary, May likewise put off for a time what story Sometimes calls “murder,” and at others “glory.” XXVII. Whether it was their engineer’s stupidity,   Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care,210 Or some contractor’s personal cupidity,   Saving his soul by cheating in the ware Of homicide; but there was no solidity   In the new batteries erected there; They either missed, or they were never missed,215 And added greatly to the missing list. XXVIII. A sad miscalculation about distance   Made all their naval matters incorrect; Three fireships lost their amiable existence   Before they reached a spot to take effect:220 The match was lit too soon, and no assistance   Could remedy this lubberly defect; They blew up in the middle of the river, While, though ’twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.

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lord byron XXIX. At seven they rose, however, and surveyed225   The Russ flotilla getting under way. ’Twas nine, when still advancing undismayed,   Within a cable’s length their vessels lay Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade,   Which was returned with interest, I may say,230 And by a fire of musquetry and grape And shells and shot of every size and shape. XXX. For six hours bore they without intermission   The Turkish fire; and aided by their own Land batteries, worked their guns with great precision;235   At length they found mere cannonade alone By no means would produce the town’s submission,   And made a signal to retreat at one. One bark blew up, a second near the works Running aground, was taken by the Turks.240 XXXI. The Moslem too had lost both ships and men;   But when they saw the enemy retire, Their Delhis manned some boats, and sailed again   And galled the Russians with a heavy fire, And tried to make a landing on the main.245   But here the effect fell short of their desire: Count Damas drove them back into the water Pell mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. XXXII. “If ” (says the historian here) “I could report   All that the Russians did upon this day,250 I think that several volumes would fall short,   And I should still have many things to say;” And so he says no more—­but pays his court   To some distinguished strangers in that fray, The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas,255 Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.



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XXXIII. This being the case, may show us what fame is:   For out of these three “preux Chevaliers,” how Many of common readers give a guess   That such existed? (and they may live now260 For aught we know.) Renown’s all hit or miss;   There’s Fortune even in Fame, we must allow. ’Tis true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne Have half withdrawn from him oblivion’s screen. XXXIV. But here are men who fought in gallant actions265   As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions—   Their names are rarely found, nor often sought. Thus even good Fame may suffer sad contractions,   And is extinguished sooner than she ought:270 Of all our modern battles, I will bet You can’t repeat nine names from each Gazette. XXXV. In short, this last attack, though rich in glory,   Shewed that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)275   Most strongly recommended an assault; In which he was opposed by young and hoary,   Which made a long debate: —but I must halt; For if I wrote down every warrior’s speech, I doubt few readers ere would mount the breach.280 XXXVI. There was a man, if that he was a man, —   Not that his manhood could be called in question, For had he not been Hercules, his span   Had been as short in youth as indigestion Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan,285   He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on The soil of the green province he had wasted, As e’er was locust on the land it blasted; —

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lord byron XXXVII. This was Potemkin—­a great thing in days   When homicide and harlotry made great;290 If stars and titles could entail long praise,   His glory might half equal his estate. This fellow, being six foot high, could raise   A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then Sovereign of the Russian people,295 Who measured men as you would do a steeple. XXXVIII. While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent   A courier to the Prince, and he succeeded In ordering matters after his own bent.   I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded,300 But shortly he had cause to be content.   In the mean time the batteries proceeded, And fourscore cannon on the Danube’s border Were briskly fired and answered in due order. XXXIX. But on the thirteenth, when already part305   Of the troops were embarked, the siege to raise, A courier on the spur inspired new heart   Into all panters for newspaper praise, As well as dilettanti in war’s art,   By his dispatches couched in pithy praise,310 Announcing the appointment of that lover of Battles, to the command, Field Marshal Souvaroff, XL. The letter of the Prince to the same Marshal   Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause Been one to which a good heart could be partial,315   Defence of freedom, country, or of laws; But as it was mere lust of power to o’er-­arch all   With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, “You will take Ismail at whatever price.”320



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XLI. “Let there be light! said God, and there was light!”   “Let there be blood!” says man, and there’s a sea! The fiat of this spoiled Child of the Night   (For Day ne’er saw his merits) could decree More evil in an hour, than thirty bright325   Summers could renovate, though they should be Lovely as those which ripened Eden’s fruit, For war cuts up not only branch, but root. XLII. Our friends the Turks, who with loud “Allas” now   Began to signalize the Russ retreat,330 Were damnably mistaken; few are slow   In thinking that their enemy is beat, (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though   I never think about it in a heat;) But here I say the Turks were much mistaken,335 Who hating hogs, yet wished to save their bacon. XLIII. For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew   In sight two horsemen, who were deemed cossacques For some time, till they came in nearer view.   They had but little baggage at their backs,340 For there were but three shirts between the two;   But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, Till, in approaching, were at length descried In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. XLIV. “Great joy to London now!” says some great fool, 345   When London had a grand illumination, Which to that bottle-­conjurer, John Bull,   Is of all dreams the first hallucination; So that the streets of coloured lamps are full,   That Sage (said John) surrenders at discretion350 His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.

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lord byron XLV. ’Tis strange that he should farther “damn his eyes,”   For they are damned: that once all famous oath Is to the devil now no further prize,355   Since John has lately lost the use of both. Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, Paradise;   And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, Which stare him in the face, he won’t examine, Or swears that Ceres hath begotten famine.360 XLVI. But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp!   To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque, O’er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp,   Presaging a most luminous attack, Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp,365   Which leads beholders on a boggy walk; He flitted to and fro, a dancing Light, Which all who saw it followed, wrong or right. XLVII. But certes matters took a different face:   There was enthusiasm and much applause,370 The fleet and camp saluted with great grace,   And all presaged Good Fortune to their cause. Within a cannon-­shot length of the place   They drew, constructed ladders, repaired flaws In former works, made new, prepared fascines,375 And all kinds of benevolent machines. XLVIII. ’Tis thus the spirit of a single mind   Makes that of multitudes take one direction, As roll the waters to the breathing wind,   Or roams the herd beneath the bull’s protection;380 Or as a little dog will lead the blind,   Or a bell-­wether form the flock’s connection By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual; Such is the sway of your great men o’er little.



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XLIX. The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought385   That they were going to a marriage feast: (This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught,   Since there is discord after both at least.) There was not now a luggage boy but sought   Danger and spoil with ardour much encreased;390 And why? because a little, odd, old man, Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. L. But so it was; and every preparation   Was made with all alacrity: the first Detachment of three columns took its station,395   And waited but the signal’s voice to burst Upon the foe: the second’s ordination   Was also in three columns, with a thirst For Glory gaping o’er a sea of slaughter: The third, in columns two, attacked by water.400 LI. New batteries were erected; and was held   A general council, in which Unanimity, That stranger to most councils, here prevailed,   As sometimes happens in a great extremity; And every difficulty being dispelled,405   Glory began to dawn with due Sublimity, While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it, Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.* LII. It is an actual fact, that he, Commander   In chief, in proper person deigned to drill410 The awkward squad, and could afford to squander   His time a corporal’s duty to fulfil; Just as you’d break a sucking salamander   To swallow flame, and never take it ill: He showed them how to mount a ladder (which415 Was not like Jacob’s) or to cross a ditch. *  Fact: Souvaroff did this in person.

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lord byron LIII. Also he dressed up, for the nonce, fascines   Like men with turbans, scimitars and dirks, And made them charge with bayonet these machines,   By way of lesson against actual Turks;420 And when well practised in these mimic scenes,   He judged them proper to assail the works; At which your wise men sneered in phrases witty: — He made no answer; but he took the city. LIV. Most things were in this posture on the eve425   Of the assault, and all the camp was in A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive;   Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin Are very silent when they once believe   That all is settled:—there was little din,430 For some were thinking of their home and friends, And others of themselves and latter ends. LV. Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert,   Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering; For the man was, we safely may assert,435   A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; Hero, buffoon, half-­demon and half-­dirt,   Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm A fortress, Harlequin in uniform.440 LVI. The day before the assault, while upon drill—   For this great Conqueror played the corporal— Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill,   Had met a party towards the twilight’s fall, One of whom spoke their tongue—­or well or ill,445   ’Twas much that he was understood at all; But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, They found that he had fought beneath their banner.



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LVII. Whereon immediately at his request   They brought him and his comrades to head quarters.450 Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guessed   That these were merely masquerading Tartars, And that beneath each Turkish fashioned vest   Lurked Christianity; which sometimes barters Her inward grace for outward show, and makes455 It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. LVIII. Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt   Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert,   And lecturing on the noble art of killing,—460 For deeming human clay but common dirt,   This great philosopher was thus instilling His maxims, which to martial comprehension Proved death in battle equal to a pension;— LIX. Suwarrow, when he saw this company465   Of Cossacques and their prey, turned round and cast Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye:—   “Whence come ye?”—“From Constantinople last, Captives just now escaped,” was the reply.   “What are ye?”—“What you see us.” Briefly past470 This dialogue; for he who answered knew To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. LX. “Your names?”—“Mine’s Johnson, and my comrade’s Juan,   The other two are women, and the third Is neither man nor woman.” The Chief threw on475   The party a slight glance, then said, “I have heard Your name before, the second is a new one;   To bring the other three here was absurd; But let that pass;—I think I have heard your name In the Nikolaiew regiment?”—“The same.”480

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lord byron LXI. “You served at Widin?”—“Yes.”—“You led the attack?”   “I did.”—“What next?”—“I really hardly know.” “You were the first i’ the breach?”—“I was not slack   At least to follow those who might be so.” “What followed?”—“A shot laid me on my back,485   And I became a prisoner to the foe.” — “You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. LXII. “Where will you serve?”—“Where’er you please.”—“I know   You like to be the hope of the forlorn,490 And doubtless would be foremost on the foe   After the hardships you’ve already borne. And this young fellow? say what can he do,   He with the beardless chin and garments torn?” “Why, General, if he hath no greater fault495 In war than love, he had better lead the assault.” LXIII. “He shall if that he dare.” Here Juan bowed   Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow Continued: “Your old regiment’s allowed,   By special providence, to lead to-­morrow,500 Or it may be to-­night, the assault: I have vowed   To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow Shall pass o’er what was Ismail, and its tusk Be unimpeded by the proudest Mosque. LXIV. “So now, my lads, for Glory!”—Here he turned505   And drilled away in the most classic Russian, Until each high, heroic bosom burned   For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurned   All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on510 To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.



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LXV. Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy   Himself a favourite, ventured to address Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high515   In his resumed amusement. “I confess My debt in being thus allowed to die   Among the foremost; but if you’d express Explicitly our several posts, my friend And self would know what duty to attend.”520 LXVI. “Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you   Will join your former regiment, which should be Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to—   (Here he called up a Polish orderly) His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew.525   The stranger stripling may remain with me; He’s a fine boy. The women may be sent To the other baggage, or to the sick tent.” LXVII. But here a sort of scene began to ensue:   The ladies, who by no means had been bred530 To be disposed of in a way so new,   Although their harem education led Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true,   Passive obedience,—now raised up the head, With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung535 Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, LXVIII. O’er the promoted couple of brave men   Who were thus honoured by the greatest Chief That ever peopled hell with heroes slain,   Or plunged a province or a realm in grief.540 Oh, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain!   Oh, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf Of thine imaginary deathless tree, Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.

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lord byron LXIX. Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears,545   And not much sympathy for blood, surveyed The women with their hair about their ears   And natural agonies, with a slight shade Of feeling: for however habit sears   Men’s hearts against whole millions, when their trade550 Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow Will touch even Heroes—­and such was Suwarrow. LXX. He said,—and in the kindest Calmuck tone,—   “Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean By bringing women here? They shall be shown555   All the attention possible, and seen In safety to the waggons, where alone   In fact they can be safe. You should have been Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.”560 LXXI. “May it please your Excellency,” thus replied   Our British friend, “these are the wives of others, And not our own. I am too qualified   By service with my military brothers, To break the rules by bringing one’s own bride565   Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers The hearts of the heroic on a charge, As leaving a small family at large. LXXII. “But these are but two Turkish ladies, who   With their attendant aided our escape,570 And afterwards accompanied us through   A thousand perils in this dubious shape. To me this kind of life is not so new;   To them, poor things, it is an awkward step: I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely,575 Request that they may both be used genteelly.”



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LXXIII. Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes,   Looked on as if in doubt if they could trust Their own protectors;—nor was their surprise   Less than their grief (and truly not less just)580 To see an old man, rather wild than wise   In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, More feared than all the Sultans ever seen. LXXIV. For every thing seemed resting on his nod,585   As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, Who were accustomed, as a sort of God,   To see the Sultan, rich in many a gem, Like an imperial Peacock stalk abroad,   (That royal bird, whose tail’s a diadem)590 With all the Pomp of Power, it was a doubt How Power could condescend to do without. LXXV. John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay,   Though little versed in feelings Oriental, Suggested some slight comfort in his way.595   Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, Swore they should see him by the dawn of day,   Or that the Russian army should repent all: And, strange to say, they found some consolation In this—­for females like exaggeration.600 LXXVI. And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses,   They parted for the present—­these to await, According to the artillery’s hits or misses,   What Sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate— (Uncertainty is one of many blisses,605   A mortgage on Humanity’s estate)— While their beloved friends began to arm, To burn a town which never did them harm.

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lord byron LXXVII. Suwarrow,—who but saw things in the gross,   Being much too gross to see them in detail,610 Who calculated life as so much dross,   And as the wind a widowed nation’s wail, And cared as little for his army’s loss,   (So that their efforts should at length prevail) As wife and friends did for the boils of Job,—615 What was’t to him to hear two women sob? LXXVIII. Nothing.—The work of Glory still went on   In preparations for a cannonade As terrible as that of Ilion,   If Homer had found mortars ready made;620 But now, instead of slaying Priam’s son,   We only can but talk of escalade, Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets; Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses’ gullets. LXXIX. Oh thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm625   All ears, though long; all ages, though so short, By merely wielding with poetic arm   Arms to which men will never more resort, Unless gunpowder should be found to harm   Much less than is the hope of every Court,630 Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; But they will not find Liberty a Troy:— LXXX. Oh thou eternal Homer! I have now   To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, With deadlier engines and a speedier blow,635   Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; And yet, like all men else, I must allow,   To vie with thee would be about as vain As for a brook to cope with Ocean’s flood; But still we Moderns equal you in blood;640



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LXXXI. If not in poetry, at least in fact;   And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! Of which, howe’er the Muse describes each act,   There should be ne’ertheless a slight substratum. But now the town is going to be attacked;645   Great deeds are doing—­how shall I relate ’em? Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches To colour up his rays from your dispatches. LXXXII. Oh! ye great bulletins of Bonaparte!   Oh! ye less grand long lists of killed and wounded!650 Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty,   When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! Oh, Cæsar’s Commentaries! now impart ye,   Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded) A portion of your fading twilight hues,655 So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. LXXXIII. When I call “fading” martial immortality,   I mean, that every age and every year, And almost every day, in sad reality,   Some sucking hero is compelled to rear,660 Who, when we come to sum up the totality   Of deeds to human happiness most dear, Turns out to be a butcher in great business, Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. LXXXIV. Medals, ranks, ribbons, lace, embroidery, scarlet,665   Are things immortal to immortal man, As purple to the Babylonian harlot:   An uniform to boys is like a fan To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet   But deems himself the first in Glory’s van.670 But Glory’s Glory; and if you would find What that is—­ask the pig who sees the wind!

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lord byron LXXXV. At least he feels it, and some say he sees,   Because he runs before it like a pig; Or if that simple sentence should displease,675   Say that he scuds before it like a brig, A schooner, or—­but it is time to ease   This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, Like a bob-­major from a village steeple.680 LXXXVI. Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,   The hum of armies gathering rank on rank! Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight   Along the leaguered wall and bristling bank Of the armed river, while with straggling light685   The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank, Which curl in curious wreaths—­How soon the smoke Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak! LXXXVII. Here pause we for the present—­as even then   That awful pause, dividing life from death,690 Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,   Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! A moment—­and all will be life again!   The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith! Hurra! and Allah! and—­one moment more—695 The Death-­cry drowning in the battle’s roar.

CANTO VIII I. Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!   These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:   And so they are; yet thus is Glory’s dream Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds5   At present such things, since they are her theme, So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars, Bellona, what you will—­they mean but wars.



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II. All was prepared—­the fire, the sword, the men   To wield them in their terrible array.10 The army, like a lion from his den,   Marched forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,— A human Hydra, issuing from its fen   To breathe destruction on its winding way, Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain15 Immediately in others grew again. III. History can only take things in the gross;   But could we know them in detail, perchance In balancing the profit and the loss,   War’s merit it by no means might enhance,20 To waste so much gold for a little dross,   As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. IV. And why? because it brings self-­approbation;25   Whereas the other, after all its glare, Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,   Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, A higher title, or a loftier station,   Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,30 Yet, in the end, except in freedom’s battles, Are nothing but a child of Murder’s rattles. V. And such they are—­and such they will be found.   Not so Leonidas and Washington, Whose every battle-­field is holy ground,35   Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!   While the mere victor’s may appal or stun The servile and the vain, such names will be A watchword till the Future shall be free.40

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lord byron VI. The night was dark, and the thick mist allowed   Nought to be seen save the artillery’s flame, Which arched the horizon like a fiery cloud,   And in the Danube’s waters shone the same, A mirrored Hell! The volleying roar, and loud45   Long booming of each peal on peal, o’ercame The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven’s flashes Spare, or smite rarely—­Man’s make millions ashes! VII. The column ordered on the assault, scarce passed   Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises,50 When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,   Answering the Christian thunders with like voices; Then one vast fire, air, earth and stream embraced,   Which rocked as ’twere beneath the mighty noises; While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when55 The restless Titan hiccups in his den. VIII. And one enormous shout of “Allah!” rose   In the same moment, loud as even the roar Of War’s most mortal engines, to their foes   Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore60 Resounded “Allah!” and the clouds which close   With thick’ning canopy the conflict o’er Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through All sounds it pierceth, “Allah! Allah! Hu!”* IX. The columns were in movement one and all,65   But of the portion which attacked by water, Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,   Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter, As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.

*  Allah Hu! is properly the war cry of the Musselmans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which gives it a very wild and peculiar effect.



Don Juan VIII (1823)   “Carnage” (so Wordsworth tells you) “is God’s daughter:”* If he speak truth, she is Christ’s sister, and Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.

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X. The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee;   Count Chapeau-­Bras too had a ball between His cap and head, which proves the head to be75   Aristocratic as was ever seen, Because it then received no injury   More than the cap; in fact the ball could mean No harm unto a right legitimate head: “Ashes to ashes”—why not lead to lead?80 XI. Also the General Markow, Brigadier,   Insisting on removal of the Prince Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,—   All common fellows, who might writhe and wince And shriek for water into a deaf ear,—85   The General Markow, who could thus evince His sympathy for rank, by the same token, To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. XII. Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,   And thirty thousand musquets flung their pills90 Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.   Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills; Thy Plagues, thy Famines, thy Physicians, yet tick,   Like the death-­watch, within our ears the ills Past, present, and to come;—but all may yield95 To the true portrait of one battle-­field. *            “But thy† most dreaded instrument “In working out a pure intent, “Is man arrayed for mutual slaughter; “Yes, Carnage is thy daughter!” Wordsworth’s Thanksgiving Ode. †   To wit, the Deity’s; this is perhaps as pretty a pedigree for Murder as ever was found out by Garter King at Arms.—What would have been said, had any free-spoken people discovered such a lineage?

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lord byron XIII. There the still varying pangs, which multiply   Until their very number makes men hard By the infinities of agony,   Which meet the gaze, whate’er it may regard—100 The groan, the roll in dust, the all-­white eye   Turned back within its socket,—these reward Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest May win perhaps a ribbon at the breast! XIV. Yet I love Glory;—glory’s a great thing;—105   Think what it is to be in your old age Maintained at the expense of your good king:   A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, And heroes are but made for bards to sing,   Which is still better; thus in verse to wage110 Your wars eternally, besides enjoying Half-­pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. XV. The troops, already disembarked, pushed on   To take a battery on the right; the others, Who landed lower down, their landing done,115   Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: Being grenadiers they mounted one by one,   Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers, O’er the entrenchment and the palisade, Quite orderly, as if upon parade.120 XVI. And this was admirable; for so hot   The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot   And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. Of officers a third fell on the spot,125   A thing which victory by no means boded To gentlemen engaged in the assault: Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.



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XVII. But here I leave the general concern,   To track our hero on his path of fame:130 He must his laurels separately earn;   For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, Though all deserving equally to turn   A couplet, or an elegy to claim, Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,135 And what is worse still, a much longer story: XVIII. And therefore we must give the greater number   To the Gazette—­which doubtless fairly dealt By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber   In ditches, fields, or wheresoe’er they felt140 Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;—   Thrice happy he whose name had been well spelt In the dispatch: I knew a man whose loss Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.* XIX. Juan and Johnson joined a certain corps,145   And fought away with might and main, not knowing The way which they had never trod before,   And still less guessing where they might be going; But on they marched, dead bodies trampling o’er,   Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,150 But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. XX. Thus on they wallowed in the bloody mire   Of dead and dying thousands,—sometimes gaining A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher155 *  A fact: see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect remarking at the time to a friend:—“There is fame! a man is killed, his name is Grose, and they print it Grove.” I was at college with the deceased, who was a very amiable and clever man, and his society in great request for his wit, gaiety, and “Chansons à boire.”

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lord byron   To some odd angle for which all were straining; At other times, repulsed by the close fire,   Which really poured as if all Hell were raining, Instead of Heaven, they stumbled backwards o’er A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.160 XXI. Though ’twas Don Juan’s first of fields, and though   The nightly muster and the silent march In the chill dark, when Courage does not glow   So much as under a triumphal arch, Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw165   A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, Which stiffened heaven) as if he wished for day;— Yet for all this he did not run away. XXII. Indeed he could not. But what if he had?  There have been and are heroes who begun170 With something not much better or as bad:   Frederick the Great from Molwitz deigned to run, For the first and last time; for, like a pad,   Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,175 And fight like fiends for pay or politics. XXIII. He was what Erin calls, in her sublime   Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic;— (The Antiquarians who can settle Time,   Which settles all things, Roman, Greek or Runic,180 Swear that Pat’s language sprung from the same clime   With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic Of Dido’s alphabet; and this is rational As any other notion, and not national;)—* XXIV. But Juan was quite “a broth of a boy,”185   A thing of impulse and a child of song; *  See Major Vallencey and Sir Lawrence Parsons.



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Now swimming in the sentiment of joy,   Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong) And afterwards, if he must needs destroy,   In such good company as always throng190 To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, No less delighted to employ his leisure. XXV. But always without malice; if he warr’d   Or loved, it was with what we call “the best Intentions,” which form all mankind’s trump card,195   To be produced when brought up to the test. The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer—­ward   Off each attack, when people are in quest Of their designs, by saying they meant well; ’Tis pity “that such meanings should pave Hell.”*200 XXVI. I almost lately have begun to doubt   Whether Hell’s pavement—­if it be so paved— Must not have latterly been quite worn out,   Not by the numbers good Intent hath saved, But by the mass who go below without205   Those antient good intentions, which once shaved And smoothed the brimstone of that street of Hell Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. XXVII. Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides   Warrior from warrior in their grim career,210 Like chastest wives from constant husbands’ sides   Just at the close of the first bridal year, By one of those odd turns of Fortune’s tides,   Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, When, after a good deal of heavy firing,215 He found himself alone, and friends retiring. XXVIII. I don’t know how the thing occurred—­it might   Be that the greater part were killed or wounded, *  The Portuguese proverb says, that “Hell is paved with good intentions.”

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lord byron And that the rest had faced unto the right   About; a circumstance which has confounded220 Cæsar himself, who in the very sight   Of his whole army, which so much abounded In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield And rally back his Romans to the field. XXIX. Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was225   No Cæsar, but a fine young lad, who fought He knew not why, arriving at this pass,   Stopped for a minute, as perhaps he ought For a much longer time; then, like an ass   (Start not, kind reader, since great Homer thought230 This simile enough for Ajax, Juan Perhaps may find it better than a new one): XXX. Then, like an ass, he went upon his way,   And, what was stranger, never looked behind; But seeing, flashing forward, like the day235   Over the hills, a fire enough to blind Those who dislike to look upon a fray,   He stumbled on, to try if he could find A path, to add his own slight arm and forces To corps, the greater part of which were corses.240 XXXI. Perceiving then no more the commandant   Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had Quite disappeared—­the Gods know how! (I can’t   Account for every thing which may look bad In history; but we at least may grant245   It was not marvellous that a mere lad, In search of glory, should look on before, Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps:—) XXXII. Perceiving nor commander nor commanded,   And left at large, like a young heir, to make250 His way to—­where he knew not—­single handed;



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  As travellers follow over bog and brake An “Ignis fatuus;” or as sailors stranded   Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, So Juan, following honour and his nose,255 Rushed where the thickest fire announced most foes. XXXIII. He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared,   For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins Filled as with lightning—­for his Spirit shared   The hour, as is the case with lively brains;260 And where the hottest fire was seen and heard,   And the loud cannon pealed his hoarsest strains, He rushed, while Earth and Air were sadly shaken By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!* XXXIV. And as he rushed along, it came to pass he265   Fell in with what was late the second column Under the orders of the General Lascy,   But now reduced, as is a bulky volume Into an elegant extract (much less massy)   Of heroism, and took his place with solemn270 Air ’midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces And levelled weapons still against the glacis. XXXV. Just at this crisis up came Johnson too,   Who had “retreated,” as the phrase is when Men run away much rather than go through275   Destruction’s jaws into the devil’s den; But Johnson was a clever fellow, who   Knew when and how “to cut and come again,” And never ran away, except when running Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.280 XXXVI. And so, when all his corps were dead or dying,   Except Don Juan,—a mere novice, whose *  Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this Friar.

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lord byron More virgin valour never dreamt of flying,   From ignorance of danger, which indues Its votaries, like Innocence relying285   On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,— Johnson retired a little just to rally Those who catch cold in “shadows of death’s valley.” XXXVII. And there, a little sheltered from the shot,   Which rained from bastion, battery, parapet,290 Rampart, wall, casement, house—­for there was not   In this extensive city, sore beset By Christian soldiery, a single spot   Which did not combat like the devil, as yet,— He found a number of Chasseurs, all scattered295 By the resistance of the chase they battered. XXXVIII. And these he called on; and, what’s strange, they came   Unto his call, unlike “the Spirits from The vasty deep,” to whom you may exclaim,   Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.300 Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame   At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. XXXIX. By Jove! He was a noble fellow, Johnson,305   And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon   We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his Man quite as quietly as blows the Monsoon   Her steady breath (which some months the same still is)310 Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, And could be very busy without bustle. XL. And therefore, when he ran away, he did so   Upon reflection, knowing that behind He would find others who would fain be rid so315



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  Of idle apprehensions, which like wind Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so   Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, But when they light upon immediate death, Retire a little, merely to take breath.320 XLI. But Johnson only ran off, to return   With many other warriors, as we said, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn,   Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. To Jack howe’er this gave but slight concern:325   His soul (like Galvanism upon the dead) Acted upon the living as on wire, And led them back into the heaviest fire. XLII. Egad! they found the second time what they   The first time thought quite terrible enough330 To fly from, malgrè all which people say   Of glory, and all that immortal stuff Which fills a regiment (besides their pay,   That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)— They found on their return the self-­same welcome,335 Which made some think, and others know, a Hell come. XLIII. They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail,   Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, Proving that trite old truth, that life’s as frail   As any other boon for which men stickle.340 The Turkish batteries thrashed them like a flail   Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle Putting the very bravest, who were knocked Upon the head, before their guns were cocked. XLIV. The Turks behind the traverses and flanks345   Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks:   However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels

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lord byron Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks,   So ordered it, amidst these sulphury revels,350 That Johnson and some few who had not scampered, Reached the interior talus of the rampart. XLV. First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen   Came mounting quickly up, for it was now All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,355   Flame was showered forth above as well’s below, So that you scarce could say who best had chosen,   The gentlemen that were the first to show Their martial faces on the parapet, Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.360 XLVI. But those who scaled, found out that their advance   Was favoured by an accident or blunder. The Greek or Turkish Cohorn’s ignorance   Had palisadoed in a way you’d wonder To see in forts of Netherlands or France—365   (Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)— Right in the middle of the parapet Just named, these palisades were primly set: XLVII. So that on either side some nine or ten   Paces were left, whereon you could contrive370 To march; a great convenience to our men,   At least to all those who were left alive, Who thus could form a line and fight again;   And that which further aided them to strive Was, that they could kick down the palisades,375 Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.* XLVIII. Among the first,—I will not say the first,   For such precedence upon such occasions Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst *  They were but two feet high above the level.



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  Out between friends as well as allied nations;380 The Briton must be bold who really durst   Put to such trial John Bull’s partial patience, As say that Wellington at Waterloo Was beaten,—though the Prussians say so too;— XLIX. And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau,385   And God knows who besides in “au” and “ou,” Had not come up in time to cast an awe   Into the hearts of those who fought till now As tigers combat with an empty craw,   The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show390 His orders, also to receive his pensions, Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. L. But never mind;—“God save the king!” and kings!   For if he don’t, I doubt if men will longer— I think I hear a little bird, who sings395   The people by and by will be the stronger. The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings   So much into the raw as quite to wrong her Beyond the rules of posting,—and the Mob At last fall sick of imitating Job.400 LI. At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then,   Like David, flings smooth pebbles ’gainst a giant; At last it takes to weapons such as men   Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. Then comes “the tug of war;”—’twill come again,405   I rather doubt; and I would fain say “fie on’t,” If I had not perceived that Revolution Alone can save the Earth from Hell’s pollution. LII. But to continue;—I say not the first,   But of the first, our little friend Don Juan410 Walked o’er the walls of Ismail, as if nurst   Amidst such scenes—­though this was quite a new one

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lord byron To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst   Of Glory, which so pierces through and through one, Pervaded him—­although a generous creature,415 As warm in heart as feminine in feature. LIII. And here he was—­who upon Woman’s breast,   Even from a child, felt like a child; howe’er The man in all the rest might be confest,   To him it was Elysium to be there;420 And he could even withstand that awkward test   Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, “Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;” But Juan never left them, while they had charms, LIV. Unless compelled by fate, or wave, or wind,425   Or near relations, who are much the same. But here he was!—where each tie that can bind   Humanity must yield to steel and flame: And he whose very body was all Mind,   Flung here by Fate, or Circumstance, which tame430 The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, Dashed on like a spurred blood-­horse in a race. LV. So was his blood stirred while he found resistance,   As is the hunter’s at the five-­bar gate, Or double post and rail, where the existence435   Of Britain’s youth depends upon their weight, The lightest being the safest: at a distance   He hated cruelty, as all men hate Blood, until heated—­and even there his own At times would curdle o’er some heavy groan.440 LVI. The General Lascy, who had been hard prest,   Seeing arrive an aid so opportune As were some hundred youngsters all abreast,   Who came as if just dropped down from the moon, To Juan, who was nearest him, addressed445   His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon,



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Not reckoning him to be a “base Bezonian,” (As Pistol calls it) but a young Livonian. LVII. Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew   As much of German as of Sanscrit, and450 In answer made an inclination to   The General who held him in command; For seeing one with ribbons, black and blue,   Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, Addressing him in tones which seemed to thank,455 He recognized an officer of rank. LVIII. Short speeches pass between two men who speak   No common language; and besides, in time Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek   Rings o’er the dialogue, and many a crime460 Is perpetrated ere a word can break   Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime In like church bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer, There cannot be much conversation there. LIX. And therefore all we have related in465   Two long octaves, passed in a little minute; But in the same small minute, every sin   Contrived to get itself comprized within it. The very cannon, deafened by the din,   Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet,470 As soon as thunder, ’midst the general noise Of human Nature’s agonizing voice! LX. The town was entered. Oh Eternity!—   “God made the country, and man made the town,” So Cowper says—­and I begin to be475   Of his opinion, when I see cast down Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh,   All walls men know, and many never known; And pondering on the present and the past, To deem the woods should be our home at last.480

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lord byron LXI. Of all men, saving Sylla the Man-­slayer,   Who passes for in life and death most lucky, Of the great names which in our faces stare,   The General Boon, back-­woodsman of Kentucky, Was happiest amongst mortals any where;485   For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous, harmless days Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. LXII. Crime came not near him—­she is not the child   Of solitude; health shrank not from him—­for490 Her home is in the rarely-­trodden wild,   Where if men seek her not, and death be more Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled   By habit to what their own hearts abhor— In cities caged. The present case in point I495 Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety; LXIII. And what’s still stranger, left behind a name   For which men vainly decimate the throng, Not only famous, but of that good fame,   Without which Glory’s but a tavern song—500 Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,   Which hate nor envy ere could tinge with wrong; An active hermit, even in age the child Of Nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. LXIV. ’Tis true he shrank from men even of his nation,505   When they built up unto his darling trees,— He moved some hundred miles off, for a station   Where there were fewer houses and more ease; The inconvenience of civilization   Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please;510 But where he met the individual man He shewed himself as kind as mortal can.



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LXV. He was not all alone: around him grew   A sylvan tribe of children of the chace, Whose young, unwakened world was ever new,515   Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view   A frown on Nature’s or on human face;— The free-­born forest found and kept them free, And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.520 LXVI. And tall and strong and swift of foot were they,   Beyond the dwarfing city’s pale abortions, Because their thoughts had never been the prey   Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions; No sinking Spirits told them they grew grey,525   No Fashion made them apes of her distortions; Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. LXVII. Motion was in their days, Rest in their slumbers,   And Cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;530 Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;   Corruption could not make their hearts her soil; The Lust which stings, the Splendour which encumbers,   With the free foresters divide no spoil; Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes535 Of this unsighing people of the woods. LXVIII. So much for Nature:—by way of variety,   Now back to thy great joys, Civilization! And the sweet consequence of large society,   War, Pestilence, the despot’s desolation,540 The kingly scourge, the Lust of Notoriety,   The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, The scenes like Catherine’s boudoir at three score, With Ismail’s storm to soften it the more.

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lord byron LXIX. The town was entered: first one column made545   Its sanguinary way good—­then another; The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade   Clashed ’gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid;—   Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother550 The breath of Morn and Man, where foot by foot The maddened Turks their city still dispute. LXX. Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back   (With some assistance from the frost and snow) Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,555   It happened was himself beat back just now. He was a jolly fellow, and could crack   His jest alike in face of friend or foe, Though life, and death, and victory were at stake, But here it seemed his jokes had ceased to take:560 LXXI. For having thrown himself into a ditch,   Followed in haste by various grenadiers, Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,   He climbed to where the parapet appears; But there his project reached its utmost pitch;565   (’Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre’s Was much regretted) for the Moslem Men Threw them all down into the ditch again. LXXII. And had it not been for some stray troops, landing   They knew not where, being carried by the stream570 To some spot, where they lost their understanding,   And wandered up and down as in a dream, Until they reached, as day-­break was expanding,   That which a portal to their eyes did seem,— The great and gay Koutousow might have lain575 Where three parts of his column yet remain.



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LXXIII. And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops,   After the taking of the “Cavalier,” Just as Koutousow’s most “Forlorn” of “Hopes”   Took like cameleons some slight tinge of fear,580 Opened the gate called “Kilia” to the groups   Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near, Sliding knee-­deep in lately frozen mud, Now thawed into a marsh of human blood. LXXIV. The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacques—585   (I don’t much pique myself upon orthography, So that I do not grossly err in facts,   Statistics, tactics, politics and geography—) Having been used to serve on horses’ backs,   And no great dilletanti in topography590 Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases Their chiefs to order,—were all cut to pieces. LXXV. Their column, though the Turkish batteries thundered   Upon them, ne’ertheless had reached the rampart, And naturally thought they could have plundered595   The city, without being further hamper’d; But as it happens to brave men, they blundered—   The Turks at first pretended to have scampered, Only to draw them ’twixt two bastion corners, From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners.600 LXXVI. Then being taken by the tail—­a taking   Fatal to bishops as to soldiers—­these Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking,   And found their lives were let at a short lease— But perished without shivering or shaking,605   Leaving as ladders their heaped carcases, O’er which Lieutenant Colonel Yesouskoi Marched with the brave battalion of Polouzki:—

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lord byron LXXVII. This valiant man killed all the Turks he met,   But could not eat them, being in his turn610 Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,   Without resistance, see their city burn. The walls were won, but ’twas an even bet   Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: ’Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,615 For one would not retreat, nor t’other flinch. LXXVIII. Another column also suffered much:   And here we may remark with the Historian, You should but give few cartridges to such   Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on:620 When matters must be carried by the touch   Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. LXXIX. A junction of the General Meknop’s men625   (Without the General, who had fallen some time Before, being badly seconded just then)   Was made at length with those who dared to climb The death-­disgorging rampart once again;   And though the Turk’s resistance was sublime,630 They took the bastion, which the Seraskier Defended at a price extremely dear. LXXX. Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers   Among the foremost, offered him good quarter, A word which little suits with Seraskiers,635   Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. He died deserving well his country’s tears,   A savage sort of military martyr. An English naval officer, who wished To make him prisoner, was also dished:640



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LXXXI. For all the answer to his proposition   Was from a pistol shot that laid him dead; On which the rest, without more intermission,   Began to lay about with steel and lead, The pious metals most in requisition645   On such occasions: not a single head Was spared,—three thousand Moslems perished here, And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. LXXXII. The city’s taken—­only part by part—   And Death is drunk with gore: there’s not a street650 Where fights not to the last some desperate heart   For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. Here War forgot his own destructive Art   In more destroying Nature; and the heat Of carnage, like the Nile’s sun-­sodden Slime,655 Engendered monstrous shapes of every Crime. LXXXIII. A Russian officer, in martial tread   Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel Seized fast as if ’twere by the serpent’s head,   Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel:660 In vain he kicked, and swore, and writhed, and bled,   And howled for help as wolves do for a meal— The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, As do the subtle snakes described of old. LXXXIV. A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot665   Of a foe o’er him, snatched at it, and bit The very tendon, which is most acute—   (That which some ancient Muse or Modern Wit Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through’t   He made the teeth meet, nor relinquished it670 Even with his life—­for (but they lie) ’tis said To the live leg still clung the severed head.

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lord byron LXXXV. However this may be, ’tis pretty sure   The Russian officer for life was lamed, For the Turk’s teeth stuck faster than a skewer,675   And left him ’midst the invalid and maimed: The regimental surgeon could not cure   His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed More than the head of the inveterate foe, Which was cut off and scarce even then let go.680 LXXXVI. But then the fact’s a fact—­and ’tis the part   Of a true poet to escape from fiction Whene’er he can; for there is little art   In leaving verse more free from the restriction Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart685   For what is sometimes called poetic diction, And that outrageous appetite for lies Which Satan angles with for souls like flies. LXXXVII. The city’s taken, but not rendered!—No!   There’s not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:690 The blood may gush out, as the Danube’s flow   Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:   In vain the yell of victory is roared By the advancing Muscovite—­the groan695 Of the last foe is echoed by his own. LXXXVIII. The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,   And human lives are lavished every where, As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves   When the stript forest bows to the bleak air,700 And groans; and thus the peopled City grieves,   Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, As Oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.



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LXXXIX. It is an awful topic—­but ’tis not705   My cue for any time to be terrific: For chequered as is seen our human lot   With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific Of melancholy merriment, to quote   Too much of one sort would be soporific;—710 Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, I sketch your world exactly as it goes. XC. And one good action in the midst of crimes   Is “quite refreshing,” in the affected phrase Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,715   With all their pretty milk-­and-­water ways, And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,   A little scorched at present with the blaze Of conquest and its consequences, which Make Epic poesy so rare and rich.720 XCI. Upon a taken bastion where there lay   Thousands of slaughtered men, a yet warm group Of murdered women, who had found their way   To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop And shudder;—while, as beautiful as May,725   A female child of ten years tried to stoop And hide her little palpitating breast Amidst the bodies lulled in bloody rest. XCII. Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child   With flashing eyes and weapons: matched with them730 The rudest brute that roams Siberia’s wild   Has feelings pure and polished as a gem,— The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild:   And whom for this at last must we condemn? Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ735 All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?

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lord byron XCIII. Their sabres glittered o’er her little head,   Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:   When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,740 I shall not say exactly what he said,   Because it might not solace “ears polite”; But what he did, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. XCIV. One’s hip he slashed, and split the other’s shoulder,745   And drove them with their brutal yells to seek If there might be chirurgeons who could solder   The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder   As he turned o’er each pale and gory cheek,750 Don Juan raised his little captive from The heap a moment more had made her tomb. XCV. And she was chill as they, and on her face   A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race;755   For the same blow which laid her Mother here, Had scarred her brow, and left its crimson trace   As the last link with all she had held dear; But else unhurt, she opened her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprize.760 XCVI. Just at this instant, while their eyes were fixed   Upon each other, with dilated glance, In Juan’s look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mixed   With joy to save, and dread of some mischance Unto his protegèe; while hers, transfixed765   With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase;—



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XCVII. Up came John Johnson: (I will not say “Jack,”   For that were vulgar, cold, and common place770 On great occasions, such as an attack   On cities, as hath been the present case:) Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back,   Exclaiming:—“Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace Your arm, and I’ll bet Moscow to a dollar,775 That you and I will win St. George’s collar.* XCVIII. “The Seraskier is knocked upon the head,   But the stone bastion still remains, wherein The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead,   Smoking his pipe quite calmly ’midst the din780 Of our artillery and his own: ’tis said   Our killed, already piled up to the chin, Lie round the battery; but still it batters, And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. XCIX. “Then up with me!”—But Juan answered, “Look785   Upon this child—­I saved her—­must not leave Her life to chance; but point me out some nook   Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, And I am with you.”—Whereon Johnson took   A glance around—­and shrugged—­and twitched his sleeve790 And black silk neckcloth—­and replied, “You’re right; Poor thing! what’s to be done? I’m puzzled quite.” C. Said Juan—“Whatsoever is to be   Done, I’ll not quit her till she seems secure Of present life a good deal more than we.”—795   Quoth Johnson:—“Neither will I quite ensure; But at the least you may die gloriously.”—   Juan replied—“At least I will endure *  The Russian military order.

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lord byron Whate’er is to be borne—­but not resign This child, who is parentless and therefore mine.”800 CI. Johnson said—“Juan, we’ve no time to lose;   The child’s a pretty child—­a very pretty— I never saw such eyes—­but hark! now choose   Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity: Hark! how the roar increases!—no excuse805   Will serve when there is plunder in a city;— I should be loth to march without you, but, By God! we’ll be too late for the first cut.” CII. But Juan was immoveable; until   Johnson, who really loved him in his way,810 Picked out amongst his followers with some skill   Such as he thought the least given up to prey; And swearing if the infant came to ill   That they should all be shot on the next day, But if she were delivered safe and sound,815 They should at least have fifty roubles round, CIII. And all allowances besides of plunder   In fair proportion with their comrades;—then Juan consented to march on through thunder,   Which thinned at every step their ranks of men:820 And yet the rest rushed eagerly—­no wonder,   For they were heated by the hope of gain, A thing which happens every where each day— No Hero trusteth wholly to half-­pay. CIV. And such is victory, and such is man!825   At least nine-­tenths of what we call so;—God May have another name for half we scan   As human beings, or his ways are odd. But to our subject: a brave Tartar Khan,—   Or “Sultan,” as the author (to whose nod830



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In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call This chieftain—­somehow would not yield at all: CV. But flanked by five brave sons (such is polygamy,   That she spawns warriors by the score, where none Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy)835   He never would believe the city won While courage clung but to a single twig.—Am I   Describing Priam’s, Peleus’, or Jove’s son? Neither,—but a good, plain, old, temperate man, Who fought with his five children in the van.840 CVI. To take him was the point. The truly brave,   When they behold the brave oppressed with odds Are touched with a desire to shield and save;—   A mixture of wild beasts and demi-­gods Are they—­now furious as the sweeping wave,845   Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compassion breathes along the savage mind. CVII. But he would not be taken, and replied   To all the propositions of surrender850 By mowing Christians down on every side,   As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. His five brave boys no less the foe defied;   Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,855 Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. CVIII. And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who   Expended all their Eastern phraseology In begging him, for God’s sake, just to show   So much less fight as might form an apology860 For them in saving such a desperate foe—   He hewed away, like doctors of theology

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lord byron When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. CIX. Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both865   Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell, The first with sighs, the second with an oath,   Upon his angry Sultanship, pell-­mell, And all around were grown exceeding wroth   At such a pertinacious Infidel,870 And poured upon him and his sons like rain, Which they resisted like a sandy plain CX. That drinks and still is dry. At last they perished—   His second son was levelled by a shot; His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherished875   Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot; The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourished,   Had been neglected, ill-­used, and what not, Because deformed, yet died all game and bottom, To save a sire who blushed that he begot him.880 CXI. The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,   As great a scorner of the Nazarene As ever Mahomet picked out for a martyr,   Who only saw the black-­eyed girls in green, Who make the beds of those who won’t take quarter885   On Earth, in Paradise; and when once seen, Those Houris, like all other pretty creatures, Do just whate’er they please, by dint of features. CXII. And what they pleased to do with the young Khan   In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess;890 But doubtless they prefer a fine young man   To tough old heroes, and can do no less; And that’s the cause no doubt why, if we scan   A field of battle’s ghastly wilderness,



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For one rough, weather-­beaten, veteran body,895 You’ll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. CXIII. Your Houris also have a natural pleasure   In lopping off your lately married men Before the bridal Hours have danced their measure,   And the sad, second moon grows dim again,900 Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure   To wish him back a bachelor now and then. And thus your Houri (it may be) disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. CXIV. Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight,905   Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, But bravely rushed on his first heavenly night.   In short, howe’er our better Faith derides, These black-­eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,   As though there were one Heaven and none besides,—910 Whereas, if all be true we hear of Heaven And Hell, there must at least be six or seven. CXV. So fully flashed the phantom on his eyes,   That when the very lance was in his heart, He shouted, “Allah!” and saw Paradise915   With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, And bright Eternity without disguise   On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart;— With Prophets, Houris, Angels, Saints, descried In one voluptuous blaze,—and then he died:920 CXVI. But, with a heavenly rapture on his face,   The good old Khan, who long had ceased to see Houris, or aught except his florid race   Who grew like Cedars round him gloriously— When he beheld his latest hero grace925   The earth, which he became like a felled tree,

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lord byron Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast A glance on that slain son, his first and last. CXVII. The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,   Stopped as if once more willing to concede930 Quarter, in case he bade them not “aroint!”   As he before had done. He did not heed Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,   And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, As he looked down upon his children gone,935 And felt—­though done with life—­he was alone. CXVIII. But ’twas a transient tremor:—with a spring   Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing   Against the light wherein she dies: he clung940 Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,   Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; And throwing back a dim look on his sons, In one wide wound poured forth his soul at once. CXIX. ’Tis strange enough—­the rough, tough soldiers, who945   Spared neither sex nor age in their career Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,   And lay before them with his children near, Touched by the heroism of him they slew,   Were melted for a moment; though no tear950 Flowed from their blood-­shot eyes, all red with strife, They honoured such determined scorn of life. CXX. But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,   Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post: Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,955   And baffled the assaults of all their host; At length he condescended to enquire   If yet the city’s rest were won or lost;



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And being told the latter, sent a Bey To answer Ribas’ summons to give way.960 CXXI. In the mean time, cross-­legged, with great sang froid,   Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking Tobacco on a little carpet;—Troy   Saw nothing like the scene around;—yet looking With martial stoicism, nought seemed to annoy965   His stern philosophy: but gently stroking His beard, he puffed his pipe’s ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives as well as tails. CXXII. The town was taken—­whether he might yield   Himself or bastion, little mattered now;970 His stubborn valour was no future shield.   Ismail’s no more! The crescent’s silver bow Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o’er the field,   But red with no redeeming gore: the glow Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,975 Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. CXXIII. All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;   All that the body perpetrates of bad; All that we read, hear, dream of man’s distresses;   All that the Devil would do if run stark mad;980 All that defies the worst which pen expresses;   All by which Hell is peopled, or as sad As Hell—­mere mortals who their power abuse,— Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. CXXIV. If here and there some transient trait of pity985   Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty   Child, or an aged, helpless man or two— What’s this in one annihilated city,   Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow?990

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lord byron Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. CXXV. Think how the joys of reading a Gazette   Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don’t forget995   Such doom may be your own in after times. Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt,   Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland’s present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley’s glory.1000 CXXVI. But still there is unto a patriot nation,   Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation—   Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe’er the mighty locust, Desolation,1005   Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne— Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. CXXVII. But let me put an end unto my theme:   There was an end of Ismail—­hapless town!1010 Far flashed her burning towers o’er Danube’s stream,   And redly ran his blushing waters down. The horrid war-­whoop and the shriller scream   Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown: Of forty thousand who had manned the wall,1015 Some hundreds breathed—­the rest were silent all! CXXVIII. In one thing ne’ertheless ’tis fit to praise   The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fashion now-­a-­days   And therefore worthy of commemoration:1020 The topic’s tender, so shall be my phrase—   Perhaps the season’s chill, and their long station



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In winter’s depth, or want of rest and victual, Had made them chaste;—they ravished very little. CXXIX. Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less1025   Might here and there occur some violation In the other line;—but not to such excess   As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,   Except cold weather and commiseration;1030 But all the ladies, save some twenty score, Were almost as much virgins as before. CXXX. Some odd mistakes too happened in the dark,   Which showed a want of lanthorns, or of taste— Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark1035   Their friends from foes,—besides such things from haste Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark   Of light to save the venerably chaste:— But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflowered by different Grenadiers.1040 CXXXI. But on the whole their continence was great;   So that some disappointment there ensued To those who had felt the inconvenient state   Of “single blessedness,” and thought it good, (Since it was not their fault, but only fate,1045   To bear these crosses) for each waning prude To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. CXXXII. Some voices of the buxom middle-­aged   Were also heard to wonder in the din1050 (Widows of forty were these birds long caged)   “Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!” But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,   There was small leisure for superfluous sin;

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lord byron But whether they escaped or no, lies hid1055 In darkness—­I can only hope they did. CXXXIII. Suwarrow now was conqueror—­a match   For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch   Blazed, and the cannon’s roar was scarce allayed,1060 With bloody hands he wrote his first dispatch;   And here exactly follows what he said:— “Glory to God and to the Empress!” (Powers Eternal!! such names mingled!) “Ismail’s our’s.”* CXXXIV. Methinks these are the most tremendous words,1065   Since “Menè, Menè, Tekel,” and “Upharsin,” Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.   Heaven help me! I’m but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-­hand of the Lord’s,   Severe, sublime; the Prophet wrote no farce on1070 The fate of Nations;—but this Russ so witty Could rhyme, like Nero, o’er a burning city. CXXXV. He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,   Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it—1075   For I will teach, if possible, the stones To rise against Earth’s tyrants. Never let it   Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;— But ye—­our children’s children! think how we Showed what things were before the world was free!1080 CXXXVI. That hour is not for us, but ’tis for you   And as, in the great joy of your millennium,

*  In the original Russian— “Slava bogu! slava vam! “Krespost Vzala, y ïä tam.” A kind of couplet; for he was a poet.



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You hardly will believe such things were true   As now occur, I thought that I would pen you ’em; But may their very memory perish too!—1085   Yet if perchance remembered, still disdain you ’em More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. CXXXVII. And when you hear historians talk of thrones,   And those that sate upon them, let it be1090 As we now gaze upon the Mammoth’s bones,   And wonder what old world such things could see, Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,   The pleasant riddles of Futurity— Guessing at what shall happily be hid1095 As the real purpose of a Pyramid. CXXXVIII. Reader! I have kept my word,—at least so far   As the first Canto promised. You have now Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war—   All very accurate, you must allow,1100 And Epic, if plain Truth should prove no bar;   For I have drawn much less with a long bow Than my fore-­runners. Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, CXXXIX. With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.1105   What further hath befallen or may befal The hero of this grand poetic riddle,   I by and bye may tell you, if at all: But now I choose to break off in the middle,   Worn out with battering Ismail’s stubborn wall,1110 While Juan is sent off with the dispatch, For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. CXL. This special honour was conferred, because   He had behaved with courage and humanity;— Which last, men like, when they have time to pause1115

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lord byron   From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gained him some applause,   For saving her amidst the wild insanity Of carnage; and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.1120 CXLI. The Moslem orphan went with her protector,   For she was homeless, houseless, helpless: all Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,   Had perished in the field or by the wall: Her very place of birth was but a spectre1125   Of what it had been; there the Muezzin’s call To prayer was heard no more!—And Juan wept, And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.

Don Juan IX–­X–XI (1823)

DON JUAN Cantos IX.—X.—XI.

CANTO IX I. Oh, Wellington! (or “Vilainton”—for Fame   Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; France could not even conquer your great name,   But punned it down to this facetious phrase— Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) 5   You have obtained great pensions and much praise; Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder “Nay!”* II. I don’t think that you used K—­n—rd quite well   In Marinêt’s affair—­in fact ’twas shabby, 10 And like some other things won’t do to tell   Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old abbey. Upon the rest ’tis not worth while to dwell,   Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby; But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 15 In fact your Grace is still but a young Hero. III. Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,   Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: You have repaired Legitimacy’s crutch,   A prop not quite so certain as before: 20 The Spanish, and the French as well as Dutch,   Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor, (I wish your bards would sing it rather better.) * Query––Ney? Printer’s devil.

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lord byron IV. You are “the best of cut-­throats:”—do not start; 25   The phrase is Shakspeare’s, and not misapplied:— War’s a brain-­spattering, windpipe-­slitting art,   Unless her cause by Right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part,   The World, not the World’s masters, will decide, 30 And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo? V. I am no flatterer—­you’ve supped full of flattery:   They say you like it too—’tis no great wonder: He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 35   At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he   May like being praised for every lucky blunder Called “Saviour of the Nations”—not yet saved, And Europe’s Liberator—­still enslaved. 40 VI. I’ve done. Now go and dine from off the plate   Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate*   A slice or two from your luxurious meals; He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 45   Some hunger too they say the people feels:— There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation. VII. I don’t mean to reflect—­a man so great as   You, my Lord Duke! is far above reflection. 50 The high Roman fashion too of Cincinnatus,

*  “I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with four others. We were sent to break biscuit, and make a mess for Lord Wellington’s hounds. I was very hungry, and thought it a good job at the time, as we got our own fill while we broke the biscuit,––a thing I had not got for some days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal Son was never once out of my mind; and I sighed, as I fed the dogs, over my humble situation and my ruined hopes.”––Journal of a Soldier of the 71st Regt. during the War in Spain.



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  With modern history has but small connection: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,   You need not take them under your direction; And half a Million for your Sabine farm 55 Is rather dear!—I’m sure I mean no harm. VIII. Great men have always scorned great recompenses:   Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses:   George Washington had thanks and nought beside, 60 Except the all-­cloudless Glory (which few men’s is)   To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And as a high-­soul’d Minister of State is Renowned for ruining Great Britain gratis. IX. Never had mortal Man such opportunity, 65   Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fall’n Europe from the Unity   Of Tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now—­What is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?   Now—­that the rabble’s first vain shouts are o’er? 70 Go! hear it in your famished Country’s cries! Behold the World! and curse your victories! X. As these new Cantos touch on warlike feats,  To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 75   But which ’tis time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their Country’s gore and debts,   Must be recited, and—­without a bribe. You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest—­and mankind. 80 XI. Death laughs—­Go ponder o’er the skeleton   With which men image out the unknown thing, That hides the past world, like to a set sun   Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring—

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lord byron Death laughs at all you weep for;—look upon 85   This hourly dread of all! whose threatened sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: Mark! how its lipless mouth grins without breath! XII. Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are!   And yet was what you are: from ear to ear 90 It laughs not—­there is now no fleshy bar   So called; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far   He strips from man that mantle (far more dear Than even the tailor’s) his incarnate skin, 95 White, black, or copper—­the dead bones will grin. XIII. And thus Death laughs,—it is sad merriment,   But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content   With his Superior, in a smile to trample 100 Upon the nothings which are daily spent   Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays—­worlds like atoms—­years like hours? XIV. “To be or not to be! that is the question,” 105   Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephæstion,   Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion,   Than Buonaparte’s cancer:—could I dash on 110 Through fifty victories to shame or fame, Without a stomach—­what were a good name? XV. “Oh dura ilia messorum!”—“Oh   Ye rigid guts of reapers!” I translate For the great benefit of those who know 115   What Indigestion is—­that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.



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  A peasant’s sweat is worth his Lord’s estate: Let this one toil for bread—­that rack for rent, He who sleeps best, may be the most content. 120 XVI. “To be or not to be?”—Ere I decide,   I should be glad to know that which is being? ’Tis true we speculate both far and wide,   And deem, because we see, we are all-­seeing: For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side, 125   Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that Life is Death, Rather than Life a mere affair of breath. XVII. “Que sçais-­je?” was the Motto of Montaigne,   As also of the first Academicians; 130 That all is dubious which Man may attain,   Was one of their most favourite positions. There’s no such thing as certainty, that’s plain   As any of Mortality’s Conditions; So little do we know what we’re about in 135 This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. XVIII. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,   Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?   Your wise men don’t know much of navigation; 140 And swimming long in the abyss of thought   Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. XIX. “But Heaven,” as Cassio says, “is above all,— 145   No more of this then, let us pray!” We have Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall,   Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. “The Sparrow’s fall   Is special providence,” though how it gave 150

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lord byron Offence, we know not; probably it perched Upon the tree which Eve so fondly searched. XX. Oh! ye immortal Gods! what is Theogony?   Oh! thou too mortal Man! what is Philanthropy? Oh! World, which was and is, what is Cosmogony? 155   Some people have accused me of Misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany   That forms this desk, of what they mean;—Lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 160 XXI. But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,   Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne’er Done any thing exceedingly unkind,—   And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind) 165   Have always had a tendency to spare,— Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them:—and here we’ll pause. XXII. ’Tis time we should proceed with our good poem, —   For I maintain that it is really good, 170 Not only in the body, but the proem,   However little both are understood Just now,—but by and by the Truth will show ’em   Herself in her sublimest attitude: And till she doth, I fain must be content 175 To share her Beauty and her Banishment. XXIII. Our Hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours—)   Was left upon his way to the chief City Of the immortal Peter’s polished boors,   Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty. 180 I know its mighty Empire now allures   Much flattery—­even Voltaire’s, and that’s a pity.



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For me, I deem an absolute Autocrat Not a Barbarian, but much worse than that. XXIV. And I will war, at least in words (and—­should 185   My chance so happen—­deeds) with all who war With Thought;—and of Thought’s foes by far most rude,   Tyrants and Sycophants have been and are. I know not who may conquer: if I could   Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 190 To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every despotism in every nation. XXV. It is not that I adulate the people:  Without me, there are Demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple 195   And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow Scepticism to reap Hell,   As is the Christian dogma rather rough, I do not know;—I wish men to be free As much from mobs as kings—­from you as me. 200 XXVI. The consequence is, being of no party,   I shall offend all parties:—never mind! My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty   Than if I sought to sail before the wind. He who has nought to gain can have small art: he 205   Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind, May still expatiate freely, as will I, Nor give my voice to Slavery’s Jackall cry. XXVII. That’s an appropriate simile, that Jackall;—   I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 210 By night, as do that mercenary pack all,   Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, And scent the prey their masters would attack all.   However, the poor Jackalls are less foul

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lord byron (As being the brave Lions’ keen providers) 215 Than human Insects, catering for Spiders. XXVIII. Raise but an arm! ’twill brush their web away,   And without that, their poison and their claws Are useless. Mind, good People! what I say—   (Or rather Peoples)—go on without pause! 220 The web of these Tarantulas each day   Increases, till you shall make common cause: None, save the Spanish Fly and Attic Bee, As yet are strongly stinging to be free. XXIX. Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 225   Was left upon his way with the dispatch, Where Blood was talked of as we would of Water;   And carcases that lay as thick as thatch O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter   Fair Catherine’s pastime—­who looked on the match 230 Between these nations as a main of cocks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. XXX. And there in a kibitka he rolled on,   (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone) 235   Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, And orders, and on all that he had done—   And wishing that post horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or, at the least, Post Chaises Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 240 XXXI. At every jolt—­and they were many—­still   He turned his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wished that she should fare less ill   Than he, in these sad highways left at large To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature’s skill, 245   Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge On her canals, where God takes sea and land, Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.



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XXXII. At least he pays no rent, and has best right   To be the first of what we used to call 250 “Gentlemen Farmers”—a race worn out quite,   Since lately there have been no rents at all, And “Gentlemen” are in a piteous plight,   And “farmers” can’t raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte—­What strange thoughts 255 Arise, when we see Emperors fall with oats! XXXIII. But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child   Whom he had saved from slaughter—­what a trophy! Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled   With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 260 Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,   And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;*— XXXIV. Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, 265  That one life saved, especially if young Or pretty, is a thing to recollect   Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though decked   With all the praises ever said or sung: 270 Though hymned by every harp, unless within Your Heart joins Chorus, Fame is but a din. XXXV. Oh, ye great Authors luminous, voluminous!   Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us! 275   Whether you’re paid by Government in bribes, To prove the public debt is not consuming us—   Or, roughly treading on the “Courtier’s kibes” With clownish heel, your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm’s Starvation;— 280 * He was killed in a Conspiracy, after his temper had been exasperated by his extreme costivity to a degree of insanity.

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lord byron XXXVI. Oh, ye great Authors!—“Apropos des bottes,”   I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater Sages’ lots;—   ’Twas something calculated to allay All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: 285   Certes it would have been but thrown away, And that’s one comfort for my lost advice, Although no doubt it was beyond all price. XXXVII. But let it go:—it will one day be found   With other relics of “a former world,” 290 When this world shall be former, underground,   Thrown topsy–­turvy, twisted, crisped, and curled, Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside-­out, or drowned,   Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled First out of and then back again to Chaos, 295 The Superstratum which will overlay us. XXXVIII. So Cuvier says;—and then shall come again   Unto the new Creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain   Of things destroyed and left in airy doubt: 300 Like to the notions we now entertain   Of Titans, Giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And Mammoths, and your winged Crocodiles. XXXIX. Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! 305   How the new worldlings of the then new East Will wonder where such animals could sup!   (For they themselves will be but of the least: Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,   And every new Creation hath decreased 310 In size, from overworking the material— Men are but maggots of some huge Earth’s burial.)



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XL. How will—­to these young people, just thrust out   From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 315   And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the Arts at length are brought about,   Especially of war and taxing,—how, I say, will these great relics, when they see ’em, Look like the monsters of a new Museum? 320 XLI. But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:   “The time is out of joint,”—and so am I; I quite forget this poem’s merely quizzical,   And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call 325   Much too poetical: Men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next. XLII. So on I ramble, now and then narrating,   Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate: 330 I left Don Juan with his horses baiting—   Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating   His journey, we’ve so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose 335 That pleasant capital of painted Snows; XLIII. Suppose him in an handsome uniform;   A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm,   Over a cocked hat in a crowded room, 340 And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,   Of yellow casimire we may presume, White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

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lord byron XLIV. Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, 345   Made up by Youth, Fame, and an Army tailor— That great Enchanter, at whose rod’s command   Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand,   (When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a jailor),— 350 Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turned a Lieutenant of Artillery! XLV. His Bandage slipped down into a cravāt;   His Wings subdued to epaulettes; his Quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 355   His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His Bow converted into a cocked hat;   But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) If She had not mistaken him for Cupid. 360 XLVI. The courtiers stared, the ladies whispered, and   The Empress smiled; the reigning favourite frowned— I quite forget which of them was in hand   Just then, as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command 365   Since first her Majesty was singly crowned: But they were mostly nervous six-­foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. XLVII. Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,   Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless 370 There was a something in his turn of limb,   And still more in his eye, which seemed to express, That though he looked one of the Seraphim,   There lurked a Man beneath the Spirit’s dress. Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy, 375 And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.*

*  He was the “grande passion” of the grande Catherine. ––See her Lives, under the head of “Lanskoi.”



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XLVIII. No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,   Or Scherbatoff, or any other off Or on, might dread Her Majesty had room enough   Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 380 For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough   Along the aspect whether smooth or rough Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that “high official situation.” XLIX. Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know 385   The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland’s Londonderry’s Marquess* show   His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row,   Which none divine, and every one obeys, 390 Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. L. I think I can explain myself without   That sad inexplicable beast of prey— That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 395   Did not his deeds unriddle them each day— That monstrous Hieroglyphic—­that long Spout   Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight. 400 LI. An English lady asked of an Italian,   What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some Women set a value on,   Which hovers oft about some married Beauties, Called “Cavalier Servente?”—a Pygmalion 405   Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true ’tis) Beneath his Art. The dame, pressed to disclose them, Said—“Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.” *  This was written long before the suicide of that person.

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lord byron LII. And thus I supplicate your supposition,   And mildest, Matron-­like interpretation 410 Of the Imperial Favourite’s Condition.   ’Twas a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion   Of any one’s attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 415 If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. LIII. Juan, I said, was a most beauteous Boy,   And had retained his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy,   With beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 420 Parisian aspect which upset old Troy   And founded Doctors’ Commons:—I have conned The history of divorces, which, though chequered, Calls Ilion’s the first damages on record. LIV. And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, 425   Who was gone to his place) and passed for much, Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorred)   Gigantic Gentlemen, yet had a touch Of Sentiment; and he She most adored   Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 430 A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier. LV. Oh, thou “teterrima Causa” of all “belli”—   Thou gate of Life and Death—­thou nondescript! Whence is our exit and our entrance,—well I 435   May pause in pondering how all Souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:—how man fell, I   Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, Thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 440



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LVI. Some call thee “the worst Cause of war,” but I   Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why   To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? Since no one can deny 445   Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou Sea of Life’s dry Land! LVII. Catherine, who was the grand Epitome   Of that great Cause of war, or peace, or what 450 You please (it causes all the things which be,   So you may take your choice of this or that)— Catherine, I say, was very glad to see   The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 455 With his dispatch, forgot to break the seal. LVIII. Then recollecting the whole Empress, nor   Forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole) she tore   The letter open with an air which posed 460 The Court, that watched each look her visage wore,   Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. LIX. Great joy was hers, or rather joys; the first 465   Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst,   As an East Indian Sunrise on the main. These quenched a moment her Ambition’s thirst—   So Arab Deserts drink in Summer’s rain: 470 In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands!

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lord byron LX. Her next amusement was more fanciful;   She smiled at mad Suwarrow’s rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull 475   The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul   The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things called Sovereigns think it best To kill, and Generals turn it into jest. 480 LXI. The two first feelings ran their course complete,   And lighted first her eye and then her mouth: The whole Court looked immediately most sweet,   Like flowers well watered after a long drouth:— But when on the Lieutenant at her feet 485   Her Majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new dispatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. LXII. Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,  When wroth; while pleased, she was as fine a figure 490 As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,   Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent   With interest, and in turn was wont with Rigour To exact of Cupid’s bills the full amount 495 At sight, nor would permit you to discount. LXIII. With her the latter, though at times convenient,   Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce looked lenient,   And always used her favourites too well. 500 If once beyond her boudoir’s precincts in ye went,   Your “Fortune” was in a fair way “to swell A Man” (as Giles says)*; for though she would widow all Nations, she liked Man as an individual.

*  “His fortune swells him, it is rank, he’s married.”––Sir Giles Overreach; Massinger. See “A New Way to Pay Old Debts.”



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LXIV. What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger 505   Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirl-­pool full of depth and danger   Is all the rest about her! Whether wed, Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her   Mind like the wind: whatever she has said 510 Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do;— The oldest thing on record, and yet new! LXV. Oh Catherine! (for of all Interjections,   To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right In love and war) how odd are the connections 515   Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! Just now yours were cut out in different sections:   First Ismail’s capture caught your fancy quite; Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; And thirdly he who brought you the dispatch! 520 LXVI. Shakspeare talks of “the Herald Mercury   New lighted on a Heaven-­kissing hill;” And some such visions crossed her Majesty,   While her young Herald knelt before her still. ’Tis very true the hill seemed rather high, 525   For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill Smoothed even the Simplon’s steep, and by God’s blessing With Youth and Health all kisses are “heaven-­kissing.” LXVII. Her Majesty looked down, the Youth looked up—   And so they fell in love;—She with his face, 530 His grace, his God-­knows-­what: for Cupid’s cup   With the first draught intoxicates apace, A quintessential laudanum or “black drop,”   Which makes one drunk at once, without the base Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye 535 In love drinks all life’s fountains (save tears) dry.

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lord byron LXVIII. He, on the other hand, if not in love,   Fell into that no less imperious passion, Self-­love—­which, when some sort of Thing above   Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 540 Or duchess, princess, Empress, “deigns to prove”   (’Tis Pope’s phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. LXIX. Besides, he was of that delighted age 545   Which makes all female ages equal—­when We don’t much care with whom we may engage,   As bold as Daniel in the Lion’s den, So that we can our native Sun assuage   In the next Ocean, which may flow just then, 550 To make a twilight in, just as Sol’s heat is Quenched in the lap of the salt Sea, or Thetis. LXX. And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine)   Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing Whose temporary Passion was quite flattering, 555   Because each lover looked a sort of king, Made up upon an amatory pattern,   A royal husband in all save the ring— Which, being the damn’dest part of matrimony, Seemed taking out the sting to leave the honey. 560 LXXI. And when you add to this, her womanhood   In its meridian, her blue eyes, or grey— (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,   Or better, as the best examples say: Napoleon’s, Mary’s (Queen of Scotland) should 565   Lend to that colour a transcendant ray; And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, Too wise to look through Optics black or blue)—



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LXXII. Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,   Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 570 Her preference of a boy to men much bigger,   (Fellows whom Messalina’s self would pension) Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,   With other extras, which we need not mention,— All these, or any one of these, explain 575 Enough to make a stripling very vain. LXXIII. And that’s enough, for love is vanity,   Selfish in its beginning as its end, Except where ’tis a mere Insanity,   A Maddening Spirit which would strive to blend 580 Itself with Beauty’s frail Inanity,   On which the passion’s self seems to depend: And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the Main Spring of the Universe. LXXIV. Besides Platonic love, besides the love 585   Of God, the love of Sentiment, the Loving Of faithful pairs—(I needs must rhyme with dove,   That good old steam-­boat which keeps verses moving ’Gainst Reason—­Reason ne’er was hand-­and-­glove   With rhyme, but always leant less to improving 590 The sound than sense)—besides all these pretences To Love, there are those things which Words name Senses; LXXV. Those movements, those improvements in our bodies,   Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-­pits to mix with a Goddess, 595   For such all Women are at first no doubt. How beautiful that moment! and how odd is   That fever which precedes the languid rout Of our Sensations! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! 600

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lord byron LXXVI. The noblest kind of Love is Love Platonical,   To end or to begin with; the next grand Is that which may be christened Love Canonical,   Because the clergy take the thing in hand; The third sort to be noted in our Chronicle 605   As flourishing in every Christian land, Is, when chaste Matrons to their other ties Add what may be called Marriage in Disguise. LXXVII. Well, we won’t analyze—­our story must   Tell for itself: the Sovereign was smitten, 610 Juan much flattered by her love, or lust;—   I cannot stop to alter words once written, And the two are so mixed with human dust,   That he who names one, both perchance may hit on: But in such matters Russia’s mighty Empress 615 Behaved no better than a common Sempstress. LXXVIII. The whole Court melted into one wide whisper,   And all lips were applied unto all ears! The elder Ladies’ wrinkles curled much crisper   As they beheld; the younger cast some leers 620 On one another, and each lovely lisper   Smiled as she talked the matter o’er; but tears Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by. LXXIX. All the Ambassadors of all the Powers 625   Inquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours?   Which is full soon (though life is but a span.) Already they beheld the silver showers   Of rubles rain, as fast as Specie can, 630 Upon his Cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribbons and some thousand peasants.



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LXXX. Catherine was generous,—all such ladies are:   Love, that great opener of the heart and all The ways that lead there, be they near or far, 635   Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,— Love—(though she had a cursed taste for war,   And was not the best wife, unless we call Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps ’tis better That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)— 640 LXXXI. Love had made Catherine make each lover’s fortune,   Unlike our own half-­chaste Elizabeth, Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,   If history, the grand liar, ever saith The truth; and though Grief her old age might shorten, 645   Because she put a favourite to death, Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, And Stinginess, disgrace her Sex and Station. LXXXII. But when the levee rose, and all was bustle   In the dissolving Circle, all the nations’ 650 Ambassadors began as ’twere to hustle   Round the young man with their congratulations. Also the softer Silks were heard to rustle   Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, 655 Especially when such lead to high places. LXXXIII. Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,   A general object of attention, made His answers with a very graceful bow,   As if born for the Ministerial trade. 660 Though modest, on his unembarrassed brow   Nature had written “gentleman.” He said Little, but to the purpose; and his manner Flung hovering Graces o’er him like a banner.

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lord byron LXXXIV. An order from her Majesty consigned 665   Our young Lieutenant to the genial care Of those in office: all the World looked kind   (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, Which Youth would not act ill to keep in mind)   As also did Miss Protasoff then there, 670 Named from her mystic office “l’Eprouveuse,” A term inexplicable to the Muse. LXXXV. With her then, as in humble duty bound,   Juan retired,—and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 675   We have just lit on a “Heaven-­kissing hill,” So lofty that I feel my brain turn round,   And all my fancies whirling like a mill; Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 680

CANTO X I. When Newton saw an apple fall, he found   In that slight startle from his contemplation— ’Tis said (for I’ll not answer above ground   For any sage’s creed or calculation—) A mode of proving that the earth turned round 5   In a most natural whirl, called “Gravitation;” And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. II. Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,   If this be true; for we must deem the mode 10 In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose   Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes:   For ever since immortal man hath glowed



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With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 15 Steam-­engines will conduct him to the Moon. III. And wherefore this exordium?—Why, just now,   In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow,   And my internal Spirit cut a caper: 20 And though so much inferior, as I know,   To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars, and sail in the wind’s eye, I wish to do as much by Poesy. IV. In the Wind’s Eye I have sailed, and sail; but for 25   The stars, I own my telescope is dim; But at the least I have shunned the common shore,   And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The Ocean of Eternity: the roar   Of Breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 30 But still sea-­worthy skiff; and she may float Where ships have foundered, as doth many a boat. V. We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom   Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush;— And far be it from my Muses to presume 35   (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-­room:   It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip Enjoyment’s wings. 40 VI. But soon they grow again and leave their nest.   “Oh!” saith the Psalmist, “that I had a dove’s Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!”   And who, that recollects young years and loves,— Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 45   And palsied Fancy, which no longer roves

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lord byron Beyond its dimmed eye’s Sphere,—but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather? VII. But sighs subside, and tears (even widows’) shrink,   Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, 50 So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,   Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You’d think   Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth,—its ploughs but change their boys, 55 Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. VIII. But coughs will come when sighs depart—­and now   And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-­like brow   Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the Sun 60 Of life reached ten o’clock: and while a glow,   Hectic and brief as summer’s day nigh done, O’er-­spreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,—how happy they!— IX. But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 65   We left him in the focus of such Glory As may be won by favour of the Moon   Or ladies’ fancies—­rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June,   Because December, with his breath so hoary, 70 Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. X. Besides, he had some qualities which fix   Middle-­aged ladies even more than young: The former know what’s what; while new-­fledged chicks 75   Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks)   In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. Some reckon women by their Suns or Years, I rather think the Moon should date the dears. 80



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XI. And why? Because She’s changeable and chaste.   I know no other reason, whatsoe’er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste,   May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to “their temper or their taste,” 85   As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;—if not, I must. XII. Old enemies who have become new friends   Should so continue—’tis a point of honour; 90 And I know nothing which could make amends   For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like Garlick, howsoever she extends   Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes— 95 Converted foes should scorn to join with those. XIII. This were the worst desertion:—renegadoes,   Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the “reformadoes,”*   Whom he forsook to fill the Laureate’s sty: 100 And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes,   Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not vere round with every breath, nor seize, To pain, the moment when you cease to please. XIV. The lawyer and the critic but behold 105   The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold,   By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old,   The lawyer’s brief is like the surgeon’s knife, 110 Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion. * “Reformers,” or rather “Reformed.” The Baron Bradwardine in Waverley, is authority for the word.

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lord byron XV. A legal broom’s a moral chimney-­sweeper,   And that’s the reason he himself ’s so dirty; The endless soot* bestows a tint far deeper 115   Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper,   At least some twenty-­nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;—Not so you, I own; As Cæsar wore his robe you wear your gown. 120 XVI. And all our little feuds, at least all mine,   Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, (As far as rhyme and criticism combine   To make such puppets of us things below) Are over: Here’s a health to “Auld Lang Syne!” 125   I do not know you, and may never know Your face—­but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. XVII. And when I use the phrase of “Auld Lang Syne!”   ’Tis not addressed to you—­the more’s the pity 130 For me, for I would rather take my wine   With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,—it may seem a schoolboy’s whine,   And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 135 A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,— XVIII. As “Auld Lang Syne” brings Scotland, one and all,   Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie’s Brig’s black wall †,

* Query, suit? Printer’s Devil. † The brig of Don near the “auld toun” of Aberdeen, with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream below, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, though perhaps I may misquote the awful proverb which made me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish delight, being an only son, at least by the Mother’s side. The saying as recollected by me was this, but I have never heard or seen it since I was nine years of age: “Brig of Balgounie, black’s your wa, Wi’a wife’s ae son, and a mear’s ae foal, Doun ye shall fa!” ——



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  All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 140 Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,   Like Banquo’s offspring;—floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not—’tis a glimpse of “Auld Lang Syne.” XIX. And though, as you remember, in a fit 145   Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I railed at Scots to shew my wrath and wit,   Which must be owned was sensitive and surly, Yet ’tis in vain such sallies to permit,   They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: 150 I “scotched not killed” the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of “mountain and of flood.” XX. Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,—   For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real 155   Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And ’gainst the body makes a strong appeal;   And yet ’tis very puzzling on the brink Of what is called Eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;— 160 XXI. Don Juan grew a very polished Russian—   How we won’t mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion   Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion 165   Smoothed for a monarch’s seat of honour: gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. XXII. The favour of the Empress was agreeable;   And though the duty waxed a little hard, 170 Young people at his time of life should be able   To come off handsomely in that regard. He now was growing up like a green tree, able

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lord byron   For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old Age’s tedium 175 Make some prefer the circulating medium. XXIII. About this time, as might have been anticipated,   Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated;   Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 180 On our fresh feelings, but—­as being participated   With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity—­must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-­fish. XXIV. This we pass over. We will also pass 185   The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas!   A young Lieutenant’s with a not old Queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was   In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 190 Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, And wrinkles, the d—­d democrats, won’t flatter. XXV. And Death, the sovereign’s Sovereign, though the great   Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws, the high estate 195   Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small grass-­g rown patch (which must await   Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,— Death’s a reformer, all men must allow. 200 XXVI. He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry   Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-­skins black and furry—   Which (though I hate to say a thing that’s bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 205



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  Through all the “purple and fine linen,” fitter For Babylon’s than Russia’s royal harlot— And neutralize her outward show of Scarlet. XXVII. And this same state we won’t describe: we would   Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; 210 But getting nigh grim Dante’s “obscure wood,”   That horrid Equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-­way house, that rude   Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection Life’s sad post-­horses o’er the dreary frontier 215 Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;— XXVIII. I won’t describe—­that is, if I can help   Description; and I won’t reflect—­that is, If I can stave off thought, which—­as a whelp   Clings to its teat—­sticks to me through the abyss 220 Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp   Holds by the rock; or as a lover’s kiss Drains its first draught of lips:—but, as I said, I won’t philosophize, and will be read. XXIX. Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 225   A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported   Valour; much also to the blood he showed, Like a race-­horse; much to each dress he sported,   Which set the beauty off in which he glowed, 230 As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post. XXX. He wrote to Spain:—and all his near relations,   Perceiving he was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations 235   For cousins also, answered the same day. Several prepared themselves for emigrations;

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lord byron   And, eating ices, were o’erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid’s and Moscow’s climes were of a-­piece. 240 XXXI. His mother, Donna Inez, finding too   That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his assets were waxing rather few,   He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,— Replied, “that she was glad to see him through 245   Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man’s being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expences. XXXII. “She also recommended him to God,   And no less to God’s Son, as well as Mother, 250 Warned him against Greek-­worship, which looks odd   In Catholic eyes; but told him too to smother Outward dislike, which don’t look well abroad;   Informed him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above 255 All, praised the Empress’s maternal love. XXXIII. “She could not too much give her approbation   Unto an Empress, who preferred young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation   And climate, stopped all scandal (now and then):— 260 At home it might have given her some vexation;   But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thawed before the river.” XXXIV. Oh for a forty-­parson power* to chaunt 265   Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn

*  A metaphor taken from the “forty-horse power” of a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Rev. S. S. sitting by a brother Clergyman at dinner, observed afterwards that his dull neighbour had “a twelve-parson-power” of conversation.



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Loud as the Virtues thou dost loudly vaunt,   Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-­trumpet of my good old aunt,   Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 270 Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print. XXXV. She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul,   But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the Elected Roll, 275   Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven’s freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll,   Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others’ properties Into some sixty thousand new knights’ fees. 280 XXXVI. I can’t complain, whose ancestors are there,   Erneis, Radulphus—­eight-­and-­forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err)   Were their reward for following Billy’s banners; And though I can’t help thinking ’twas scarce fair 285   To strip the Saxons of their hydes,* like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You’ll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. XXXVII. The gentle Juan flourished, though at times   He felt like other plants called Sensitive, 290 Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes,   Save such as Southey can afford to give. Perhaps he longed in bitter frosts for climes   In which the Neva’s ice would cease to live Before May-­day: perhaps, despite his duty, 295 In royalty’s vast arms he sighed for beauty:

* “Hyde.”—I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble.

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lord byron XXXVIII. Perhaps—­but, sans perhaps, we need not seek   For causes young or old: the canker-­worm Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek,   As well as further drain the withered form: 300 Care, like a house-­keeper, brings every week   His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. XXXIX. I don’t know how it was, but he grew sick: 305   The Empress was alarmed, and her physician (The same who physicked Peter) found the tick   Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition Which augured of the dead, however quick   Itself, and showed a feverish disposition; 310 At which the whole court was extremely troubled, The sovereign shocked, and all his medicines doubled. XL. Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours:   Some said he had been poisoned by Potemkin; Others talked learnedly of certain tumours, 315   Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; Some said ’twas a concoction of the humours,   Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; Others again were ready to maintain, “ ’Twas only the fatigue of last campaign.” 320 XLI. But here is one prescription out of many:   “Sodæ-­Sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Mannæ optim. Aq. fervent. F. 3. ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennæ   Haustus.” (And here the surgeon came and cupped him) “℞. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanhæ” 325   (With more beside, if Juan had not stopped ’em). “Bolus Potassæ Sulphuret. sumendus, Et Haustus ter in die capiendus.”



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XLII. This is the way physicians mend or end us,   Secundum artem: but although we sneer 330 In health—­when ill, we call them to attend us,   Without the least propensity to jeer: While that “hiatus maxime deflendus”   To be filled up by spade or mattock’s near, Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 335 We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. XLIII. Juan demurred at this first notice to   Quit; and though Death had threatened an ejection, His youth and constitution bore him through,   And sent the doctors in a new direction. 340 But still his state was delicate: the hue   Of health but flickered with a faint reflection Along his wasted cheek, and seemed to gravel The Faculty—­who said that he must travel. XLIV. The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 345   Meridian-­born, to bloom in. This opinion Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim,   Who did not like at first to lose her minion: But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim,   And drooping like an Eagle’s with clipt pinion, 350 She then resolved to send him on a mission, But in a style becoming his condition. XLV. There was just then a kind of a discussion,   A sort of treaty or negociation Between the British cabinet and Russian, 355   Maintained with all the due prevarication With which great states such things are apt to push on;   Something about the Baltic’s navigation, Hides, train-­oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, Which Britons deem their “uti possidetis.” 360

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lord byron XLVI. So Catherine, who had a handsome way   Of fitting out her favourites, conferred This secret charge on Juan, to display   At once her royal splendour, and reward His services. He kissed hands the next day, 365   Received instruction how to play his card, Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, Which showed what great discernment was the donor’s. XLVII. But she was lucky, and luck’s all. Your Queens   Are generally prosperous in reigning; 370 Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means.   But to continue: though her years were waning, Her climacteric teased her like her teens;   And though her dignity brooked no complaining, So much did Juan’s setting off distress her, 375 She could not find at first a fit successor. XLVIII. But Time the comforter will come at last;   And four-­and-­twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed,   Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:— 380 Not that she meant to fix again in haste,   Nor did she find the quantity encumber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation. XLIX. While this high post of honour’s in abeyance, 385   For one or two days, reader, we request You’ll mount with our young hero the conveyance   Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best Barouche, which had the glory to display once   The fair Czarina’s Autocratic crest, 390 When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris, Was given to her favourite,* and now bore his.

*  The Empress went to the Crimea accompanied by the Emperor Joseph, in the year—­I forget which.



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L. A bull-­dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine,   All private favourites of Don Juan; —for (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 395   He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin,   Live animals: an old maid of threescore For cats and birds more penchant ne’er displayed, Although he was not old, nor even a maid;— 400 LI. The animals aforesaid occupied   Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side   Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made ’gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide 405   Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don’t forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. LII. Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile,   And with that gentle, serious character, 410 As rare in living beings as a fossile   Man, ’midst thy mouldy Mammoths, “grand Cuvier!” Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle   With this o’erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 415 Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. LIII. Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as   Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. I cannot tell exactly what it was;   He was not yet quite old enough to prove 420 Parental feelings, and the other class,   Called brotherly affection, could not move His bosom,—for he never had a sister: Ah! if he had, how much he would have missed her!

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lord byron LIV. And still less was it sensual; for besides 425   That he was not an ancient debauchee, (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins’ salt tides,   As Acids rouse a dormant Alkali), Although (’twill happen as our planet guides)   His youth was not the chastest that might be, 430 There was the purest platonism at bottom Of all his feelings—­only he forgot ’em. LV. Just now there was no peril of temptation;   He loved the infant orphan he had saved, As Patriots (now and then) may love a nation; 435   His pride too felt that she was not enslaved Owing to him;—as also her salvation   Through his means and the church’s might be paved. But one thing’s odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted. 440 LVI. ’Twas strange enough she should retain the impression   Thro’ such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; But though three bishops told her the transgression,   She showed a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession; 445   Perhaps she had nothing to confess:—no matter; Whate’er the cause, the church made little of it— She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. LVII. In fact, the only Christian she could bear   Was Juan, whom she seemed to have selected 450 In place of what her home and friends once were.  He naturally loved what he protected: And thus they formed a rather curious pair,   A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; 455 And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.



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LVIII. They journeyed on through Poland and through Warsaw,   Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw   Which gave her dukes the graceless name of “Biron.”* 460 ’Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars saw   Who marched to Moscow, led by Fame, the Syren! To lose by one month’s frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. LIX. Let this not seem an anti-­climax:—“Oh! 465   My Guard! my old guard!” exclaimed that God of Clay. Think of the Thunderer’s falling down below   Carotid-­artery-­cutting Castlereagh! Alas! that glory should be chilled by snow!   But should we wish to warm us on our way 470 Through Poland, there is Kosciusko’s name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla’s flame. LX. From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper,   And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 475   Has lately been the great Professor Kant. Juan, who cared not a tobacco-­stopper   About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postillions. 480 LXI. And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like,   Until he reached the castellated Rhine:— * In the Empress Anne’s time, Biren her favourite assumed the name and arms of the “Birons” of France, which families are yet extant with that of England: there are still the daughters of Courland of the name; one of them I remember seeing in England in the blessed year of the Allies—­the Dutchess of S.—to whom the English Duchess of S––––t presented me as a namesake.

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lord byron Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike   All phantasies, not even excepting mine: A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 485   Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-­seas-­over. LXII. But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn,   Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre 490 Of the good feudal times for ever gone,   On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne,   A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand Maidenheads of bone, 495 The greatest number Flesh hath ever known.* LXIII. From thence to Holland’s Hague and Helvoetsluys,   That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice,   The poor man’s sparkling substitute for riches. 500 Senates and sages have condemned its use—   But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel Good government has left them, seems but cruel. LXIV. Here he embarked, and with a flowing sail 505   Went bounding for the island of the free, Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale:   High dashed the spray, the bows dipped in the sea, And sea-­sick passengers turned somewhat pale;   But Juan, seasoned as he well might be 510 By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs Which passed, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.

*  St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still extant in 1816, and may be so yet, as much as ever.



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LXV. At length they rose, like a white wall along   The blue sea’s border; and Don Juan felt— What even young strangers feel a little strong 515   At the first sight of Albion’s chalky belt— A kind of pride that he should be among   Those haughty shop-­keepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll. 520 LXVI. I have no great cause to love that spot of earth,   Which holds what might have been the noblest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth,   I feel a mixed regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth. 525   Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence, lay one’s old resentments level, When a man’s country’s going to the devil. LXVII. Alas! could She but fully, truly, know   How her great name is now throughout abhorred; 530 How eager all the earth is for the blow   Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe,   That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 535 And now would chain them, to the very mind;— LXVIII. Would she be proud, or boast herself the free,   Who is but first of slaves? The nations are In prison,—but the jailer, what is he?   No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 540 Is the poor privilege to turn the key   Upon the captive, freedom? He’s as far From the enjoyment of the earth and air Who watches o’er the chain, as they who wear.

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lord byron LXIX. Don Juan now saw Albion’s earliest beauties, 545   Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; Thy custom-­house, with all its delicate duties;   Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties   To those who upon land or water dwell; 550 And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. LXX. Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique,   And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, Who did not limit much his bills per week, 555   Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it,— (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek,   Before him summed the awful scroll and read it:) But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, Is free, the respiration’s worth the money. 560 LXXI. On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!   Tramp, tramp o’er pebble, and splash, splash, through puddle; Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!   Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle Along the road, as if they went to bury 565   Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle With “schnapps”—sad dogs! whom “Hundsfot” or “Ferflucter” Affect no more than lightning a conductor. LXXII. Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,   Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 570 As going at full speed—­no matter where its   Direction be, so ’tis but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits:   For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving 575 At the great end of travel—­which is driving.



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LXXIII. They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral;   Black Edward’s helm, and Becket’s bloody stone, Were pointed out as usual by the Bedral,   In the same quaint, uninterested tone:— 580 There’s Glory again for you, gentle Reader! All   Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-­solved into those sodas or magnesias, Which form that bitter draught, the human species. LXXIV. The effect on Juan was of course sublime: 585   He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw That casque, which never stooped except to Time.   Even the bold Churchman’s tomb excited awe, Who died in the then great attempt to climb   O’er kings, who now at least must talk of law, 590 Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, And asked why such a structure had been raised: LXXV. And being told it was “God’s house,” she said   He was well lodged, but only wondered how He suffered Infidels in his homestead, 595   The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low His holy temples in the lands which bred   The True Believers;—and her infant brow Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 600 LXXVI. On, on, through meadows, managed like a garden,   A Paradise of hops and high production; For after years of travel by a bard in   Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 605   The absence of that more sublime construction, Which mixes up vines, olives, precipı ̄ces, Glaciers, volcanos, oranges and ices.

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lord byron LXXVII. And when I think upon a pot of beer——   But I won’t weep!—and so drive on, postillions! 610 As the smart boys spurred fast in their career,   Juan admired these highways of free millions; A country in all senses the most dear   To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, Who “kick against the pricks” just at this juncture, 615 And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. LXXVIII. What a delightful thing’s a turnpike road!   So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad   Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 620 Had such been cut in Phaeton’s time, the God   Had told his son to satisfy his craving With the York mail;—but onward as we roll, “Surgit amari aliquid”—the toll! LXXIX. Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! 625   Take lives, take wives, take aught except men’s purses. As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,   Such is the shortest way to general curses. They hate a murderer much less than a claimant   On that sweet ore which every body nurses.— 630 Kill a man’s family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches’ pocket. LXXX. So said the Florentine: ye Monarchs, hearken   To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, 635   O’er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn Toward the great city.—Ye who have a spark in   Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn According as you take things well or ill;— Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter’s Hill! 640



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LXXXI. The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from   A half-­unquenched volcano, o’er a space Which well beseemed the “Devil’s drawing-­room,”   As some have qualified that wondrous place. But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 645   As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butchered half the earth, and bullied t’other.* LXXXII. A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,   Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 650 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping   In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping   On tiptoe, through their sea-­coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 655 On a fool’s head—­and there is London Town! LXXXIII. But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke   Appeared to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke   The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper:) 660 The gloomy clouds, which o’er it as a yoke   Are bowed, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. LXXXIV. He paused—­and so will I; as doth a crew 665   Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew   Our old acquaintance; and at least I’ll try To tell you truths you will not take as true,   Because they are so;—a male Mrs. Fry, 670 With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. *  India; America.

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lord byron LXXXV. Oh, Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why   Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With C—­lt—­n, or with other houses? Try 675   Your head at hardened and imperial sin. To mend the people’s an absurdity,   A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:—Fie! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 680 LXXXVI. Teach them the decencies of good threescore;   Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,   That hired huzzas redeem no land’s distresses; Tell them Sir W—­ll—­m C—­t—s is a bore, 685   Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. LXXXVII. Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late   On life’s worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 690 To set up vain pretences of being great,   ’Tis not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;   And tell them—— but you won’t, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I’ll prattle 695 Like Roland’s horn in Roncesvalles’ battle.

CANTO XI I. When Bishop Berkeley said “there was no matter,”   And proved it—’twas no matter what he said: They say his system ’tis in vain to batter,   Too subtle for the airiest human head; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter 5



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  Gladly all matters, down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the World a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it. II. What a sublime discovery ’twas to make the   Universe universal Egotism, 10 That all’s ideal—­all ourselves: I’ll stake the   World (be it what you will) that that’s no Schism. Oh, Doubt!—if thou be’st Doubt, for which some take thee,   But which I doubt extremely—­thou sole prism Of the Truth’s rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! 15 Heaven’s brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it. III. For ever and anon comes Indigestion,   (Not the most “dainty Ariel”) and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question:   And that which after all my spirit vexes, 20 Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on,   Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The World, which at the worst’s a glorious blunder— IV. If it be Chance; or if it be according 25   To the old Text, still better:—lest it should Turn out so, we’ll say nothing ’gainst the wording,   As several people think such hazards rude. They’re right; our days are too brief for affording   Space to dispute what no one ever could 30 Decide, and every body one day will Know very clearly—­or at least lie still. V. And therefore will I leave off metaphysical   Discussion, which is neither here nor there: If I agree that what is, is; then this I call 35   Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. The truth is, I’ve grown lately rather phthisical:

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lord byron   I don’t know what the reason is—­the air Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 40 VI. The first attack at once proved the Divinity;  (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil;) The next, the Virgin’s mystical virginity;   The third, the usual Origin of Evil; The fourth at once established the whole Trinity 45   On so uncontrovertible a level, That I devoutly wished the three were four, On purpose to believe so much the more. VII. To our theme.—The man who has stood on the Acropolis,   And looked down over Attica; or he 50 Who has sailed where picturesque Constantinople is,   Or seen Tombuctoo, or hath taken tea In small-­eyed China’s crockery-­ware metropolis,   Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, May not think much of London’s first appearance— 55 But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence? VIII. Don Juan had got out on Shooter’s Hill;   Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill   Where London streets ferment in full activity; 60 While every thing around was calm and still,   Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard,—and that bee-­like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boils over with their scum:— IX. I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 65   Walked on behind his carriage, o’er the summit, And lost in wonder of so great a nation,   Gave way to’t, since he could not overcome it. “And here,” he cried, “is Freedom’s chosen station;



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  Here peals the people’s voice, nor can entomb it 70 Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection Awaits it, each new meeting or election. X. “Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay   But what they please; and if that things be dear, ’Tis only that they love to throw away 75   Their cash, to show how much they have a-­year. Here laws are all inviolate; none lay   Traps for the traveller; every highway’s clear: Here”——he was interrupted by a knife, With,—“Damn your eyes! your money or your life!” — 80 XI. These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads   In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,   Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads 85   Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that Isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. XII. Juan, who did not understand a word   Of English, save their shibboleth, “God damn!” 90 And even that he had so rarely heard,   He sometimes thought ’twas only their “Salām,” Or “God be with you!”—and ’tis not absurd   To think so: for half English as I am (To my misfortune) never can I say 95 I heard them wish “God with you,” save that way;— XIII. Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,   And being somewhat choleric and sudden, Drew forth a pocket-­pistol from his vesture,   And fired it into one assailant’s pudding— 100 Who fell, as rolls an ox o’er in his pasture,

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lord byron   And roared out, as he writhed his native mud in, Unto his nearest follower or henchman, “Oh Jack! I’m floored by that ere bloody Frenchman!” XIV. On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 105   And Juan’s suite, late scattered at a distance, Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,   And offering, as usual, late assistance. Juan, who saw the Moon’s late minion bleed   As if his veins would pour out his existence, 110 Stood calling out for bandages and lint, And wished he had been less hasty with his flint. XV. “Perhaps,” thought he, “it is the country’s wont   To welcome foreigners in this way: now I recollect some innkeepers who don’t 115   Differ, except in robbing with a bow, In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.   But what is to be done? I can’t allow The fellow to lie groaning on the road: So take him up; I’ll help you with the load.” 120 XVI. But ere they could perform this pious duty,   The dying man cried, “Hold! I’ve got my gruel! Oh! for a glass of max! We’ve miss’d our booty;   Let me die where I am!” And as the fuel Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 125   The drops fell from his death-­wound, and he drew ill His breath,—he from his swelling throat untied A kerchief, crying “Give Sal that!”—and died. XVII. The cravat stained with bloody drops fell down   Before Don Juan’s feet: he could not tell 130 Exactly why it was before him thrown,   Nor what the meaning of the man’s farewell. Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,   A thorough varmint, and a real swell,



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Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, 135 His pockets first and then his body riddled. XVIII. Don Juan, having done the best he could   In all the circumstances of the case, As soon as “Crowner’s ’quest” allowed, pursued   His travels to the capital apace;— 140 Esteeming it a little hard he should   In twelve hours’ time, and very little space, Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native In self-­defence: this made him meditative. XIX. He from the world had cut off a great man, 145   Who in his time had made heroic bustle. Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,   Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle? Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow-­street’s ban)   On the high toby-­spice so flash the muzzle? 150 Who on a lark, with black-­eyed Sal (his blowing) So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?* XX. But Tom’s no more—­and so no more of Tom.   Heroes must die; and by God’s blessing ’tis

*  The advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days: “On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, In spite of each gallows old scout; If you at the spellken can’t hustle, You’ll be hobbled in making a Clout. “Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty, When she hears of your scaly mistake, She’ll surely turn snitch for the forty— That her Jack may be regular weight.” If there be any Gemman so ignorant as to require a traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugilism; who I trust still retains the strength and symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good-humour and athletic as well as mental accomplishments.

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lord byron Not long before the most of them go home. 155   Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is That Juan’s chariot, rolling like a drum   In thunder, holds the way it can’t well miss, Through Kennington and all the other “tons,” Which make us wish ourselves in town at once;— 160 XXI. Through Groves, so called as being void of trees,  (Like lucus from no light;) through prospects named Mounts Pleasant, as containing nought to please,   Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 165   With “To be let,” upon their doors proclaimed; Through “Rows” most modestly called “Paradise,” Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;— XXII. Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl   Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; 170 Here taverns wooing to a pint of “purl,”   There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barber’s blocks with periwigs in curl   In windows; here the lamplighter’s infusion Slowly distilled into the glimmering glass, 175 (For in those days we had not got to gas; —) XXIII. Through this, and much, and more, is the approach   Of travellers to mighty Babylon: Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,   With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 180 I could say more, but do not choose to encroach   Upon the guide-­book’s privilege. The Sun Had set some time, and night was on the ridge Of twilight, as the party crossed the bridge. XXIV. That’s rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis— 185   Who vindicates a moment too his stream— Though hardly heard through multifarious “damme’s.”



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  The lamps of Westminster’s more regular gleam, The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is   A spectral resident—­whose pallid beam 190 In shape of moonshine hovers o’er the pile— Make this a sacred part of Albion’s Isle. XXV. The Druid’s groves are gone—­so much the better:   Stone-­Henge is not—­but what the devil is it?— But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 195   That madmen may not bite you on a visit; The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;   The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it) To me appears a stiff yet grand erection; But then the Abbey’s worth the whole collection. 200 XXVI. The line of lights too up to Charing Cross,   Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation Like gold as in comparison to dross,   Matched with the Continent’s illumination, Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. 205   The French were not yet a lamp-­lighting nation, And when they grew so—­on their new-­found lanthorn, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. XXVII. A row of gentlemen along the streets   Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 210 As also bonfires made of country seats;   But the old way is best for the purblind: The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,   A sort of Ignis-­fatuus to the mind, Which, though ’tis certain to perplex and frighten, 215 Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. XXVIII. But London’s so well lit, that if Diogenes   Could recommence to hunt his honest man, And found him not amidst the various progenies   Of this enormous city’s spreading spawn, 220

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lord byron ’Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his   Yet undiscovered treasure. What I can, I’ve done to find the same throughout life’s journey, But see the world is only one attorney. XXIX. Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 225   Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner As thundered knockers broke the long sealed spell   Of doors ’gainst duns, and to an early dinner Admitted a small party as night fell,—   Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 230 Pursued his path, and drove past some Hotels, St. James’s Palace and St. James’s “Hells.”* XXX. They reached the Hotel: forth streamed from the front door   A tide of well-­clad waiters, and around The mob stood, and as usual several score 235   Of those Pedestrian Paphians, who abound In decent London, when the daylight’s o’er;   Commodious but immoral, they are found Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.— But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 240 XXXI. Into one of the sweetest of hotels,   Especially for foreigners—­and mostly For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,   And cannot find a bill’s small items costly. There many an Envoy either dwelt or dwells, 245   (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie) Until to some conspicuous square they pass, And blazon o’er the door their names in brass.

*  “Hells,” gaming-houses. What their number may now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age I knew them pretty accurately, both “gold” and “silver.” I was once nearly called out by an acquaintance because when he asked me where I thought his soul would be found hereafter, I answered “In Silver Hell.”



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XXXII. Juan, whose was a delicate commission,   Private, though publicly important, bore 250 No title to point out with due precision   The exact affair on which he was sent o’er. ’Twas merely known that on a secret mission   A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, Young, handsome and accomplished, who was said 255 (In whispers) to have turned his sovereign’s head. XXXIII. Some rumour also of some strange adventures   Had gone before him, and his wars and loves; And as romantic heads are pretty painters,   And, above all, an Englishwoman’s roves 260 Into the excursive, breaking the indentures   Of sober reason, wheresoe’er it moves, He found himself extremely in the fashion, Which serves our thinking people for a passion. XXXIV. I don’t mean that they are passionless, but quite 265   The contrary; but then ’tis in the head; Yet as the consequences are as bright   As if they acted with the heart instead, What after all can signify the site   Of ladies’ lucubrations? So they lead 270 In safety to the place for which you start, What matters if the road be head or heart? XXXV. Juan presented in the proper place,   To proper placemen, every Russ credential; And was received with all the due grimace, 275   By those who govern in the mood potential, Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,   Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) That they as easily might do the youngster, As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 280

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lord byron XXXVI. They erred, as aged men will do; but by   And by we’ll talk of that; and if we don’t, ’Twill be because our notion is not high   Of politicians and their double front, Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:— 285   Now what I love in women is, they won’t Or can’t do otherwise than lie, but do it So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. XXXVII. And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but   The truth in masquerade; and I defy 290 Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests to put   A fact without some leaven of a lie. The very shadow of true Truth would shut   Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy—­except it should be dated 295 Some years before the incidents related. XXXVIII. Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now   Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? She rings the world’s “Te Deum,” and her brow   Blushes for those who will not:—but to sigh 300 Is idle; let us like most others bow,   Kiss hands, feet, any part of Majesty, After the good example of “Green Erin,” Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing. XXXIX. Don Juan was presented, and his dress 305   And mien excited general admiration— I don’t know which was most admired or less:   One monstrous diamond drew much observation, Which Catherine in a moment of “ivresse”   (In love or brandy’s fervent fermentation) 310 Bestowed upon him, as the public learned; And, to say truth, it had been fairly earned.



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XL. Besides the Ministers and underlings,   Who must be courteous to the accredited Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 315   Until their royal riddle’s fully read, The very clerks,—those somewhat dirty springs   Of office, or the House of Office, fed By foul corruption into streams,—even they Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 320 XLI. And insolence no doubt is what they are   Employed for, since it is their daily labour, In the dear offices of peace or war;   And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, When for a passport, or some other bar 325   To freedom, he applied (a grief and ā bore) If he found not this spawn of tax-­born riches, Like lap-­dogs, the least civil sons of b——s. XLII. But Juan was received with much “empressement:”—   These phrases of refinement I must borrow 330 From our next neighbour’s land, where, like a chessman,   There is a move set down for joy or sorrow Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man   In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, More than on continents—­as if the sea 335 (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. XLIII. And yet the British “Damme’s” rather Attic:   Your Continental oaths are but incontinent, And turn on things which no Aristocratic   Spirit would name, and therefore even I won’t anent* 340

*  “Anent” was a Scotch phrase meaning “concerning”—“with regard to:” It has been made English by the Scotch Novels; and as the Frenchman said—“If it be not, ought to be English.”

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lord byron This subject quote; as it would be schismatic   In politesse, and have a sound affronting in’t:— But “Damme’s” quite ethereal, though too daring— Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. XLIV. For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home; 345   For true or false politeness (and scarce that Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam—   The first the emblem (rarely though) of what You leave behind, the next of much you come   To meet. However, ’tis no time to chat 350 On general topics: poems must confine Themselves to Unity, like this of mine. XLV. In the Great World,—which being interpreted   Meaneth the West or worst end of a city, And about twice two thousand people bred 355   By no means to be very wise or witty, But to sit up while others lie in bed,   And look down on the Universe with pity,— Juan, as an inveterate Patrician, Was well received by persons of condition. 360 XLVI. He was a bachelor, which is a matter   Of import both to Virgin and to Bride, The former’s hymeneal hopes to flatter;   And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) ’Tis also of some moment to the latter: 365   A rib’s a thorn in a wed Gallant’s side, Requires decorum, and is apt to double The horrid sin—­and what’s still worse, the trouble. XLVII. But Juan was a bachelor—­of arts,   And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had 370 An air as sentimental as Mozart’s   Softest of melodies; and could be sad Or cheerful, without any “flaws or starts,”



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  Just at the proper time; and though a lad, Had seen the world—­which is a curious sight, 375 And very much unlike what people write. XLVIII. Fair virgins blushed upon him; wedded dames   Bloomed also in less transitory hues; For both commodities dwell by the Thames,   The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse, 380 Against his heart preferred their usual claims,   Such as no gentleman can quite refuse; Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers Enquired his income, and if he had brothers. XLIX. The milliners who furnish “drapery Misses”* 385   Throughout the season, upon speculation Of payment ere the honey moon’s last kisses   Have waned into a crescent’s coruscation, Thought such an opportunity as this is,   Of a rich foreigner’s initiation, 390 Not to be overlooked—­and gave such credit, That future bridegrooms swore, and sighed, and paid it. L. The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o’er sonnets,   And with the pages of the last Review Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 395   Advanced in all their azure’s highest hue: They talked bad French of Spanish, and upon its   Late authors asked him for a hint or two;

* “Drapery Misses.” This term is probably anything now but a mystery. It was however almost so to me when I first returned from the East in 1811–1812. It means a pretty, a highborn, a fashionable young female, well instructed by her friends, and furnished by her milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, when married, by the husband. The riddle was first read to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my praising the “drapery” of an “untochered” but “pretty virginities” (like Mrs. Anne Page) of the then day, which has now been some years yesterday:— she assured me that the thing was common in London; and as her own thousands and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of array, put any suspicion in her own case out of the question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, authorities might be cited, in which case I could quote both “drapery” and the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it is now obsolete.

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lord byron And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? 400 LI. Juan, who was a little superficial,   And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examined by this learned and especial   Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: His duties warlike, loving, or official, 405   His steady application as a dancer, Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, Which now he found was blue instead of green. LII. However, he replied at hazard, with   A modest confidence and calm assurance, 410 Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,   And passed for arguments of good endurance. That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith,   (Who at sixteen translated “Hercules Furens” Into as furious English) with her best look, 415 Set down his sayings in her Common-­place book. LIII. Juan knew several languages—­as well   He might—­and brought them up with skill, in time To save his fame with each accomplished belle,   Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 420 There wanted but this requisite to swell   His qualities (with them) into sublime: Lady Fitz-­Frisky, and Miss Mævia Mannish, Both longed extremely to be sung in Spanish. LIV. However, he did pretty well, and was 425   Admitted as an aspirant to all The Coteries, and, as in Banquo’s glass,   At great assemblies or in parties small, He saw ten thousand living authors pass,   That being about their average numeral; 430



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Also the eighty “greatest living poets,” As every paltry magazine can show its. LV. In twice five years the “greatest living poet,”   Like to the champion in the fisty ring, Is called on to support his claim, or show it, 435   Although ’tis an imaginary thing. Even I—­albeit I’m sure I did not know it,   Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king,— Was reckoned, a considerable time, The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 440 LVI. But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero   My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain: “La Belle Alliance” of dunces down at zero,   Now that the Lion’s fall’n, may rise again: But I will fall at least as fell my hero; 445   Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of Jailors go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. LVII. Sir Walter reigned before me; Moore and Campbell   Before and after; but now grown more holy, 450 The Muses upon Sion’s hill must ramble   With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   * 455 *   *   *   *   *   *   * LVIII. *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   * 460 *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   *

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lord byron *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *   *   * LIX. Then there’s my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 465   Sets up for being a sort of moral me; He’ll find it rather difficult some day   To turn out both, or either, it may be. Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway;   And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three; 470 And that deep-­mouthed Bœotian “Savage Landor” Has taken for a swan rogue Southey’s gander. LX. John Keats, who was killed off by one critique,   Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible,—without Greek 475   Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak.   Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; ’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* Should let itself be snuffed out by an Article. 480 LXI. The list grows long of live and dead pretenders   To that which none will gain—­or none will know The Conqueror at least; who, ere time renders   His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-­out brain, and sapless cinders. 485   If I might augur, I should rate but low Their chances;—they’re too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Rome’s annals waxed but dirty. LXII. This is the literary lower Empire,   Where the Prætorian bands take up the matter;— 490 A “dreadful trade,” like his who “gathers samphire,”   The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, *  “Divinæ Particulam Auræ.”



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With the same feelings as you’d coax a vampire.   Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, I’d try conclusions with those Janizaries, 495 And show them what an intellectual war is. LXIII. I think I know a trick or two, would turn   Their flanks;—but it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern:   Indeed I’ve not the necessary bile; 500 My natural temper’s really aught but stern,   And even my Muse’s worst reproof ’s a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsey, And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. LXIV. My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 505   Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past With some small profit through that field so sterile.   Being tired in time, and neither least nor last Left it before he had been treated very ill;   And henceforth found himself more gaily classed 510 Amongst the higher spirits of the day, The sun’s true son, no vapour, but a ray. LXV. His morns he passed in business—­which dissected,   Was like all business, a laborious nothing, That leads to lassitude, the most infected 515   And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,   And talk in tender horrors of our loathing All kinds of toil, save for our country’s good— Which grows no better, though ’tis time it should. 520 LXVI. His afternoons he passed in visits, luncheons,   Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour In riding round those vegetable puncheons   Called “Parks,” where there is neither fruit nor flower

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lord byron Enough to gratify a bee’s slight munchings; 525   But after all it is the only “bower,” (In Moore’s phrase) where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. LXVII. Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!   Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar 530 Through street and square fast flashing chariots, hurled   Like harnessed meteors; then along the floor Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirled;   Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, Which opens to the thousand happy few 535 An earthly Paradise of “Or Molu.” LXVIII. There stands the noble Hostess, nor shall sink   With the three-­thousandth curtsey; there the Waltz, The only dance which teaches girls to think,   Makes one in love even with its very faults. 540 Saloon, room, hall, o’erflow beyond their brink,   And long the latest of arrivals halts, ’Midst royal dukes and dames condemned to climb, And gain an inch of staircase at a time. LXIX. Thrice happy he, who, after a survey 545   Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that’s in, or boudoir out of the way,   Where he may fix himself like small “Jack Horner,” And let the Babel round run as it may,   And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 550 Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later. LXX. But this won’t do, save by and by; and he   Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 555   Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where He deems it is his proper place to be;



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  Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. 560 LXXI. Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views   Upon an heiress or his neighbour’s bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues   Is not at once too palpably descried. Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 565   His haste: impatience is a blundering guide Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circumspection. LXXII. But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;   Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:— 570 Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper   In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon Memory’s crupper,   The ghost of vanished pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 575 Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. LXXIII. But these precautionary hints can touch   Only the common run, who must pursue, And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much   Or little overturns; and not the few 580 Or many (for the number’s sometimes such)   Whom a good mien, especially if new, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, Permits whate’er they please, or did not long since. LXXIV. Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 585   Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom   Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some   Talk about poetry, and “rack and manger,” 590

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lord byron And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;— I wish they knew the life of a young noble. LXXV. They are young, but know not youth—­it is anticipated;   Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; 595   Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew; Both senates see their nightly votes participated   Between the tyrant’s and the tribunes’ crew; And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, The family vault receives another lord. 600 LXXVI. “Where is the world,” cries Young, “at eighty? Where   The world in which a man was born?” Alas! Where is the world of eight years past? ’Twas there—   I look for it—’tis gone, a Globe of Glass! Cracked, shivered, vanished, scarcely gazed on, ere 605   A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind’s wings. LXXVII. Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows:   Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: 610 Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those   Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?   And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well? Where are those martyred Saints the Five per Cents? 615 And where—­oh where the devil are the rents! LXXVIII. Where’s Brummel? Dished. Where’s Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.   Where’s Whitbread? Romilly? Where’s George the Third? Where is his will? (That’s not so soon unriddled)   And where is “Fum” the Fourth, our “royal bird?” 620 Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled   Unto by Sawney’s violin, we have heard:



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“Caw me, caw thee”—for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. LXXIX. Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? 625   The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old Opera hat,   Married, unmarried, and remarried: (this is An evolution oft performed of late.)   Where are the Dublin shouts—­and London hisses? 630 Where are the Grenvilles? Turned as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. LXXX. Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?   Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,— 635   Thou Morning Post, sole record of the pannels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies   Of fashion,—say what streams now fill those channels? Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 640 LXXXI. Some who once set their caps at cautious Dukes,   Have taken up at length with younger brothers: Some heiresses have bit at sharpers’ hooks;   Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers; Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: 645   In short, the list of alterations bothers. There’s little strange in this, but something strange is The unusual quickness of these common changes. LXXXII. Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven   I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 650 The humblest individual under heaven,   Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even   Change grows too changeable, without being new:

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lord byron Nought’s permanent among the human race, 655 Except the Whigs not getting into place. LXXXIII. I have seen Napoleon, who seemed quite a Jupiter,   Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke (No matter which) turn politician stupider,   If that can well be, than his wooden look. 660 But it is time that I should hoist my “blue Peter”   And sail for a new theme:—I have seen—­and shook To see it—­the King hissed, and then carest; And don’t pretend to settle which was best. LXXXIV. I have seen the landholders without a rap— 665   I have seen Johanna Southcote—­I have seen The House of Commons turned to a tax-­trap—   I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen— I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool’s cap—   I have seen a Congress doing all that’s mean— 670 I have seen some nations like o’erloaded asses Kick off their burthens—­meaning the high classes. LXXXV. I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and  Interminable—­ not eternal—­speakers— I have seen the Funds at war with house and land— 675   I’ve seen the Country Gentlemen turn squeakers— I’ve seen the people ridden o’er like sand   By slaves on horseback—­I have seen malt liquors Exchanged for “thin potations” by John Bull— I have seen John half detect himself a fool.— 680 LXXXVI. But “Carpe diem,” Juan, “Carpe, carpe!”   To-­morrow sees another race as gay And transient, and devoured by the same harpy.   “Life’s a poor player,”—then “play out the play, Ye villains!” and above all keep a sharp eye 685   Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see.



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LXXXVII. But how shall I relate in other Cantos   Of what befell our hero in the land, 690 Which ’tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as   A moral country? But I hold my hand— For I disdain to write an Atalantis;   But ’tis as well at once to understand, You are not a moral people, and you know it 695 Without the aid of too sincere a poet. LXXXVIII. What Juan saw and underwent, shall be   My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is required by proper courtesy;   And recollect the work is only fiction, 700 And that I sing of neither mine nor me,   Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant. Ne’er doubt This—­when I speak, I don’t hint, but speak out. LXXXIX. Whether he married with the third or fourth 705   Offspring of some sage, husband-­hunting Countess, Or whether with some virgin of more worth   (I mean in Fortune’s matrimonial bounties) He took to regularly peopling Earth,   Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,— 710 Or whether he was taken in for damages, For being too excursive in his homages,— XC. Is yet within the unread events of time.   Thus far, go forth, thou lay! which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 715   For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime,   By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better!—I may stand alone, And would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 720

from JOURNAL IN CEPHALONIA June 19th, 1823 The Dead have been awakened—­shall I sleep?   The World’s at war with tyrants—­shall I crouch? The harvest’s ripe—­and shall I pause to reap?   I slumber not—the thorn is in my Couch— Each day a trumpet soundeth in mine ear— 5   Its Echo in my heart— — Mataxata—­Cephalonia—­Septr. 28th. 1823 On the sixteenth (I think) of July I sailed from Genoa in the English Brig Hercules—­Jno. Scott Master—­on the 17th. a Gale of wind occasioning confusion and threatening damage to the horses in the hold—­we bore up again for the same port—­where we remained four and twenty hours longer and then put to sea—­touched at Leghorn—­and pursued our voyage by the straits of Messina for Greece—­passing within sight of Elba—­Corsica—­the Lipari islands including Stromboli Sicily Italy &c.—about the 4th of August we anchored off Argostoli, the chief harbour of the Island of Cephalonia.— — Here I had some expectation of hearing from Capt. B[laquiere] who was on a mission from the G[ree]k Committee in London to the Gr[eek] Provisional Gov[ernmen]t of the Morea—­but rather to my surprise learned that he was on his way home—­though his latest letters to me from the peninsula—­after expressing an anxious wish that I should come up without delay—­stated further that he intended to remain in the Country for the present.— —I have since received various letters from him addrest to Genoa—­and forwarded to the Islands—­partly explaining the cause of his unexpected return—­and also (contrary to his former opinion) requesting me not to proceed to Greece yet, for sundry reasons, some of importance.—I sent a boat to Corfu in the hopes of finding him still there—­but he had already sailed for Ancona.— In the island of Cephalonia Colonel Napier commanded in chief as Resident—­and Col. Duffie the 8th. a King’s regiment then forming the Garrison. We were received by both those Gentlemen—­and indeed by all the Officers as well as the Civilians with the greatest kindness and hospitality—­ which if we did not deserve—­I still hope that we have done nothing to forfeit—­ and it has continued unabated—­ even since the Gloss of new acquaintance has been worn away by frequent intercourse.— —We have



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learned what has since been fully confirmed—­that the Greeks are in a state of political dissention amongst themselves—­that Mavrocordato was dismissed or had resigned (L’Un vaut bien l’autre) and that Colocotroni with I know not what or whose party was paramount in the Morea.—The Turks were in force in Acarnania &c. and the Turkish fleet blockaded the coast from Missolonghi to Chiarenza—­and subsequently to Navarino— —the Greek Fleet from the want of means or other causes remained in port in Hydra—­Ipsara and Spezas—and for aught that is yet certainly known may be there still. As rather contrary to my expectations I had no advices from Peloponnesus—­and had also letters to receive from England from the Committee I determined to remain for the interim in the Ionian Islands—­especially as it was difficult to land on the opposite coast without risking the confiscation of the Vessel and her Contents—­which Capt. Scott naturally enough declined to do—­unless I would insure to him the full amount of his possible damage.— — To pass the time we had made a little excursion over the mountains to Saint Eufemia—­by worse roads than I ever met in the course of some years of travel in rough places of many countries.—At Saint Euphemia we embarked for Ithaca—­and made the tour of that beautiful Island—­as a proper pendant to the Troad which I had visited several years before.—The hospitality of Capt. Knox (the resident) and his lady was in no respect inferior to that of our military friends of Cephalonia.—That Gentleman with Mrs. K.  and some of their friends conducted us to the fountain of Arethusa—­which alone would be worth the voyage—­but the rest of the Island is not inferior in attraction to the admirers of Nature;—the arts and tradition I leave to the Antiquaries,— and so well have those Gentlemen contrived to settle such questions—­that as the existence of Troy is disputed—­so that of Ithaca (as Homer’s Ithaca i.e.) is not yet admitted.—Though the month was August and we had been cautioned against travelling in the Sun—­yet as I had during my former experience never suffered from the heat as long as I continued in motion—­I was unwilling to lose so many hours of the day on account of a sunbeam more or less—­and though our party was rather numerous no one suffered either illness or inconvenience as far as could be observed, though one of the Servants (a Negro)—declared that it was as hot as in the West Indies.—I had left our thermometer on board—­so could not ascertain the precise degree.—We returned to Saint Eufemia and passed over to the monastery of Samos on the opposite part of the bay and proceeded next day to Argostoli by a better road than the path to Saint Eufemia.—The land Journey was made on Mules.—— Some days after our return, I heard that there were letters for me at Zante—­but a considerable delay took place before the Greek to whom they were consigned had them properly forwarded—­and I was at length indebted to Col. Napier for obtaining them for me;—what occasioned the demur or delay—­was never explained.—I learned by my advices from England—­the request of the Committee that I would act as their representative near the

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G[ree]k Gov[ernmen]t and take charge of the proper disposition and delivery of certain Stores &c. &c. expected by a vessel which has not yet arrived up to the present date (Septr. 28th)—Soon after my arrival I took into my own pay a body of forty Suliotes under the Chiefs Photomara—­ Giavella—­ and Drako—­and would probably have increased the number—­but I found them not quite united among themselves in any thing except raising their demands on me—­although I had given a dollar per man more each month—than they could receive from the G[ree]k Gov[overnmen]t and they were destitute at the time I took them of every thing.——I had acceded too to their own demand—­and paid them a month in advance.— —But set on probably by some of the trafficking shopkeepers with whom they were in the habit of dealing on credit—­they made various attempts at what I thought extortion—­so that I called them together stating my view of the case—­and declining to take them on with me—­but I offered them another month’s pay—­and the price of their passage to Acarnania—­where they could now easily go as the Turkish fleet was gone—­and the blockade removed.—This part of them accepted—­ and they went accordingly.—Some difficulty arose about restoring their arms by the Septinsular Gov[overnmen]t but these were at length obtained—­and they are now with their compatriots in Etolia or Acarnania.— — I also transferred to the resident in Ithaca—­the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars for the refugees there—­and I had conveyed to Cephalonia—­a Moriote family who were in the greatest helplessness—­and provided them with a house and decent maintenance under the protection of Messrs. Corgialegno—­wealthy merchants of Argostoli—­to whom I had been recommended by my Correspondents.— —I had caused a letter to be written to Marco Bozzari the acting Commander of a body of troops in Acarnania—­for whom I had letters of recommended [sic];—his answer was probably the last he ever signed or dictated—­for he was killed in action the very day after it’s date—­with the character of a good Soldier—­and an honourable man—­which are not always found together nor indeed separately.— —I was also invited by Count Metaxa the Governor of Missolonghi to go over there—­but it was ne­ces­sary in the present state of parties that I should have some communication with the existing Gov[ernmen]t on the subject of their opinion where I might be—­if not most useful—­at any rate least obnoxious.— — As I did not come here to join a faction but a nation—­and to deal with honest men and not with speculators or peculators—(charges bandied about daily by the Greeks of each other) it will require much circumspection to avoid the character of a partizan—­and I perceive it to be the more difficult—­as I have already received invitations from more than one of the contending parties—­always under the pretext that they are the “real Simon Pure”.— —After all—­one should not despair—­though all the foreigners that I have hitherto met with from amongst the Greeks—­are going or gone back disgusted.—



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Whoever goes into Greece at present should do it as Mrs. Fry went into Newgate—­not in the expectation of meeting with any especial indication of existing probity—­but in the hope that time and better treatment will reclaim the present burglarious and larcenous tendencies which have followed this General Gaol delivery.—When the limbs of the Greeks are a little less stiff from the shackles of four centuries—­they will not march so much “as if they had gyves on their legs”.— —At present the Chains are broken indeed—­but the links are still clanking—­and the Saturnalia is still too recent to have converted the Slave into a sober Citizen.—The worst of them is—­that (to use a coarse but the only expression that will not fall short of the truth) they are such d----d liars;—there never was such an incapacity for veracity shown since Eve lived in Paradise.—One of them found fault the other day with the English language—­because it had so few shades of a Negative—­whereas a Greek can so modify a No—­to a yes—­and vice versa—­by the slippery qual­ ities of his language—­that prevarication may be carried to any extent and still leave a loop-­hole through which perjury may slip without being perceived.— —This was the Gentleman’s own talk—­and is only to be doubted because in the words of the Syllogism—“Now Epimenides was a Cretan”. But they may be mended by and bye.—

Don Juan XII–­X III–­X IV (1823)

DON JUAN Cantos XII.—XIII.—XIV.

CANTO XII. I. Of all the barbarous Middle Ages, that   Which is most barbarous is the middle age Of man; it is—­I really scarce know what;   But when we hover between fool and sage, And don’t know justly what we would be at,— 5   A period something like a printed page, Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;— II. Too old for youth,—too young, at thirty-­five,   To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore,— 10 I wonder people should be left alive;   But since they are, that epoch is a bore: Love lingers still, although ’twere late to wive;   And as for other love, the illusion’s o’er; And money, that most pure imagination, 15 Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. III. O Gold! Why call we misers miserable?   Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower-­anchor, the chain cable   Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 20 Ye who but see the saving man at table,   And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, Know not what visions spring from each cheese-­paring. IV. Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker; 25   Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss;

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lord byron But making money, slowly first, then quicker,   And adding still a little through each cross (Which will come over things) beats love or liquor,   The gamester’s counter, or the statesman’s dross. 30 O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. V. Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign   O’er Congress, whether royalist or liberal? Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain? 35   (That make old Europe’s journals squeak and gibber all.) Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain   Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? The shade of Bonaparte’s noble daring?— Jew Rothschild, and his fellow Christian Baring. 40 VI. Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte,   Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan Is not a merely speculative hit,   But seats a nation or upsets a throne. Republics also get involved a bit; 45   Columbia’s stock hath holders not unknown On ’Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, Must get itself discounted by a Jew. VII. Why call the miser miserable? as   I said before: the frugal life is his, 50 Which in a saint or cynic ever was   The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-­same cause,   And wherefore blame gaunt wealth’s austerities? Because, you’ll say, nought calls for such a trial;— 55 Then there’s more merit in his self-­denial. VIII. He is your only poet;—passion, pure   And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays



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Possess’d, the ore, of which mere hopes allure   Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays 60 Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;   On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; While the mild emerald’s beam shades down the dyes Of other stones, to soothe the miser’s eyes. IX. The lands on either side are his: the ship 65   From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip;   Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora’s lip;   His very cellars might be kings’ abodes; 70 While he, despising every sensual call, Commands—­the intellectual lord of all. X. Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,   To build a college, or to found a race, A hospital, a church,—and leave behind 75   Some dome surmounted by his meagre face: Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind   Even with the very ore which makes them base; Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, Or revel in the joys of calculation. 80 XI. But whether all, or each, or none of these   May be the hoarder’s principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease:—   What is his own? Go—­look at each transaction, Wars, revels, loves—­do these bring men more ease 85   Than the mere plodding through each “vulgar fraction?” Or do they benefit mankind? Lean Miser! Let spendthrifts’ heirs inquire of yours—­who’s wiser? XII. How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests   Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 90

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lord byron (Not of old Victors, all whose heads and crests   Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests   Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:— 95 Yes! ready money is Aladdin’s lamp. XIII. “Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,”—“for Love   Is Heaven, and Heaven is Love:”—so sings the bard; Which it were rather difficult to prove,   (A thing with poetry in general hard.) 100 Perhaps there may be something in “the grove,”   At least it rhymes to “Love;” but I’m prepared To doubt (no less than Landlords of their rental) If “courts” and “camps” be quite so sentimental. XIV. But if Love don’t, Cash does, and Cash alone: 105   Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides; Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none;   Without cash, Malthus tells you, “take no brides.” So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own   High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides; 110 And as for “Heaven being Love,” why not say honey Is wax? Heaven is not Love, ’tis Matrimony. XV. Is not all love prohibited whatever,   Excepting marriage? which is love no doubt, After a sort; but somehow people never 115   With the same thought the two words have helped out: Love may exist with marriage, and should ever,   And marriage also may exist without; But love sans banns is both a sin and shame, And ought to go by quite another name. 120 XVI. Now, if the “court” and “camp” and “grove” be not   Recruited all with constant married men, Who never coveted their neighbour’s lot,



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  I say that line’s a lapsus of the pen;— Strange too in my “buon camerado” Scott, 125   So celebrated for his morals, when My Jeffrey held him up as an example To me;—of which these morals are a sample. XVII. Well, if I don’t succeed, I have succeeded,   And that’s enough; succeeded in my youth, 130 The only time when much success is needed:   And my success produced what I in sooth Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded—   Whate’er it was, ’twas mine: I’ve paid, in truth, Of late the penalty of such success, 135 But have not learned to wish it any less. XVIII. That suit in Chancery,—which some persons plead   In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, In the faith of their procreative creed,   Baptize Posterity, or future clay,— 140 To me seems but a dubious kind of reed   To lean on for support in any way; Since odds are that Posterity will know No more of them, than they of her, I trow. XIX. Why, I’m Posterity—­and so are you; 145   And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. Were every memory written down all true,   The tenth or twentieth name would be but blundered; Even Plutarch’s Lives have but picked out a few,   And ’gainst those few your annalists have thundered; 150 And Mitford in the nineteenth century Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.* *  See Mitford’s Greece. “Greciæ Verax.” His great pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, spelling oddly, and writing quaintly; and what is strange after all, his is the best modern History of Greece in any language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern historians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but fair to state his virtues—­learning, labour, research, wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a writer, because they make him write in earnest.

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lord byron XX. Good People all, of every degree,   Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers In this twelfth Canto ’tis my wish to be 155   As serious as if I had for inditers Malthus and Wilberforce:—the last set free   The Negroes, and is worth a million fighters; While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, And Malthus does the thing ’gainst which he writes. 160 XXI. I’m serious—­so are all men upon paper;   And why should I not form my speculation, And hold up to the sun my little taper?   Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation On Constitutions and Steam-­boats of vapour; 165   While sages write against all procreation, Unless a man can calculate his means Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. XXII. That’s noble! That’s romantic! For my part,   I think that “Philo-­genitiveness” is— 170 (Now here’s a word quite after my own heart,   Though there’s a shorter a good deal than this, If that politeness set it not apart;   But I’m resolved to say nought that’s amiss)— I say, methinks that “Philo-­genitiveness” 175 Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. XXIII. And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan!   Thou art in London—­in that pleasant place Where every kind of mischief ’s daily brewing,   Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 180 ’Tis true, that thy career is not a new one;   Thou art no novice in the headlong chase Of early life; but this is a new land Which foreigners can never understand.



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XXIV. What with a small diversity of climate, 185   Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, I could send forth my mandate like a primate   Upon the rest of Europe’s social state; But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at,   Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. 190 All countries have their “Lions,” but in thee There is but one superb menagerie. XXV. But I am sick of politics. Begin,   “Paulo Majora.” Juan, undecided Amongst the paths of being “taken in,” 195   Above the ice had like a skaiter glided: When tired of play, he flirted without sin   With some of those fair creatures who have prided Themselves on innocent tantalization, And hate all vice except its reputation. 200 XXVI. But these are few, and in the end they make   Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows That even the purest people may mistake   Their way through virtue’s primrose paths of snows; And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 205   To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o’erflows Quick silver Small Talk, ending (if you note it) With the kind world’s Amen!—“Who would have thought it?” XXVII. The little Leila, with her orient eyes,   And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 210 (Which saw all Western things with small surprise,   To the surprise of people of condition, Who think that novelties are butterflies   To be pursued as food for inanition) Her charming figure and romantic history 215 Became a kind of fashionable mystery.

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lord byron XXVIII. The women much divided—­as is usual   Amongst the sex in little things or great. Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all—   I have always liked you better than I state: 220 Since I’ve grown moral, still I must accuse you all   Of being apt to talk at a great rate; And now there was a general sensation Amongst you, about Leila’s education. XXIX. In one point only were you settled—­and 225   You had reason; ’twas that a young Child of Grace, As beautiful as her own native land,   And far away, the last bud of her race, Howe’er our friend Don Juan might command   Himself for five, four, three, or two years’ space, 230 Would be much better taught beneath the eye Of Peeresses whose follies had run dry. XXX. So first there was a generous emulation,   And then there was a general competition To undertake the orphan’s education. 235   As Juan was a person of condition, It had been an affront on this occasion   To talk of a subscription or petition; But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, Whose tale belongs to “Hallam’s Middle Ages,” 240 XXXI. And one or two sad, separate wives, without   A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough— Begged to bring up the little girl, and “out,”—   For that’s the phrase that settles all things now, Meaning a virgin’s first blush at a rout, 245   And all her points as thorough-­bred to show: And I assure you, that like virgin honey Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money.)



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XXXII. How all the needy honourable misters,   Each out-­at-­elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 250 The watchful mothers and the careful sisters,   (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy At making matches, where “’tis gold that glisters,”   Than their he relatives) like flies o’er candy Buzz round “the Fortune” with their busy battery, 255 To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery! XXXIII. Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation;   Nay, married dames will now and then discover Such pure disinterestedness of passion,   I’ve known them court an heiress for their lover. 260 “Tantæne!” Such the virtues of high station,   Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet’s “Dover!” While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. XXXIV. Some are soon bagged, but some reject three dozen. 265   ’Tis fine to see them scattering refusals And wild dismay o’er every angry cousin   (Friends of the party) who begin accusals, Such as—“Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen   Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 270 To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, Look yes last night, and yet say no to-­day? XXXV. “Why?—Why?—— Besides, Fred. really was attached;   ’Twas not her fortune—­he has enough without: The time will come she’ll wish that she had snatched 275   So good an opportunity, no doubt:— But the old marchioness some plan had hatched,   As I’ll tell Aurea at to-­morrow’s rout: And after all poor Frederick may do better— Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?” 280

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lord byron XXXVI. Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets   Are spurned in turn, until her turn arrives, After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets   Upon the sweep-­stakes for substantial wives: And when at last the pretty creature gets 285   Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives, It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected To find how very badly she selected. XXXVII. For sometimes they accept some long pursuer,   Worn out with importunity; or fall 290 (But here perhaps the instances are fewer)   To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. A hazy widower turned of forty’s sure*   (If ’tis not vain examples to recall) To draw a high prize: now, howe’er he got her, I 295 See nought more strange in this than t’other lottery. XXXVIII. I, for my part—(one “modern instance” more,   “True, ’tis a pity, pity ’tis, ’tis true”) Was chosen from out an amatory score,   Albeit my years were less discreet than few; 300 But though I also had reformed before   Those became one who soon were to be two, I’ll not gainsay the generous public’s voice, That the young lady made a monstrous choice. XXXIX. Oh pardon me digression—­or at least 305   Peruse! ’Tis always with a moral end That I dissert, like Grace before a feast:   For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest,   My Muse by exhortation means to mend 310

*  This line may puzzle the commentators more than the present generation.



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All people, at all times, and in most places, Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. XL. But now I’m going to be immoral; now   I mean to show things really as they are, Not as they ought to be: for I avow, 315   That till we see what’s what in fact, we’re far From much improvement with that virtuous plough   Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, Only to keep its corn at the old price. 320 XLI. But first of little Leila we’ll dispose;   For like a day-­dawn she was young and pure, Or like the old comparison of snows,   Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure, Like many people every body knows, 325   Don Juan was delighted to secure A goodly guardian for his infant charge, Who might not profit much by being at large. XLII. Besides, he had found out that he was no tutor:   (I wish that others would find out the same) 330 And rather wished in such things to stand neuter,   For silly wards will bring their guardians blame: So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor   To make his little wild Asiatic tame Consulting “the Society for Vice 335 Suppression,” Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. XLIII. Olden she was—­but had been very young;   Virtuous she was—­and had been, I believe: Although the world has such an evil tongue   That—— but my chaster ear will not receive 340 An echo of a syllable that’s wrong:   In fact there’s nothing makes me so much grieve As that abominable tittle tattle, Which is the cud eschewed by human cattle.

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lord byron XLIV. Moreover I’ve remarked (and I was once 345   A slight observer in a modest way) And so may every one except a dunce,   That ladies in their youth a little gay, Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense   Of the sad consequence of going astray, 350 Are wiser in their warnings ’gainst the woe Which the mere passionless can never know. XLV. While the harsh Prude indemnifies her virtue   By railing at the unknown and envied passion, Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 355   Or what’s still worse, to put you out of fashion,— The kinder veteran with calm words will court you,   Entreating you to pause before you dash on; Expounding and illustrating the riddle Of Epic Love’s beginning, end, and middle. 360 XLVI. Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter,   As better knowing why they should be so, I think you’ll find from many a family picture,   That daughters of such mothers as may know The world by experience rather than by lecture, 365   Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. XLVII. I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talked about—   As who has not, if female, young, and pretty? 370 But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalked about;   She merely was deemed amiable and witty, And several of her best bon-­mots were hawked about;   Then she was given to charity and pity, And passed (at least the latter years of life) 375 For being a most exemplary wife.



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XLVIII. High in high circles, gentle in her own,   She was the mild reprover of the young Whenever—­which means every day—­they’d shown   An awkward inclination to go wrong. 380 The quantity of good she did’s unknown,   Or at the least would lengthen out my song: In brief, the little orphan of the East Had raised an interest in her which increased. XLIX. Juan too was a sort of favourite with her, 385   Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, A little spoiled, but not so altogether;   Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, And how he had been tossed, he scarce knew whither.   Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 390 At least entirely—­for he had seen too many Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. L. And these vicissitudes tell best in youth;   For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, 395   And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth:   He who hath proved war, storm, or woman’s rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Hath won the experience which is deemed so weighty. 400 LI. How far it profits is another matter.—   Our hero gladly saw his little charge Safe with a lady, whose last grown-­up daughter   Being long married, and thus set at large, Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 405   To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor’s barge, To the next comer; or—­as it will tell More Muse-­like—­like Cytherea’s shell.

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lord byron LII. I call such things transmission; for there is   A floating balance of accomplishment 410 Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss,   According as their minds or backs are bent. Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss   Of metaphysics; others are content With music; the most moderate shine as wits, 415 While others have a genius turned for fits. LIII. But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords,   Theology, Fine Arts, or finer stays May be the baits for gentlemen or lords   With regular descent, in these our days 420 The last year to the new transfers its hoards;   New vestals claim men’s eyes with the same praise Of “elegant” et cetera, in fresh batches— All matchless creatures and yet bent on matches. LIV. But now I will begin my poem. ’Tis 425   Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, That from the first of Cantos up to this   I’ve not begun what we have to go through. These first twelve books are merely flourishes,   Preludios, trying just a string or two 430 Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure; And when so, you shall have the Overture. LV. My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin   About what’s called success, or not succeeding: Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen; 435   ’Tis a “great moral lesson” they are reading. I thought, at setting off, about two dozen   Cantos would do; but at Apollo’s pleading, If that my Pegasus should not be foundered, I think to canter gently through a hundred. 440



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LVI. Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts,   Yclept the Great World; for it is the least, Although the highest: but as swords have hilts   By which their power of mischief is increased, When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 445   Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, Must still obey the high—­which is their handle, Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. LVII. He had many friends who had many wives, and was   Well looked upon by both, to that extent 450 Of friendship which you may accept or pass,   It does nor good nor harm; being merely meant To keep the wheels going of the higher class,   And draw them nightly when a ticket’s sent: And what with masquerades, and fêtes, and balls, 455 For the first season such a life scarce palls. LVIII. A young unmarried man, with a good name   And fortune, has an awkward part to play; For good society is but a game,   “The royal game of Goose,” as I may say, 460 Where every body has some separate aim,   An end to answer, or a plan to lay— The single ladies wishing to be double, The married ones to save the virgins trouble. LIX. I don’t mean this as general, but particular 465   Examples may be found of such pursuits: Though several also keep their perpendicular   Like poplars, with good principles for roots; Yet many have a method more reticular—   “Fishers for men,” like Sirens with soft lutes. 470 For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dresses ready.

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lord byron LX. Perhaps you’ll have a letter from the mother,   To say her daughter’s feelings are trepanned; Perhaps you’ll have a visit from the brother, 475   All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand What “your intentions are?”—One way or other   It seems the virgin’s heart expects your hand; And between pity for her case and yours, You’ll add to Matrimony’s list of cures. 480 LXI. I’ve known a dozen weddings made even thus,   And some of them high names: I have also known Young men who—­though they hated to discuss   Pretensions which they never dreamed to have shown— Yet neither frightened by a female fuss, 485   Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, And lived, as did the brokenhearted fair, In happier plight than if they formed a pair. LXII. There’s also nightly, to the uninitiated,   A peril—­not indeed like love or marriage, 490 But not the less for this to be depreciated:   It is—­I meant and mean not to disparage The show of virtue even in the vitiated—   It adds an outward grace unto their carriage— But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 495 “Couleur de rose,” who’s neither white nor scarlet. LXIII. Such is your cold coquette, who can’t say “No,”   And won’t say “Yes,” and keeps you on and off-­ing, On a lee shore, till it begins to blow—   Then sees your heart wrecked, with an inward scoffing. 500 This works a world of sentimental woe,   And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; But yet is merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration.



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LXIV. “Ye Gods, I grow a talker!” Let us prate. 505   The next of perils, though I place it sternest, Is when, without regard to “Church or State,”   A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. Abroad, such things decide few women’s fate—   (Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest)— 510 But in old England when a young bride errs, Poor thing! Eve’s was a trifling case to hers. LXV. For ’tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit   Country, where a young couple of the same ages Can’t form a friendship but the world o’erawes it. 515   Then there’s the vulgar trick of those d—­d damages! A verdict—­g rievous foe to those who cause it!   Forms a sad climax to romantic homages; Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, And evidences which regale all readers! 520 LXVI. But they who blunder thus, are raw beginners;   A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners,   The loveliest Oligarchs of our Gynocrasy; You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 525   Among the proudest of our Aristocracy, So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste— And all by having tact as well as taste. LXVII. Juan, who did not stand in the predicament   Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more; 530 For he was sick—­no, ’twas not the word sick I meant—   But he had seen so much good love before, That he was not in heart so very weak;—I meant   But thus much, and no sneer against the shore Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, 535 Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings.

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lord byron LXVIII. But coming young from lands and scenes romantic,   Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risked for Passion, And Passion’s self must have a spice of frantic,   Into a country where ’tis half a fashion, 540 Seem’d to him half commercial, half pedantic,   Howe’er he might esteem this moral nation; Besides (alas! his taste—­forgive and pity!) At first he did not think the women pretty. LXIX. I say at first—­for he found out at last, 545   But by degrees, that they were fairer far Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast   Beneath the influence of the Eastern star. A further proof we should not judge in haste;   Yet inexperience could not be his bar 550 To taste:—the truth is, if men would confess, That novelties please less than they impress. LXX. Though travelled, I have never had the luck to   Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, To that impracticable place Timbuctoo, 555   Where Geography finds no one to oblige her With such a chart as may be safely stuck to—   For Europe ploughs in Afric like “bos piger” But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 560 LXXI. It is. I will not swear that black is white;   But I suspect in fact that white is black, And the whole matter rests upon eye-­sight.   Ask a blind man, the best judge. You’ll attack Perhaps this new position—­but I’m right; 565   Or if I’m wrong, I’ll not be ta’en aback:— He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark Within; and what sees’t thou? A dubious spark.



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LXXII. But I’m relapsing into metaphysics,   That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 570 Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics,   Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame: And this reflection brings me to plain physics,   And to the beauties of a foreign dame, Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 575 Those Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. LXXIII. Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose   Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes;— Not that there’s not a quantity of those   Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 580 Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows*   Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. LXXIV. But this has nought to do with their outsides. 585   I said that Juan did not think them pretty At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides   Half her attractions—­probably from pity— And rather calmly into the heart glides,   Than storms it as a foe would take a city; 590 But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) She keeps it for you like a true ally. LXXV. She cannot step as does an Arab barb,   Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, 595   Nor in her eye Ausonia’s glance is burning; Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb  le those bravuras (which I still am learning

*  The Russians, as is well known, run out from their hot baths to plunge into the Neva; a pleasant practical antithesis, which it seems does them no harm.

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lord byron To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);— 600 LXXVI. She cannot do these things, nor one or two   Others, in that off-­hand and dashing style Which takes so much—­to give the devil his due;   Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, Nor settles all things in one interview, 605   (A thing approved as saving time and toil);— But though the soil may give you time and trouble, Well cultivated, it will render double. LXXVII. And if in fact she takes to a “grande passion,”   It is a very serious thing indeed: 610 Nine times in ten ’tis but caprice or fashion,   Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, The pride of a mere child with a new sash on,   Or wish to make a rival’s bosom bleed. But the tenth instance will be a Tornado, 615 For there’s no saying what they will or may do. LXXVIII. The reason’s obvious: if there’s an éclat,   They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias; And when the delicacies of the law   Have filled their papers with their comments various, 620 Society, that china without flaw,   (The hypocrite!) will banish them like Marius, To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt: For Fame’s a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. LXXIX. Perhaps this is as it should be;—it is 625   A comment on the Gospel’s “Sin no more, And be thy sins forgiven:”—but upon this   I leave the saints to settle their own score. Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss,   An erring woman finds an opener door 630



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For her return to Virtue—­as they call That Lady who should be at home to all. LXXX. For me, I leave the matter where I find it,   Knowing that such uneasy Virtue leads People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 635   And care but for discoveries and not deeds. And as for Chastity, you’ll never bind it   By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 640 LXXXI. But Juan was no casuist, nor had pondered   Upon the moral lessons of mankind: Besides, he had not seen of several hundred   A lady altogether to his mind. A little “blasé”—’tis not to be wondered 645   At, that his heart had got a tougher rind: And though not vainer from his past success, No doubt his sensibilities were less. LXXXII. He also had been busy seeing sights—   The Parliament and all the other houses; 650 Had sat beneath the gallery at nights,   To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) The world to gaze upon those northern lights*   Which flashed as far as where the musk-­bull browses: He had also stood at times behind the throne— 655 But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. LXXXIII. He saw however, at the closing session,   That noble sight, when really free the nation, A king in constitutional possession *  For a description and print of this inhabitant of the Polar Region and native country of the Auroræ Boreales, see Parry’s Voyage in search of a North-West Passage.

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lord byron   Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 660 Though despots know it not—­till the progression   Of freedom shall complete their education. ’Tis not mere splendour makes the show august To eye or heart—­it is the people’s trust. LXXXIV. There too he saw (whate’er he may be now,) 665   A Prince, the prince of princes, at the time With fascination in his very bow,   And full of promise, as the spring of prime. Though royalty was written on his brow,   He had then the grace too, rare in every clime, 670 Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, A finished gentleman from top to toe. LXXXV. And Juan was received, as hath been said,   Into the best society: and there Occurred what often happens, I’m afraid, 675   However disciplined and débonnaire:— The talent and good humour he displayed,   Besides the marked distinction of his air, Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, Even though himself avoided the occasion. 680 LXXXVI. But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why,   Is not to be put hastily together; And as my object is morality   (Whatever people say) I don’t know whether I’ll leave a single reader’s eyelid dry, 685   But harrow up his feelings till they wither, And hew out a huge monument of pathos, As Philip’s son proposed to do with Athos.*

*  A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a river in his pocket, with various other similar devices. But Alexander’s gone, and Athos remains, I trust ere long to look over a nation of freemen.



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LXXXVII. Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction   Ends. When the body of the book’s begun, 690 You’ll find it of a different construction   From what some people say ’twill be when done: The plan at present’s simply in concoction.   I can’t oblige you, reader! to read on; That’s your affair, not mine: a real spirit 695 Should neither court neglect nor dread to bear it. LXXXVIII. And if my thunderbolt not always rattles,   Remember, reader! you have had before The worst of tempests and the best of battles   That e’er were brewed from elements or gore, 700 Besides the most sublime of—­Heaven knows what else:   An Usurer could scarce expect much more— But my best Canto, save one on Astronomy, Will turn upon “Political Economy.” LXXXIX. That is your present theme for popularity: 705   Now that the Public Hedge hath scarce a stake, It grows an act of patriotic charity,   To show the people the best way to break. My plan (but I, if but for singularity,   Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 710 Mean time read all the National Debt-­sinkers, And tell me what you think of your great thinkers.

CANTO XIII I. I now mean to be serious;—it is time,   Since laughter now-­a-­days is deemed too serious. A jest at Vice by Virtue’s called a crime,   And critically held as deleterious: Besides, the sad’s a source of the sublime, 5   Although when long a little apt to weary us; And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn As an old temple dwindled to a column.

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lord byron II. The Lady Adeline Amundeville   (’Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 10 In pedigrees by those who wander still   Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) Was high-­born, wealthy by her father’s will,   And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, In Britain—­which of course true patriots find 15 The goodliest soil of Body and of Mind. III. I’ll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;   I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best. An eye’s an eye, and whether black or blue,   Is no great matter, so ’tis in request 20 ’Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue—   The kindest may be taken as a test. The fair sex should be always fair; and no man, Till thirty, should perceive there’s a plain woman. IV. And after that serene and somewhat dull 25   Epoch, that awkward corner turned for days More quiet, when our Moon’s no more at full,   We may presume to criticise or praise; Because indifference begins to lull   Our passions, and we walk in wisdom’s ways; 30 Also because the figure and the face Hint, that ’tis time to give the younger place. V. I know that some would fain postpone this era,   Reluctant as all placemen to resign Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera, 35   For they have passed life’s equinoctial line: But then they have their claret and madeira   To irrigate the dryness of decline; And County Meetings and the Parliament, And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 40



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VI. And is there not Religion, and Reform,   Peace, War, the taxes, and what’s called the “Nation?” The struggle to be Pilots in a storm?   The landed and the monied speculation? The joys of mutual hate, to keep them warm, 45   Instead of love, that mere hallucination? Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. VII. Rough Johnson, the great moralist, professed,   Right honestly, “he liked an honest hater!”—* 50 The only truth that yet has been confest   Within these latest thousand years or later. Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest:—   For my part, I am but a mere spectator, And gaze where’er the palace or the hovel is, 55 Much in the mode of Goethe’s Mephistopheles; VIII. But neither love nor hate in much excess;   Though ’twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, It is because I cannot well do less,   And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 60 I should be very willing to redress   Men’s wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. IX. Of all tales ’tis the saddest—­and more sad, 65   Because it makes us smile: his hero’s right, And still pursues the right;—to curb the bad,   His only object, and ’gainst odds to fight, His guerdon: ’tis his virtue makes him mad! *  “Sir, I like a good hater.”—See the Life of Dr. Johnson, &c.

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lord byron   But his adventures form a sorry sight;— 70 A sorrier still is the great moral taught By that real Epic unto all who have thought. X. Redressing injury, revenging wrong,   To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; Opposing singly the united strong, 75   From foreign yoke to free the hapless native;— Alas! must noblest views, like an old song,   Be for mere fancy’s sport a theme creative? A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought? And Socrates himself but Wisdom’s Quixote? 80 XI. Cervantes smiled Spain’s Chivalry away;   A single laugh demolished the right arm Of his own country;—seldom since that day   Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, The world gave ground before her bright array; 85   And therefore have his volumes done such harm, That all their glory, as a composition, Was dearly purchased by his land’s perdition. XII. I’m “at my old Lunes”—digression, and forget   The Lady Adeline Amundeville; 90 The fair most fatal Juan ever met,   Although she was not evil nor meant ill; But Destiny and Passion spread the net,   (Fate is a good excuse for our own will) And caught them;—what do they not catch, methinks? 95 But I’m not Œdipus, and life’s a Sphinx. XIII. I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare   To venture a solution: “Davus sum!” And now I will proceed upon the pair.   Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world’s hum, 100 Was the Queen-­Bee, the glass of all that’s fair;



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  Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb. The last’s a miracle, and such was reckoned, And since that time there has not been a second. XIV. Chaste was she, to detraction’s desperation, 105   And wedded unto one she had loved well— A man known in the councils of the nation,   Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, Though apt to act with fire upon occasion,   Proud of himself and her: the world could tell 110 Nought against either, and both seemed secure— She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. XV. It chanced some diplomatical relations,   Arising out of business, often brought Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 115   Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught By specious seeming, Juan’s youth, and patience,   And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, And formed a basis of esteem, which ends In making men what Courtesy calls friends. 120 XVI. And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as   Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow In judging men—­when once his judgment was   Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, Had all the pertinacity pride has, 125   Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, Because its own good pleasure hath decided. XVII. His friendships therefore, and no less aversions,   Though oft well founded, which confirmed but more 130 His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians   And Medes, would ne’er revoke what went before. His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians,

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lord byron   Of common likings, which make some deplore What they should laugh at—­the mere ague still 135 Of Men’s regard, the fever or the chill. XVIII. “’Tis not in mortals to command success;  But do you more, Sempronius—­don’t deserve it.” And take my word, you won’t have any less:   Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it; 140 Give gently way, when there’s too great a press;   And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,— For, like a racer or a boxer training, ’Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. XIX. Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 145   As most men do, the little or the great; The very lowest find out an inferior,   At least they think so, to exert their state Upon: for there are very few things wearier   Than solitary Pride’s oppressive weight, 150 Which mortals generously would divide, By bidding others carry while they ride. XX. In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal,   O’er Juan he could no distinction claim; In years he had the advantage of time’s sequel; 155   And, as he thought, in country much the same— Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill,   At which all modern nations vainly aim; And the Lord Henry was a great debater, So that few members kept the House up later. 160 XXI. These were advantages: and then he thought—   It was his foible, but by no means sinister— That few or none more than himself had caught   Court mysteries, having been himself a minister: He liked to teach that which he had been taught, 165



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  And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; And reconciled all qualities which grace man, Always a Patriot, and sometimes a Placeman. XXII. He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity;   He almost honoured him for his docility, 170 Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity,   Or contradicted but with proud humility. He knew the world, and would not see depravity   In faults which sometimes show the soil’s fertility, If that the weeds o’erlive not the first crop,— 175 For then they are very difficult to stop. XXIII. And then he talked with him about Madrid,   Constantinople, and such distant places; Where people always did as they were bid,   Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 180 Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid   Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; And Juan, like a true-­born Andalusian, Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. XXIV. And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 185   And diplomatic dinners, or at other— For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs,   As in Freemasonry a higher brother. Upon his talent Henry had no doubts,   His manner showed him sprung from a high mother; 190 And all men like to show their hospitality To him whose breeding marches with his quality. XXV. At Blank-­Blank Square;—for we will break no squares   By naming streets: since men are so censorious, And apt to sow an author’s wheat with tares, 195   Reaping allusions private and inglorious, Where none were dreamt of, unto love’s affairs,

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lord byron   Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, That therefore do I previously declare, Lord Henry’s mansion was in Blank-­Blank Square. 200 XXVI. Also there bin* another pious reason   For making squares and streets anonymous; Which is, that there is scarce a single season   Which doth not shake some very splendid house With some slight heart-­quake of domestic treason— 205   A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: Such I might stumble over unawares, Unless I knew the very chastest Squares. XXVII. ’Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly,   A place where peccadillos are unknown; 210 But I have motives, whether wise or silly,   For letting that pure sanctuary alone. Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I   Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: 215 Such are—— but I have lost the London Chart. XXVIII. At Henry’s mansion then, in Blank-­Blank Square,   Was Juan a recherché, welcome guest, As many other noble Scions were;   And some who had but talent for their crest; 220 Or wealth, which is a passport every where;   Or even mere fashion, which indeed’s the best Recommendation, and to be well drest Will very often supersede the rest. XXIX. And since “there’s safety in a multitude 225   Of counsellors,” as Solomon has said, *  “With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet arise.”——Shakespeare



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Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood;—   Indeed we see the daily proof displayed In Senates, at the Bar, in wordy feud,   Where’er collective wisdom can parade, 230 Which is the only cause that we can guess, Of Britain’s present wealth and happiness;— XXX. But as “there’s safety grafted in the number   Of Counsellors” for men,—thus for the sex A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber; 235   Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex— Variety itself will more encumber.   ’Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks; And thus with women: howsoe’er it shocks some’s Self-­love, there’s safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 240 XXXI. But Adeline had not the least occasion   For such a shield, which leaves but little merit To virtue proper, or good education.   Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, Which judged mankind at their due estimation; 245   And for coquetry, she disdained to wear it: Secure of admiration, its impression Was faint, as of an every day possession. XXXII. To all she was polite without parade;   To some she showed attention of that kind 250 Which flatters, but is flattery conveyed   In such a sort as cannot leave behind A trace unworthy either wife or maid;—   A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, To those who were, or passed for meritorious, 255 Just to console sad Glory for being glorious; XXXIII. Which is in all respects, save now and then,   A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze Upon the shades of those distinguished men,

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lord byron   Who were or are the puppet-­shows of praise, 260 The praise of persecution. Gaze again   On the most favoured; and amidst the blaze Of sunset halos o’er the laurel-­browed, What can ye recognize?—A gilded cloud. XXXIV. There also was of course in Adeline 265   That calm Patrician polish in the address, Which ne’er can pass the equinoctial line   Of any thing which Nature would express: Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine,—   At least his manner suffers not to guess 270 That any thing he views can greatly please. Perhaps we have borrowed this from the Chinese— XXXV. Perhaps from Horace: his “Nil admirari”   Was what he called the “Art of Happiness;” An art on which the artists greatly vary, 275   And have not yet attained to much success. However, ’tis expedient to be wary:   Indifference certes don’t produce distress; And rash enthusiasm in good society Were nothing but a moral Inebriety. 280 XXXVI. But Adeline was not indifferent: for  (Now for a common place!) beneath the snow, As a Volcano holds the lava more  Within—­ et cætera. Shall I go on?—No! I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor 285   So let the often used volcano go. Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others, It hath been stirred up till its smoke quite smothers! XXXVII. I’ll have another figure in a trice:—   What say you to a bottle of champagne? 290 Frozen into a very vinous ice,   Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain,



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Yet in the very centre, past all price,   About a liquid glassful will remain; And this is stronger than the strongest grape 295 Could e’er express in its expanded shape: XXXVIII. ’Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence;   And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre A hidden nectar under a cold presence.   And such are many—­though I only meant her, 300 From whom I now deduce these moral lessons,   On which the Muse has always sought to enter:— And your cold people are beyond all price, When once you have broken their confounded ice. XXXIX. But after all they are a North-­West Passage 305   Unto the glowing India of the soul; And as the good ships sent upon that message   Have not exactly ascertained the Pole (Though Parry’s efforts look a lucky presage)   Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; 310 For if the Pole’s not open, but all frost, (A chance still) ’tis a voyage or vessel lost. XL. And young beginners may as well commence   With quiet cruising o’er the ocean woman; While those who are not beginners, should have sense 315   Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon With his grey signal flag: and the past tense,   The dreary “Fuimus” of all things human, Must be declined, while life’s thin thread’s spun out Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 320 XLI. But Heaven must be diverted: its diversion   Is sometimes truculent—­but never mind: The world upon the whole is worth the assertion   (If but for comfort) that all things are kind: And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 325

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lord byron   Of the two Principles, but leaves behind As many doubts as any other doctrine Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. XLII. The English winter—­ending in July,   To recommence in August—­now was done. 330 ’Tis the postilion’s Paradise: wheels fly;   On roads, East, South, North, West, there is a run. But for post horses who finds sympathy?   Man’s pity’s for himself, or for his son, Always premising that said son at college 335 Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. XLIII. The London winter’s ended in July—   Sometimes a little later. I don’t err In this: whatever other blunders lie   Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 340 My Muse a glass of Weatherology;   For Parliament is our Barometer: Let Radicals its other acts attack, Its sessions form our only almanack. XLIV. When its quicksilver’s down at zero,—lo! 345   Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho,   And happiest they who horses can engage; The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row   Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; 350 And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, Sigh—­as the postboys fasten on the traces. XLV. They and their bills, “Arcadians both,”* are left   To the Greek Kalends of another session. *  “Arcades Ambo.”



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Alas! to them of ready cash bereft, 355   What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,   At a long date—­till they can get a fresh one,— Hawked about at a discount, small or large;— Also the solace of an overcharge. 360 XLVI. But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord   Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage. Away! Away! “Fresh horses!” are the word,   And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage; The obsequious landlord hath the change restored; 365   The postboys have no reason to disparage Their fee; but ere the watered wheels may hiss hence, The ostler pleads for a small reminiscence. XLVII. ’Tis granted; and the valet mounts the dickey—   That gentleman of lords and gentlemen; 370 Also my Lady’s Gentlewoman, tricky,   Tricked out, but modest more than poet’s pen Can paint, “Cosi Viaggino i Ricchi!”   (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, If but to show I’ve travell’d; and what’s travel, 375 Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) XLVIII. The London winter and the country summer   Were well nigh over. ’Tis perhaps a pity, When Nature wears the gown that doth become her,   To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 380 And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,   Listening debates not very wise or witty, Ere Patriots their true country can remember;— But there’s no shooting (save grouse) till September. XLIX. I’ve done with my tirade. The world was gone; 385   The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made,

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lord byron Were vanished to be what they call alone,—   That is, with thirty servants for parade, As many guests or more; before whom groan   As many covers, duly, daily laid. 390 Let none accuse Old England’s hospitality— Its quantity is but condensed to quality. L. Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline   Departed, like the rest of their compeers, The peerage, to a mansion very fine; 395   The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. None than themselves could boast a longer line,   Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks as olden as their pedigree Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 400 LI. A paragraph in every paper told   Of their departure: such is modern fame: ’Tis pity that it takes no further hold   Than an advertisement, or much the same; When ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 405   The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim— “Departure, for his country seat, to-­day, Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. LII. “We understand the splendid host intends   To entertain, this autumn, a select 410 And numerous party of his noble friends;   ’Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct, The Duke of D—­the shooting season spends,   With many more by rank and fashion decked; Also a foreigner of high condition, 415 The Envoy of the secret Russian Mission.” LIII. And thus we see—­who doubts the Morning Post?   (Whose articles are like the “Thirty Nine,” Which those most swear to who believe them most)—



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  Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordained to shine, 420 Decked by the rays reflected from his host,   With those who, Pope says, “greatly daring dine.” ’Tis odd, but true,—last war, the News abounded More with these dinners than the killed or wounded;— LIV. As thus: “On Thursday there was a grand dinner; 425   Present, Lords A. B. C.”—Earls, dukes, by name Announced with no less pomp than victory’s winner:   Then underneath, and in the very same Column: “Date, Falmouth. There has lately been here   The Slap-­Dash Regiment, so well known to fame; 430 Whose loss in the late action we regret: The vacancies are filled up—­see Gazette.” LV. To Norman Abbey whirled the noble pair,—   An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 435   Mixed Gothic, such as Artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare   Withal: it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferred a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind. 440 LVI. It stood embosomed in a happy valley,   Crown’d by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally   His host, with broad arms ’gainst the thunder-­stroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 445   The dappled foresters—­as day awoke, The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmur’d like a bird. LVII. Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,   Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 450 By a river, which its soften’d way did take   In currents through the calmer water spread

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lord byron Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake   And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 455 With their green faces fix’d upon the flood. LVIII. Its outlet dash’d into a deep cascade,   Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding Its shriller echoes—­like an infant made   Quiet—­sank into softer ripples, gliding 460 Into a rivulet; and thus allay’d,   Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw. LIX. A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile, 465   (While yet the church was Rome’s) stood half apart In a grand Arch, which once screened many an aisle.   These last had disappeared—­a loss to Art: The first yet frowned superbly o’er the soil,   And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 470 Which mourn’d the power of time’s or tempest’s march, In gazing on that venerable Arch. LX. Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,   Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 475   But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice—­as tell   The annals of full many a line undone,— The gallant Cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign. 480 LXI. But in a higher niche, alone, but crown’d,   The Virgin Mother of the God-­born child, With her son in her blessed arms, look’d round,   Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil’d; She made the earth below seem holy ground. 485



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  This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship, wake some thoughts divine. LXII. A mighty window, hollow in the centre,   Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 490 Through which the deepen’d glories once could enter,   Streaming from off the sun like seraph’s wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,   The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 495 Lie with their hallelujahs quench’d like fire. LXIII. But in the noontide of the Moon, and when   The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then   Is musical—­a dying accent driven 500 Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.   Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the Night wind by the waterfall, And harmonized by the old choral wall: LXIV. Others, that some original shape, or form 505   Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon’s statue, warm   In Egypt’s rays, to harp at a fixed hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.   Sad, but serene, it sweeps o’er tree or tower: 510 The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:—I’ve heard it,—once perhaps too much. LXV. Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play’d,   Symmetrical, but deck’d with carvings quaint— Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 515   And here perhaps a monster, there a Saint: The spring gush’d through grim mouths, of granite made,   And sparkled into basins, where it spent

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lord byron Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man’s vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 520 LXVI. The mansion’s self was vast and venerable,   With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,   The cells too and refectory, I ween: An exquisite small chapel had been able, 525   Still unimpair’d, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reform’d, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk. LXVII. Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join’d   By no quite lawful marriage of the Arts, 530 Might shock a Connoisseur; but when combined,   Form’d a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind,   At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. We gaze upon a Giant for his stature, 535 Nor judge at first if all be true to Nature. LXVIII. Steel Barons, molten the next generation   To silken rows of gay and garter’d Earls, Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;   And Lady Marys blooming into girls, 540 With fair long locks, had also kept their station:   And Countesses mature in robes and pearls: Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. LXIX. Judges in very formidable ermine 545   Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their Lordships would determine   His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops, who had not left a single sermon;   Attornies-­General, awful to the sight, 550



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As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) Of the “Star Chamber” than of “Habeas Corpus.” LXX. Generals, some all in armour, of the old   And iron time, ere Lead had ta’en the lead; Others in wigs of Marlborough’s martial fold, 555   Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:   Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain’d the steed; And here and there some stern high Patriot stood, Who could not get the place for which he sued. 560 LXXI. But ever and anon, to soothe your vision,   Fatigued with these hereditary glories, There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,   Or wilder groupe of savage Salvatore’s:* Here danced Albano’s boys, and here the sea shone 565   In Vernet’s ocean lights; and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. LXXII. Here sweetly spread a landscape of Loraine;   There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, 570 Or gloomy Caravaggio’s gloomier stain   Bronzed o’er some lean and stoic Anchorite:— But lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,   Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: His bell-­mouthed goblet makes me feel quite Danish† 575 Or Dutch with thirst—­What ho! a flask of Rhenish. LXXIII. Oh, reader! If that thou canst read,—and know,   ’Tis not enough to spell, or even to read,

*  Salvator Rosa. †   If I err not, “Your Dane” is one of Iago’s Catalogue of Nations “exquisite in their drinking.”

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lord byron To constitute a reader; there must go   Virtues of which both you and I have need. 580 Firstly, begin with the beginning—(though   That clause is hard;) and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end—­or, sinning In this sort, end at least with the beginning. LXXIV. But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 585   While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,   Dan Phœbus takes me for an auctioneer. That Poets were so from their earliest date,   By Homer’s “Catalogue of Ships” is clear; 590 But a mere modern must be moderate— I spare you then the furniture and plate. LXXV. The mellow Autumn came, and with it came   The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; 595   The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:—lynx-­like is his aim,   Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown Partridges! Ah brilliant Pheasants! And ah, ye Poachers!—’Tis no sport for peasants. 600 LXXVI. An English autumn, though it hath no vines,   Blushing with Bacchant coronals along The paths, o’er which the far festoon entwines   The red grape in the sunny lands of song, Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; 605   The Claret light, and the Madeira strong. If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar. LXXVII. Then, if she hath not that serene decline   Which makes the Southern Autumn’s day appear 610 As if ’twould to a second spring resign



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  The season, rather than to winter drear,— Of in-­door comforts still she hath a mine,—   The sea-­coal fires, the earliest of the year; Without doors too she may compete in mellow, 615 As what is lost in green is gained in yellow. LXXVIII. And for the effeminate villeggiatura—   Rife with more horns than hounds—­she hath the chase, So animated that it might allure a   Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; 620 Even Nimrod’s self might leave the plains of Dura,*   And wear the Melton jacket for a space:— If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame Preserve of Bores, who ought to be made game. LXXIX. The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 625   Consisted of—­we give the sex the pas— The Duchess of Fitz-­Fulke; the Countess Crabby;   The ladies Scilly, Busey;—Miss Eclat, Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O’Tabby,   And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker’s squaw; 630 Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, Who look’d a white lamb, yet was a black sheep: LXXX. With other Countesses of Blank—­but rank;   At once the “lie” and the “élite” of crowds; Who pass like water filtered in a tank, 635   All purged and pious from their native clouds; Or paper turned to money by the Bank:   No matter how or why, the passport shrouds The “passée” and the past; for good society Is no less famed for tolerance than piety. 640 LXXXI. That is, up to a certain point; which point   Forms the most difficult in punctuation. *  In Assyria.

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lord byron Appearances appear to form the joint   On which it hinges in a higher station; And so that no explosion cry “Aroint 645   Thee, Witch!” or each Medea has her Jason; Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) “Omne tulit punctum, quæ miscuit utile dulci.” LXXXII. I can’t exactly trace their rule of right,   Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. 650 I’ve seen a virtuous woman put down quite   By the mere combination of a Coterie; Also a So-­So Matron boldly fight   Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 655 Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. LXXXIII. I have seen more than I’ll say:—but we will see   How our villeggiatura will get on. The party might consist of thirty-­three   Of highest caste—­the Brahmins of the ton. 660 I have named a few, not foremost in degree,   But ta’en at hazard as the rhyme may run. By way of sprinkling, scatter’d amongst these There also were some Irish absentees. LXXXIV. There was Parolles too, the legal bully, 665   Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,   He shows more appetite for words than war. There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly   Come out and glimmer’d as a six-­weeks’ star. 670 There was Lord Pyrrho too, the great freethinker; And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. LXXXV. There was the Duke of Dash, who was a—­duke,   “Aye, every inch a” duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagne’s—­and all such peers in look 675



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  And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears For commoners had ever them mistook.   There were the six Miss Rawbolds—­pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet. 680 LXXXVI. There were four Honourable Misters, whose   Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,   Whom France and Fortune lately deign’d to waft here, Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; 685   But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because—­such was his magic power to please— The dice seem’d charm’d too with his repartees. LXXXVII. There was Dick Dubious the metaphysician,   Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 690 Angle, the soi-­disant mathematician;   Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-­winner. There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,   Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; And Lord Augustus Fitz-­Plantagenet, 695 Good at all things, but better at a bet. LXXXVIII. There was Jack Jargon the gigantic guardsman;   And General Fireface, famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,   Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill’d. 700 There was the waggish Welch Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,   In his grave office so completely skill’d, That when a culprit came for condemnation, He had his Judge’s joke for consolation. LXXXIX. Good company’s a chess-­board—­there are kings, 705   Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world’s a game; Save that the puppets pull at their own strings;   Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.

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lord byron My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,   Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 710 Alighting rarely:—were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. XC. I had forgotten—­but must not forget—   An Orator, the latest of the session, Who had deliver’d well a very set 715   Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet   With this début, which made a strong impression, And rank’d with what is every day display’d— “The best first speech that ever yet was made.” 720 XCI. Proud of his “Hear hims!” proud too of his vote   And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote)   He revell’d in his Ciceronian glory: With memory excellent to get by rote, 725   With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, “His Country’s pride,” he came down to the country. XCII. There also were two wits by acclamation,   Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 730 Both lawyers and both men of education;   But Strongbow’s wit was of more polish’d breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination,   As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potato,— 735 While Strongbow’s best things might have come from Cato. XCIII. Strongbow was like a new-­tuned harpsichord;   But Longbow wild as an Æolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,   And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 740



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Of Strongbow’s talk you would not change a word:   At Longbow’s phrases you might sometimes carp: Both wits—­one born so, and the other bred, This by his heart—­his rival by his head. XCIV. If all these seem an heterogeneous mass 745   To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class   Is better than an humdrum tête-­a-­tête. The days of Comedy are gone, alas!   When Congreve’s fool could vie with Moliere’s bête: 750 Society is smooth’d to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress. XCV. Our ridicules are kept in the back-­g round—   Ridiculous enough, but also dull; Professions too are no more to be found 755   Professional; and there is nought to cull Of folly’s fruit; for though your fools abound,   They’re barren and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polish’d horde, Form’d of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 760 XCVI. But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning   The scanty but right-­well thrashed ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,   You may be Boaz, and I—­modest Ruth. Further I’d quote, but Scripture intervening, 765   Forbids. A great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries “That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.”*

*  “Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blasphemous to talk of Scripture out of church.” This dogma was broached to her husband—­the best Christian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latter chapters.

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lord byron XCVII. But what we can we glean in this vile age   Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 770 I must not quite omit the talking sage,   Kit-­Cat, the famous conversationist, Who, in his common-­place book, had a page   Prepared each morn for evenings. “List, oh list!”— “Alas, poor Ghost!”—What unexpected woes 775 Await those who have studied their bon mots! XCVIII. Firstly, they must allure the conversation   By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion,  Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 780 But take an ell—­and make a great sensation,   If possible: and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt’s the best. XCIX. Lord Henry and his Lady were the hosts; 785   The party we have touch’d on were the guests! Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts   To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragoûts or roasts,   Albeit all human history attests, 790 That happiness for Man—­the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. C. Witness the lands which “flow’d with milk and honey,”   Held out unto the hungry Israelites: To this we have added since, the love of money, 795   The only sort of pleasure which requites. Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;   We tire of Mistresses and Parasites; But oh, Ambrosial Cash! Ah! who would lose thee? When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! 800



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CI. The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,   Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport— The first thing boys like, after play and fruit:   The middle-­aged, to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, 805   Though nameless in our language:—we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. CII. The elderly walked through the library,   And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 810 Or sauntered through the gardens piteously,   And made upon the hot-­house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,   Or on the morning papers read their lectures, Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 815 Longing at sixty for the hour of six. CIII. But none were “gêné:” the great hour of union   Was rung by dinner’s knell; till then all were Masters of their own time—­or in communion,   Or solitary, as they chose to bear 820 The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.   Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast. CIV. The ladies—­some rouged, some a little pale— 825   Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walked; if foul, they read, or told a tale,   Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; Discuss’d the fashion which might next prevail,   And settled bonnets by the newest code, 830 Or cramm’d twelve sheets into one little letter, To make each correspondent a new debtor.

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lord byron CV. For some had absent lovers, all had friends.   The earth has nothing like a She epistle, And hardly heaven—­because it never ends. 835   I love the mystery of a female missal, Which, like a creed, ne’er says all it intends,   But full of cunning as Ulysses’ whistle, When he allured poor Dolon:—you had better Take care what you reply to such a letter. 840 CVI. Then there were billiards; cards too, but no dice;—   Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays;— Boats when ’twas water, skaiting when ’twas ice,   And the hard frost destroyed the scenting days: And angling too, that solitary vice, 845   Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.* CVII. With evening came the banquet and the wine;   The conversazione; the duet, 850 Attuned by voices more or less divine,   (My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;

*  It would have taught him humanity at least. This sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of angling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them; even net fishing, trawling, &c. are more humane and useful—­but angling! No angler can be a good man. “One of the best men I ever knew;—as humane, delicate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the world, was an angler: true, he angled with painted flies, and would have been incapable of the extravagances of I. Walton.” The above addition was made by a friend in reading over the MS.—“Audi alteram partem”— I leave it to counterbalance my own observation.



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  But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp—­because to music’s charms 855 They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. CVIII. Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,   For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Display’d some sylph-­like figures in its maze,   Then there was small-­talk ready when required; 860 Flirtation—­but decorous; the mere praise   Of charms that should or should not be admired. The hunters fought their fox-­hunt o’er again, And then retreated soberly—­at ten. CIX. The politicians, in a nook apart, 865   Discuss’d the world, and settled all the spheres; The wits watched every loop-­hole for their art,   To introduce a bon-­mot head and ears; Small is the rest of those who would be smart,   A moment’s good thing may have cost them years 870 Before they find an hour to introduce it, And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. CX. But all was gentle and aristocratic   In this our party; polish’d, smooth and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 875   There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic,   But fair as then, or fairer to behold. We have no accomplish’d blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 880 CXI. They separated at an early hour;   That is, ere midnight—­which is London’s noon: But in the country ladies seek their bower   A little earlier than the waning Moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower— 885   May the rose call back its true colours soon!

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lord byron Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge—­at least some winters.

CANTO XIV. I. If from great Nature’s or our own abyss   Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss—   But then ’twould spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this 5   Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. II. But System doth reverse the Titan’s breakfast,   And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 10 Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,   After due search, your faith to any question? Look back o’er ages, ere unto the stake fast   You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; 15 And yet what are your other evidences? III. For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,   Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die?   And both may after all turn out untrue. 20 An age may come, Font of Eternity,   When nothing shall be either old or new. Death, so call’d, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass’d in sleep. IV. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 25   Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!



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  The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments (an old way   Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 30 Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death. V. ’Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where;   And there’s a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 35   The worst to know it:—when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there   You look down o’er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,—you can’t gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 40 VI. ’Tis true, you don’t—­but, pale and struck with terror,   Retire: but look into your past impression! And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror   Of your own thoughts, in all their self confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 45   To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears—­but where? You know not, And that’s the reason why you do—­or do not. VII. But what’s this to the purpose? you will say.   Gent. Reader, nothing; a mere speculation, 50 For which my sole excuse is—’tis my way,  Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion I write what’s uppermost, without delay;   This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 55 To build up common things with common places. VIII. You know, or don’t know, that great Bacon saith,   “Fling up a straw, ’twill show the way the wind blows;” And such a straw, borne on by human breath,   Is Poesy, according as the mind glows; 60

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lord byron A paper kite, which flies ’twixt life and death,   A shadow which the onward Soul behind throws: And mine’s a bubble not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. IX. The world is all before me—­or behind; 65   For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;—   Of passions too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind,   Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame: 70 For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock’d it up with rhyme. X. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke   The other; that’s to say, the Clergy—­who Upon my head have bid their thunders break 75   In pious libels by no means a few. And yet I can’t help scribbling once a week,   Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote, because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. 80 XI. But “why then publish?”—There are no rewards   Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. I ask in turn,—why do you play at cards?   Why drink? Why read?—To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards 85   On what I’ve seen or ponder’d, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—­I have had at least my dream. XII. I think that were I certain of success,   I hardly could compose another line: 90 So long I’ve battled either more or less,   That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling ’tis not easy to express,



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  And yet ’tis not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— 95 The one is winning, and the other losing. XIII. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:   She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,   But mostly sings of human things and acts— 100 And that’s one cause she meets with contradiction;   For too much truth, at first sight, ne’er attracts; And were her object only what’s call’d glory, With more ease too she’d tell a different story. XIV. Love, war, a tempest—­surely there’s variety; 105   Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird’s eye view too of that wild, Society;   A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here’s at least satiety   Both in performance and in preparation; 110 And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. XV. The portion of this world which I at present   Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there’s no description recent: 115   The reason why, is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant,   There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages. 120 XVI. With much to excite, there’s little to exalt;   Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault;   A kind of common-­place, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 125   A want of that true nature which sublimes

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lord byron Whate’er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any. XVII. Sometimes indeed, like soldiers off parade,   They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; 130 But then the roll-­call draws them back afraid,   And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade;   But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls—­at least it did so upon me, 135 This Paradise of Pleasure and Ennui. XVIII. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,   Drest, voted, shone, and may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming;   Seen beauties brought to market by the score; 140 Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming;   There’s little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those “ci-­devant jeunes hommes” who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. XIX. ’Tis said—­indeed a general complaint— 145   That no one has succeeded in describing The Monde, exactly as they ought to paint.   Some say, that Authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint,   To furnish matter for their moral gibing; 150 And that their books have but one style in common — My lady’s prattle, filter’d through her woman. XX. But this can’t well be true, just now; for writers   Are grown of the Beau Monde a part potential: I’ve seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 155   Especially when young, for that’s essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers   Of what they deem themselves most consequential,



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The real portrait of the highest tribe? ’Tis that, in fact, there’s little to describe. 160 XXI. “Haud ignara loquor;” these are Nugæ, “quarum   Pars parva fui,” but still Art and part. Now I could much more easily sketch a harem,   A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare ’em, 165   For reasons which I choose to keep apart. “Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgaret”— Which means that vulgar people must not share it. XXII. And therefore what I throw off is ideal—   Lower’d, leaven’d, like a history of Freemasons; 170 Which bears the same relation to the real,   As Captain Parry’s voyage may do to Jason’s. The grand Arcanum’s not for men to see all;   My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated 175 In any manner by the uninitiated. XXIII. Alas! Worlds fall—­and Woman, since she fell’d   The World (as, since that history, less polite Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held)   Has not yet given up the practice quite. 180 Poor Thing of Usages! Coerc’d, compell’d,   Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn’d to child-­bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entailed upon their chins,— XXIV. A daily plague, which in the aggregate 185   May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate   The real sufferings of their she condition? Man’s very sympathy with their estate   Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 190

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lord byron Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. XXV. All this were very well and can’t be better;   But even this is difficult, Heaven knows! So many troubles from her birth beset her, 195   Such small distinction between friends and foes, The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,   That—–but ask any woman if she’d choose (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male? a school boy or a Queen? 200 XXVI. “Petticoat Influence” is a great reproach,   Which even those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;   But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought, By various joltings of life’s hackney coach, 205   I for one venerate a petticoat— A garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. XXVII. Much I respect, and much I have adored,   In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 210 Which holds a treasure, like a Miser’s hoard,   And more attracts by all it doth conceal— A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,   A loving letter with a mystic seal, A cure for grief—­for what can ever rankle 215 Before a petticoat and peeping ancle? XXVIII. And when upon a silent, sullen day,   With a Sirocco, for example, blowing, When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,   And sulkily the river’s ripple’s flowing, 220 And the sky shows that very ancient gray,   The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,—



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’Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. XXIX. We left our heroes and our heroines 225   In that fair clime which don’t depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac’s signs,   Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines,   Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 230 Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun— Whether a sky’s or tradesman’s, is all one. XXX. An in-­door life is less poetical;   And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. 235   But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small,   To spoil his undertaking or complete, And work away like spirit upon matter, Embarrass’d somewhat both with fire and water. 240 XXXI. Juan—­in this respect at least like saints—   Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints,   In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts— Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 245   And mingling modestly in toils or sports. He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the coxcombry of certain She Men. XXXII. A fox-­hunt to a foreigner is strange;   ’Tis also subject to the double danger 250 Of tumbling first, and having in exchange   Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: But Juan had been early taught to range   The wilds, as doth an Arab turn’d Avenger,

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lord byron So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 255 Knew that he had a rider on his back. XXXIII. And now in this new field, with some applause,   He clear’d hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned,* and made but few “faux pas,”   And only fretted when the scent ’gan fail. 260 He broke, ’tis true, some statutes of the laws   Of hunting—­for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o’er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o’er several Country Gentlemen. XXXIV. But on the whole, to general admiration 265   He acquitted both himself and horse: the ’squires Marvell’d at merit of another nation;   The boors cried “Dang it! who’d have thought it?”—Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation   Swore praises, and recall’d their former fires; 270 The Huntsman’s self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-­in. XXXV. Such were his trophies—­not of spear and shield,   But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes’ brushes; Yet I must own,—although in this I yield 275   To patriot sympathy a Briton’s blushes,— He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,   Who, after a long chase o’er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask’d next day, “If men ever hunted twice?” 280

*  Craning.—“To crane” is, or was, an expression used to denote a Gentleman’s stretching out his neck over a hedge, “to look before he leaped:”—a pause in his “vaulting ambition,” which in the field doth occasion some delay and execration in those who may be immediately behind the equestrian sceptic. “Sir, if you don’t choose to take the leap, let me”—was a phrase which generally sent the aspirant on again; and to good purpose: for though “the horse and rider” might fall, they made a gap, through which, and over him and his steed, the field might follow.



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XXXVI. He also had a quality uncommon   To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon   December’s drowsy day to his dull race,— A quality agreeable to woman, 285   When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether Saint or Sinner,— He did not fall asleep just after dinner. XXXVII. But, light and airy, stood on the alert,   And shone in the best part of dialogue, 290 By humouring always what they might assert,   And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;   And smiling but in secret—­cunning rogue! He ne’er presumed to make an error clearer;— 295 In short, there never was a better hearer. XXXVIII. And then he danced;—all foreigners excel   The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime;—he danced, I say, right well,   With emphasis, and also with good sense— 300 A thing in footing indispensable:   He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-­master in the van Of his drill’d nymphs, but like a gentleman. XXXIX. Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 305   And elegance was sprinkled o’er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm’d the ground,   And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for music’s sound,   Which might defy a Crotchet Critic’s rigour. 310 Such classic pas—­sans flaws—­set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero;

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lord byron XL. Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora,   In Guido’s famous fresco, which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 315   Remnant were there of the old world’s sole throne. The “tout ensemble” of his movements wore a   Grace of the soft Ideal, seldom shown, And ne’er to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 320 XLI. No marvel then he was a favourite;   A full-­g rown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;   At least he kept his vanity retired. Such was his tact, he could alike delight 325   The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. The Duchess of Fitz-­Fulke, who loved “tracasserie,” Began to treat him with some small “agacerie.” XLII. She was a fine and somewhat full-­blown blonde,   Desirable, distinguish’d, celebrated 330 For several winters in the grand, grand Monde.   I’d rather not say what might be related Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;   Besides there might be falsehood in what’s stated: Her late performance had been a dead set 335 At Lord Augustus Fitz-­Plantagenet. XLIII. This noble personage began to look   A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook,   Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 340 Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!   ’Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on woman.



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XLIV. The circle smiled, then whisper’d, and then sneer’d; 345   The misses bridled, and the matrons frown’d; Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear’d;   Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne’er believed one half of what they heard;   Some look’d perplex’d, and others look’d profound; 350 And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-­Plantagenet. XLV. But what is odd, none ever named the Duke,   Who, one might think, was something in the affair. True, he was absent, and ’twas rumour’d, took 355   But small concern about the when, or where, Or what his consort did: if he could brook   Her gaieties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can’t fall out. 360 XLVI. But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line!   Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,   Began to think the duchess’ conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 365   And waxing chiller in her courtesy, Looked grave and pale to see her friend’s fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility. XLVII. There’s nought in this bad world like sympathy:   ’Tis so becoming to the soul and face, 370 Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,   And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. Without a friend, what were humanity,   To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with—“Would you had thought twice! 375 Ah! if you had but follow’d my advice!”

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lord byron XLVIII. Oh, Job! you had two friends: one’s quite enough,   Especially when we are ill at ease; They are but bad pilots when the weather’s rough,   Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 380 Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,   As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: When your affairs come round, one way or t’other, Go to the coffee-­house, and take another.* XLIX. But this is not my maxim: had it been, 385   Some heart-­aches had been spared me; yet I care not— I would not be a tortoise in his screen   Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. ’Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen   That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 390 ’Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. L. Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,   Sadder than owl-­songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so,” 395   Utter’d by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, ’stead of saying what you now should do,   Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse ’gainst “bonos mores,” With a long memorandum of old stories. 400 LI. The Lady Adeline’s serene severity   Was not confined to feeling for her friend,

*  In Swift’s or Horace Walpole’s letters I think it is mentioned, that somebody regretting the loss of a friend, was answered by an universal Pylades: “When I lose one, I go to Saint James’s Coffee-house, and take another.” I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to the club of which he was a member, he was observed to look melancholy. “What is the matter, Sir William?” cried Hare of facetious memory. “Ah!” replied Sir W. “I have just lost poor Lady D.” “Lost! What at? Quinze or Hazard?” was the consolatory rejoinder of the querist.



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Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity,   Unless her habits should begin to mend: But Juan also shared in her austerity, 405   But mix’d with pity, pure as e’er was penn’d: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. LII. These forty days’ advantage of her years—   And hers were those which can face calculation, 410 Boldly referring to the list of peers   And noble births, nor dread the enumeration— Gave her a right to have maternal fears   For a young gentleman’s fit education, Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap, 415 In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. LIII. This may be fix’d at somewhere before thirty—   Say seven-­and-­twenty; for I never knew The strictest in chronology and virtue   Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 420 Oh, Time! Why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty   With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, If but to keep thy credit as a mower. LIV. But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 425   Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: ’Twas rather her experience made her sage,   For she had seen the world, and stood its test, As I have said in—­I forget what page;   My Muse despises reference, as you have guess’d 430 By this time;—but strike six from seven-­and-­twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty. LV. At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,   She put all coronets into commotion: At seventeen too the world was still enchanted 435

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lord byron   With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean: At eighteen, though below her feet still panted   A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, She had consented to create again That Adam, called “the Happiest of Men.” 440 LVI. Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,   Admired, adored; but also so correct, That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,   Without the apparel of being circumspect: They could not even glean the slightest splinters 445   From off the marble, which had no defect. She had also snatch’d a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir—­and one miscarriage. LVII. Fondly the wheeling fire-­flies flew around her,   Those little glitterers of the London night; 450 But none of these possess’d a sting to wound her—   She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb’s flight. Perhaps she wish’d an aspirant profounder;   But whatsoe’er she wished, she acted right; And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 455 A Woman, so she’s good, what does it signify? LVIII. I hate a motive like a lingering bottle,   Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all claretless the unmoistened throttle,   Especially with politics on hand; 460 I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,   Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand; I hate it, as I hate an argument, A Laureate’s ode, or servile Peer’s “Content.” LIX. ’Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, 465   They are so much intertwisted with the earth: So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,



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  I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. To trace all actions to their secret springs   Would make indeed some melancholy mirth; 470 But this is not at present my concern, And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.* LX. With the kind view of saving an éclat,   Both to the duchess and diplomatist, The Lady Adeline, as soon’s she saw 475   That Juan was unlikely to resist— (For foreigners don’t know that a faux pas   In England ranks quite on a different list From those of other lands unblest with Juries, Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is;—) 480 LXI. The Lady Adeline resolved to take   Such measures as she thought might best impede The further progress of this sad mistake.   She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold even at the stake, 485   And simple in the world, and doth not need Nor use those palisades by dames erected, Whose virtue lies in never being detected. LXII. It was not that she fear’d the very worst:   His Grace was an enduring, married man, 490 And was not likely all at once to burst   Into a scene, and swell the clients’ clan Of Doctors’ Commons; but she dreaded first   The magic of her Grace’s talisman, And next a quarrel (as he seemed to fret) 495 With Lord Augustus Fitz-­Plantagenet.

* The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of politics: “You see by this, my son, with how little wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed.”

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lord byron LXIII. Her Grace too pass’d for being an Intrigante,   And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere; One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt   A lover with caprices soft and dear, 500 That like to make a quarrel, when they can’t   Find one, each day of the delightful year; Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, And—­what is worst of all—­won’t let you go: LXIV. The sort of thing to turn a young man’s head, 505   Or make a Werter of him in the end. No wonder then a purer soul should dread   This sort of chaste liaison for a friend; It were much better to be wed or dead,   Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 510 ’Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, If that a “bonne fortune,” be really “bonne.” LXV. And first, in the o’erflowing of her heart,   Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She called her husband now and then apart, 515   And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art   To wean Don Juan from the Siren’s wile; And answer’d, like a Statesman or a Prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 520 LXVI. Firstly, he said, “he never interfered   In any body’s business but the king’s:” Next, that “he never judged from what appear’d,   Without strong reason, of those sorts of things:” Thirdly, that “Juan had more brain than beard, 525   And was not to be held in leading strings;” And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, “That good but rarely came from good advice.”



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LXVII. And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth   Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 530 To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth,   At least as far as bienséance allows: That time would temper Juan’s faults of youth;   That young men rarely made monastic vows; That opposition only more attaches—— 535 But here a messenger brought in despatches: LXVIII. And being of the Council called “the Privy,”   Lord Henry walk’d into his Cabinet, To furnish matter for some future Livy   To tell how he reduced the nation’s debt; 540 And if their full contents I do not give ye,   It is because I do not know them yet, But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between mine epic and its index. LXIX. But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 545   Another gentle common-­place or two, Such as are coined in conversation’s mint,   And pass, for want of better, though not new: Then broke his packet, to see what was in’t,   And having casually glanced it through, 550 Retired; and, as he went out, calmly kissed her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister. LXX. He was a cold, good, honourable man,   Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; A goodly spirit for a state divan, 555   A figure fit to walk before a king; Tall, stately, form’d to lead the courtly van   On birth­days, glorious with a star and string; The very model of a Chamberlain— And such I mean to make him when I reign. 560

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lord byron LXXI. But there was something wanting on the whole—   I don’t know what, and therefore cannot tell— Which pretty women—­the sweet souls!—call Soul.   Certes it was not body; he was well Proportion’d, as a poplar or a pole, 565   A handsome man, that human miracle; And in each circumstance of love or war Had still preserved his perpendicular. LXXII. Still there was something wanting, as I’ve said—   That undefinable “Je ne sçais quoi,” 570 Which for what I know, may of yore have led   To Homer’s Iliad, since it drew to Troy The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan’s bed;   Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy Was much inferior to King Menelaus;— 575 But thus it is some women will betray us. LXXIII. There is an awkward thing which much perplexes,   Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved By turns the difference of the several sexes.   Neither can show quite how they would be loved. 580 The sensual for a short time but connects us—   The sentimental boasts to be unmoved; But both together form a kind of centaur, Upon whose back ’tis better not to venture. LXXIV. A something all-­sufficient for the heart 585   Is that for which the Sex are always seeking; But how to fill up that same vacant part?   There lies the rub—­and this they are but weak in. Frail mariners afloat without a chart,   They run before the wind through high seas breaking; 590 And when they have made the shore through ev’ry shock, ’Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.



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LXXV. There is a flower called “Love in Idleness,”   For which see Shakspeare’s ever blooming garden;— I will not make his great description less, 595   And beg his British Godship’s humble pardon, If in my extremity of rhyme’s distress,   I touch a single leaf where he is warden;— But though the flower is different, with the French Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, “Voilà la Pervenche!” 600 LXXVI. Eureka! I have found it! What I mean   To say is, not that Love is Idleness, But that in Love such Idleness has been   An accessary, as I have cause to guess. Hard labour’s an indifferent go-­between; 605   Your men of business are not apt to express Much passion, since the merchant-­ship, the Argo, Convey’d Medea as her Supercargo. LXXVII. “Beatus ille procul!” from “negotiis,”   Saith Horace; the great little poet’s wrong; 610 His other maxim, “Noscitur a sociis,”   Is much more to the purpose of his song; Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,   Unless good company he kept too long; But, in his teeth, whate’er their state or station, 615 Thrice happy they who have an occupation! LXXVIII. Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing,   Eve made up millinery with fig leaves— The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,   As far as I know, that the Church receives: 620 And since that time it need not cost much showing,   That many of the ills o’er which man grieves, And still more women, spring from not employing Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.

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lord byron LXXIX. And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 625   A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy’d.   Bards may sing what they please about Content; Contented, when translated, means but cloyed;   And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 630 Blue devils, and Blue-­stockings, and Romances Reduced to practice and perform’d like dances. LXXX. I do declare, upon an affidavit,   Romances I ne’er read like those I have seen; Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 635   Would some believe that such a tale had been: But such intent I never had, nor have it;   Some truths are better kept behind a screen, Especially when they would look like lies; I therefore deal in generalities. 640 LXXXI. “An oyster may be cross’d in Love,”—and why:   Because he mopeth idly in his shell, And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,   Much as a Monk may do within his cell: And à propos of monks, their piety 645   With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; Those vegetables of the Catholic creed Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. LXXXII. Oh, Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,   Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 650 Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down,   Thou moral Washington of Africa! But there’s another little thing, I own,   Which you should perpetrate some summer’s day, And set the other half of earth to rights: 655 You have freed the blacks—­now pray shut up the whites.



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LXXXIII. Shut up the bald-­coot bully Alexander;   Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal; Teach them that “sauce for goose is sauce for gander,”   And ask them how they like to be in thrall? 660 Shut up each high heroic Salamander,   Who eats fire gratis (since the pay’s but small); Shut up—­no, not the King, but the Pavilion, Or else ’twill cost us all another million. LXXXIV. Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out; 665   And you will be perhaps surprised to find All things pursue exactly the same route,   As now with those of soi-­disant sound mind. This I could prove beyond a single doubt,   Were there a jot of sense among mankind; 670 But till that point d’appui is found, alas! Like Archimedes, I leave earth as ’twas. LXXXV. Our gentle Adeline had one defect—   Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 675   As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. A wavering spirit may be easier wreck’d,   Because ’tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an Earthquake’s ruin. 680 LXXXVI. She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love   Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move   Our feelings ’gainst the nature of the soil. She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 685   No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: Their union was a model to behold, Serene, and noble,—conjugal, but cold.

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lord byron LXXXVII. There was no great disparity of years,   Though much in temper; but they never clash’d: 690 They moved like stars united in their spheres,   Or like the Rhone by Leman’s waters wash’d, Where mingled and yet separate appears   The river from the lake, all bluely dash’d Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 695 Which fain would lull its river-­child to sleep. LXXXVIII. Now when she once had ta’en an interest   In any thing, however she might flatter Herself that her intentions were the best,   Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 700 Impressions were much stronger than she guess’d   And gather’d as they run like growing water Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast Was not at first too readily impress’d. LXXXIX. But when it was, she had that lurking demon 705   Of double nature, and thus doubly named— Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen,   That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed As obstinacy, both in men and women,   Whene’er their triumph pales, or star is tamed:— 710 And ’twill perplex the casuists in morality To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. XC. Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo,   It had been firmness; now ’tis pertinacity: Must the event decide between the two? 715   I leave it to your people of sagacity To draw the line between the false and true,   If such can e’er be drawn by man’s capacity: My business is with Lady Adeline, Who in her way too was a heroine. 720



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XCI. She knew not her own heart; then how should I?   I think not she was then in love with Juan: If so, she would have had the strength to fly   The wild sensation, unto her a new one: She merely felt a common sympathy 725   (I will not say it was a false or true one) In him, because she thought he was in danger,— Her husband’s friend, her own, young, and a stranger. XCII. She was, or thought she was, his friend—­and this   Without the farce of friendship, or romance 730 Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss   Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, Or Germany, where people purely kiss.   To thus much Adeline would not advance; But of such friendship as man’s may to man be 735 She was as capable as woman can be. XCIII. No doubt the secret influence of the sex   Will there, as also in the ties of blood, An innocent predominance annex,   And tune the concord to a finer mood. 740 If free from passion, which all friendship checks,   And your true feelings fully understood, No friend like to a woman earth discovers, So that you have not been nor will be lovers. XCIV. Love bears within its breast the very germ 745   Of change; and how should this be otherwise? That violent things more quickly find a term   Is shown through nature’s whole analogies; And how should the most fierce of all be firm?   Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 750 Methinks Love’s very title says enough: How should “the tender Passion” e’er be tough?

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lord byron XCV. Alas! by all experience, seldom yet   (I merely quote what I have heard from many) Had lovers not some reason to regret 755   The passion which made Solomon a Zany. I’ve also seen some wives (not to forget   The marriage state, the best or worst of any) Who were the very paragons of wives, Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 760 XCVI. I’ve also seen some female friends (’tis odd,   But true—­as, if expedient, I could prove) That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad,   At home, far more than ever yet was Love— Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 765   Upon me; whom no scandal could remove; Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battles, Despite the snake Society’s loud rattles. XCVII. Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline   Grew friends in this or any other sense, 770 Will be discuss’d hereafter, I opine:   At present I am glad of a pretence To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine,   And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; The surest way for ladies and for books 775 To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. XCVIII. Whether they rode, or walk’d, or studied Spanish   To read Don Quixote in the original, A pleasure before which all others vanish;   Whether their talk was of the kind call’d “small,” 780 Or serious, are the topics I must banish   To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall Say something to the purpose, and display Considerable talent in my way.



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XCIX. Above all, I beg all men to forbear 785   Anticipating aught about the matter: They’ll only make mistakes about the fair,   And Juan too, especially the latter. And I shall take a much more serious air   Than I have yet done, in this Epic Satire. 790 It is not clear that Adeline and Juan Will fall; but if they do, ’twill be their ruin. C. But great things spring from little:—Would you think,   That in our youth, as dangerous a passion As e’er brought man and woman to the brink 795   Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, As few would ever dream could form the link   Of such a sentimental situation? You’ll never guess, I’ll bet you millions, milliards— It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 800 CI. ’Tis strange—­but true; for Truth is always strange,   Stranger than Fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange;   How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change! 805   The new world would be nothing to the old, If some Columbus of the moral seas Would show mankind their souls’ Antipodes. CII. What “Antres vast and desarts idle” then   Would be discover’d in the human soul! 810 What Icebergs in the hearts of mighty men,   With self-­love in the centre as their Pole! What Anthropophagi is nine of ten   Of those who hold the kingdoms in control! Were things but only call’d by their right name, 815 Cæsar himself would be asham’d of Fame.

Don Juan XV–­XVI (1824)

Figure 14  Title page, Don Juan: Cantos XV–XVI. 1st edn., 18mo., Harvard Library (John Hunt, 1824).

DON JUAN Cantos XV. and XVI.

CANTO XV I. Ah!——What should follow slips from my reflection:   Whatever follows ne’ertheless may be As à propos of hope or retrospection,   As though the lurking thought had follow’d free. All present life is but an Interjection,5   An “Oh!” or “Ah!” of joy or misery, Or a “Ha! ha!” or “Bah!”—a yawn, or “Pooh!” Of which perhaps the latter is most true. II. But, more or less, the whole’s a syncopé   Or a singultus—­emblems of Emotion,10 The grand Antithesis to great Ennui,   Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, That Watery Outline of Eternity,   Or miniature at least, as is my notion, Which ministers unto the soul’s delight,15 In seeing matters which are out of sight. III. But all are better than the sigh supprest,   Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a masque of rest,   And turning human nature to an art.20 Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;   Dissimulation always sets apart A corner for herself; and therefore Fiction Is that which passes with least contradiction. IV. Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not25   Remember, without telling, passion’s errors?

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lord byron The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,   Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors: What though on Lethe’s stream he seem to float,   He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;30 The ruby glass that shakes within his hand, Leaves a sad sediment of Time’s worst sand. V. And as for Love—­Oh, Love!——We will proceed.   The Lady Adeline Amundeville, A pretty name as one would wish to read,35   Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. There’s music in the sighing of a reed;   There’s music in the gushing of a rill; There’s music in all things, if men had ears: Their Earth is but an echo of the spheres.40 VI. The Lady Adeline, right honourable,   And honour’d, ran a risk of growing less so; For few of the soft sex are very stable   In their resolves—­alas! that I should say so! They differ as wine differs from its label,45   When once decanted;—I presume to guess so, But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, Till old, may undergo adulteration. VII. But Adeline was of the purest vintage,   The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet50 Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage,   Or glorious as a diamond richly set; A page where Time should hesitate to print age,   And for which Nature might forego her debt— Sole creditor whose process doth involve in’t55 The luck of finding every body solvent. VIII. Oh, Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily   Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely



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  Some splendid debtor he would take by sap:60 But oft denied, as patience ’gins to fail, he   Advances with exasperated rap, And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, On ready money or “a draft on Ransom.” IX. Whate’er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty!65   She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. What though she now and then may slip from duty,   The more’s the reason why you ought to stay. Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty,   You should be civil in a modest way:70 Suppress then some slight feminine diseases, And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. X. Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous   Where she was interested (as was said) Because she was not apt, like some of us,75   To like too readily, or too high bred To show it—(points we need not now discuss)—   Would give up artlessly both heart and head Unto such feelings as seem’d innocent, For objects worthy of the sentiment.80 XI. Some parts of Juan’s history, which Rumour,   That live Gazette, had scatter’d to disfigure, She had heard; but women hear with more good humour   Such aberrations than we men of rigour. Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more85   Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; Because he had, like Alcibiades, The art of living in all climes with ease. XII. His manner was perhaps the more seductive,   Because he ne’er seem’d anxious to seduce;90 Nothing affected, studied, or constructive   Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse

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lord byron Of his attractions marr’d the fair perspective,   To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, And seem to say, “resist us if you can”—95 Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. XIII. They are wrong—­that’s not the way to set about it;   As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. But right or wrong, Don Juan was without it;   In fact, his manner was his own alone:100 Sincere he was—­at least you could not doubt it,   In listening merely to his voice’s tone. The Devil hath not in all his quiver’s choice An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. XIV. By Nature soft, his whole address held off105   Suspicion: though not timid, his regard Was such as rather seem’d to keep aloof,   To shield himself, than put you on your guard: Perhaps ’twas hardly quite assured enough,   But Modesty’s at times its own reward,110 Like Virtue; and the absence of pretension Will go much further than there’s need to mention. XV. Serene, accomplish’d, cheerful but not loud;   Insinuating without insinuation; Observant of the foibles of the crowd,115   Yet ne’er betraying this in conversation; Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,   So as to make them feel he knew his station And theirs:—without a struggle for priority, He neither brook’d nor claim’d superiority.120 XVI. That is, with men: with women he was what   They pleased to make or take him for; and their Imagination’s quite enough for that:   So that the outline’s tolerably fair, They fill the canvass up—­and “verbum sat.”125



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  If once their phantasies be brought to bear Upon an object, whether sad or playful, They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. XVII. Adeline, no deep judge of character,   Was apt to add a colouring from her own.130 ’Tis thus the good will amiably err,   And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher,   But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools135 Their folly in forgetting there are fools. XVIII. Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon?   Great Socrates? And thou Diviner still,* Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,   And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?140 Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,   How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill Volumes with similar sad illustrations, But leave them to the conscience of the nations. XIX. I perch upon an humbler promontory,145   Amidst life’s infinite variety: With no great care for what is nicknamed glory,   But speculating as I cast mine eye On what may suit or may not suit my story,   And never straining hard to versify,150 I rattle on exactly as I’d talk With any body in a ride or walk.

*  As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I say, that I mean, by “Diviner still,” Christ. If ever God was Man—­or Man God—­he was both. I never arraigned his creed, but the use—­or abuse—­made of it. Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction Negro Slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had little to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, that black men might be scourged? If so, he had better been born a Mulatto, to give both colours an equal chance of freedom, or at least salvation.

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lord byron XX. I don’t know that there may be much ability   Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; But there’s a conversational facility,155   Which may round off an hour upon a time. Of this I’m sure at least, there’s no servility   In mine irregularity of chime, Which rings what’s uppermost of new or hoary, Just as I feel the “Improvisatore.”160 XXI. “Omnia vult belle Matho dicere—­dic aliquando  Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.” The first is rather more than mortal can do;   The second may be sadly done or gaily; The third is still more difficult to stand to;165   The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily: The whole together is what I could wish To serve in this conundrum of a dish. XXII. A modest hope—­but modesty’s my forte,   And pride my feeble:—let us ramble on.170 I meant to make this poem very short,   But now I can’t tell where it may not run. No doubt, if I had wish’d to pay my court   To critics, or to hail the setting sun Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision175 Were more;—but I was born for opposition. XXIII. But then ’tis mostly on the weaker side:   So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-­blown pride,   Were shaken down, and “dogs had had their day,”180 Though at the first I might perchance deride   Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an Ultra-­royalist in loyalty, Because I hate even democratic royalty.



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XXIV. I think I should have made a decent spouse,185   If I had never proved the soft condition; I think I should have made monastic vows,   But for my own peculiar superstition: ’Gainst rhyme I never should have knock’d my brows,   Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,190 Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, If some one had not told me to forego it. XXV. But “laissez aller”—knights and dames I sing,   Such as the times may furnish. ’Tis a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing,195   Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite: The difficulty lies in colouring   (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With Nature manners which are artificial, And rend’ring general that which is especial.200 XXVI. The difference is, that in the days of old   Men made the manners; manners now make men— Pinned like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold,   At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. Now this at all events must render cold205   Your writers, who must either draw again Days better drawn before, or else assume The present, with their common-­place costume. XXVII. We’ll do our best to make the best on’t:—March!   March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter;210 And when you may not be sublime, be arch,   Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. We surely shall find something worth research:   Columbus found a new world in a cutter, Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage,215 While yet America was in her non-­age.

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lord byron XXVIII. When Adeline, in all her growing sense   Of Juan’s merits and his situation, Felt on the whole an interest intense—   Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,220 Or that he had an air of innocence,   Which is for innocence a sad temptation,— As women hate half measures, on the whole, She ’gan to ponder how to save his soul. XXIX. She had a good opinion of advice,225   Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price,   Even where the article at highest rate is. She thought upon the subject twice or thrice,   And morally decided, the best state is230 For morals, marriage; and this question carried, She seriously advised him to get married. XXX. Juan replied, with all becoming deference,   He had a predilection for that tie; But that at present, with immediate reference235   To his own circumstances, there might lie Some difficulties, as in his own preference,   Or that of her to whom he might apply; That still he’d wed with such or such a lady, If that they were not married all already.240 XXXI. Next to the making matches for herself,   And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, Arranging them like books on the same shelf,   There’s nothing women love to dabble in More (like a stock-­holder in growing pelf)245   Than match-­making in general: ’tis no sin Certes, but a preventative, and therefore That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.



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XXXII. But never yet (except of course a miss   Unwed, or mistress never to be wed,250 Or wed already, who object to this)   Was there chaste dame who had not in her head Some drama of the marriage unities,   Observed as strictly both at board and bed, As those of Aristotle, though sometimes255 They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. XXXIII. They generally have some only son,   Some heir to a large property, some friend Of an old family, some gay Sir John,   Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end260 A line, and leave posterity undone,   Unless a marriage was applied to mend The prospect and their morals: and besides, They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. XXXIV. From these they will be careful to select,265   For this an heiress, and for that a beauty; For one a songstress who hath no defect,   For t’other one who promises much duty; For this a lady no one can reject,   Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty;270 A second for her excellent connexions; A third, because there can be no objections. XXXV. When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage*   In his harmonious settlement—(which flourishes * This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the “Shakers” do; but lays such restrictions upon it as prevent more than a certain quantum of births within a certain number of years; which births (as Mr. Hulme observes) generally arrive “in a little flock like those of a farmer’s lambs, all within the same month perhaps.” These Harmonists (so called from the name of their settlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writers on America.

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lord byron Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage,275   Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, Without those sad expenses which disparage   What Nature naturally most encourages)— Why call’d he “Harmony” a state sans wedlock? Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock.280 XXXVI. Because he either meant to sneer at harmony   Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. But whether reverend Rapp learn’d this in Germany   Or no, ’tis said his sect is rich and godly, Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any285   Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. My objection’s to his title, not his ritual, Although I wonder how it grew habitual. XXXVII. But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons,   Who favour, malgré Malthus, generation—290 Professors of that genial art, and patrons   Of all the modest part of propagation, Which after all at such a desperate rate runs,   That half its produce tends to emigration, That sad result of passions and potatoes—295 Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. XXXVIII. Had Adeline read Malthus? I can’t tell;   I wish she had: his book’s the eleventh commandment, Which says, “thou shalt not marry,” unless well:   This he (as far as I can understand) meant:300 ’Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell,   Nor canvass what “so eminent a hand” meant;* But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, Or turning marriage into arithmetic.

*  Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed to call his writers, “able pens”— “persons of honour,”—and especially “eminent hands.” Vide Correspondence, &c. &c.



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XXXIX. But Adeline, who probably presumed305   That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case ’twas doom’d—   As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom’d,   May retrograde a little in the dance310 Of marriage—(which might form a painter’s fame, Like Holbein’s “Dance of Death”—but ’tis the same);— XL. But Adeline determined Juan’s wedding   In her own mind, and that’s enough for woman. But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading,315   Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman, And the two fair co-­heiresses Giltbedding.   She deemed his merits something more than common: All these were unobjectionable matches, And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.320 XLI. There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer’s sea,   That usual paragon, an only daughter, Who seem’d the cream of equanimity,   Till skimm’d—­and then there was some milk and water, With a slight shade of Blue too it might be,325   Beneath the surface; but what did it matter? Love’s riotous, but marriage should have quiet, And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. XLII. And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring,   A dashing demoiselle of good estate,330 Whose heart was fix’d upon a star or bluestring;   But whether English Dukes grew rare of late, Or that she had not harp’d upon the true string,   By which such sirens can attract our great, She took up with some foreign younger brother,335 A Russ or Turk—­the one’s as good as t’other.

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lord byron XLIII. And then there was—­but why should I go on,   Unless the ladies should go off?—there was Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,   Of the best class, and better than her class,—340 Aurora Raby, a young star who shone   O’er life, too sweet an image for such glass, A lovely being, scarcely form’d or moulded, A Rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded; XLIV. Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only345   Child to the care of guardians good and kind; But still her aspect had an air so lonely!   Blood is not water; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie   By death, when we are left, alas! behind,350 To feel, in friendless palaces, a home Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? XLV. Early in years, and yet more infantine   In figure, she had something of sublime In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs’ shine.355   All youth—­but with an aspect beyond time; Radiant and grave—­as pitying man’s decline;   Mournful—­but mournful of another’s crime, She look’d as if she sat by Eden’s door, And grieved for those who could return no more.360 XLVI. She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere,   As far as her own gentle heart allow’d, And deem’d that fallen worship far more dear   Perhaps because ’twas fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill’d the ear365   Of nations, and had never bent or bow’d To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast.



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XLVII. She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew   As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,370 As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,   And kept her heart serene within its zone. There was awe in the homage which she drew;   Her spirit seem’d as seated on a throne Apart from the surrounding world, and strong375 In its own strength—­most strange in one so young! XLVIII. Now it so happen’d, in the catalogue   Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue   Beyond the charmers we have already cited;380 Her beauty also seem’d to form no clog   Against her being mention’d as well fitted, By many virtues, to be worth the trouble Of single gentlemen who would be double. XLIX. And this omission, like that of the bust385   Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.   This he express’d half smiling and half serious; When Adeline replied with some disgust,   And with an air, to say the least, imperious,390 She marvell’d “what he saw in such a baby As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?” L. Juan rejoined—“She was a Catholic,   And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; Since he was sure his mother would fall sick,395   And the Pope thunder excommunication, If——” But here Adeline, who seem’d to pique   Herself extremely on the inoculation Of others with her own opinions, stated— As usual—­the same reason which she late did.400

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lord byron LI. And wherefore not? A reasonable reason,   If good, is none the worse for repetition; If bad, the best way’s certainly to teaze on   And amplify: you lose much by concision, Whereas insisting in or out of season405   Convinces all men, even a politician; Or—­what is just the same—­it wearies out. So the end’s gain’d, what signifies the route? LII. Why Adeline had this slight prejudice—   For prejudice it was—­against a creature410 As pure as sanctity itself from vice,   With all the added charm of form and feature, For me appears a question far too nice,   Since Adeline was liberal by Nature; But Nature’s Nature, and has more caprices415 Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. LIII. Perhaps she did not like the quiet way   With which Aurora on those baubles look’d, Which charm most people in their earlier day:   For there are few things by mankind less brook’d,420 And womankind too, if we so may say,   Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like “Anthony’s by Cæsar,” by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do. LIV. It was not envy—­Adeline had none;425   Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. It was not scorn—­which could not light on one   Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. It was not jealousy, I think: but shun   Following the “Ignes Fatui” of mankind.430



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It was not——but ’tis easier far, alas! To say what it was not, than what it was. LV. Little Aurora deem’d she was the theme   Of such discussion. She was there a guest, A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream435   Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow’d on for a moment in the beam   Time sheds a moment o’er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled— She had so much, or little, of the child.440 LVI. The dashing and proud air of Adeline   Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glowworm shine,   Then turn’d unto the stars for loftier rays. Juan was something she could not divine,445   Being no Sibyl in the new world’s ways; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature. LVII. His fame too,—for he had that kind of fame   Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,450 A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,   Half virtues and whole vices being combined; Faults which attract because they are not tame;   Follies trick’d out so brightly that they blind:— These seals upon her wax made no impression,455 Such was her coldness or her self-­possession. LVIII. Juan knew nought of such a character—   High, yet resembling not his lost Haidée; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:   The Island girl, bred up by the lone sea,460 More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere,

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lord byron   Was Nature’s all: Aurora could not be Nor would be thus;—the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem. LIX. Having wound up with this sublime comparison,465   Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, “I sound my Warison;”   Scott, the superlative of my comparative— Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen,   Serf, Lord, Man, with such skill as none would share it, if470 There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. LX. I say, in my slight way I may proceed   To play upon the surface of Humanity. I write the world, nor care if the world read,475   At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed   More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so—­now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.480 LXI. The conference or congress (for it ended   As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended   Some acids with the sweets—­for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marr’d or mended,485   The silvery bell rung, not for “dinner ready,” But for that hour, called half-­hour, given to dress, Though ladies’ robes seem scant enough for less. LXII. Great things were now to be achieved at table,   With massy plate for armour, knives and forks490 For weapons; but what Muse since Homer’s able   (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-­bill



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  Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks In soups or sauces, or a sole ragoût,495 Than witches, b—­ches, or physicians brew. LXIII. There was a goodly “soupe à la bonne femme,”   Though God knows whence it came from; there was too A turbot for relief of those who cram,   Relieved with dindon à la Parigeux; 500 There also was——the sinner that I am!   How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?— Soupe à la Beauveau, whose relief was Dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. LXIV. But I must crowd all into one grand mess505   Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess,   Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. But though a “bonne vivante,” I must confess   Her stomach’s not her peccant part; this tale510 However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. LXV. Fowls à la Condé, slices eke of salmon;   With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of venison; Wines too which might again have slain young Ammon—515   A man like whom I hope we shan’t see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on,   Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was Champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra’s melted pearls.520 LXVI. Then there was God knows what “à l’Allemande,”   “A l’Espagnole,” “timballe,” and “Salpicon”— With things I can’t withstand or understand,   Though swallow’d with much zest upon the whole; And “entremets” to piddle with at hand,525

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lord byron   Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus’ (Rôbe triumphal) muffles— (There’s Fame)—young Partridge fillets, deck’d with truffles.* LXVII. What are the fillets on the victor’s brow   To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch530 Which nodded to the nation’s spoils below?   Where the triumphal chariots’ haughty march? Gone to where victories must like dinners go.   Further I shall not follow the research: But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges,535 When will your names lend lustre even to partridges? LXVIII. Those truffles too are no bad accessaries,   Follow’d by “Petits puits d’Amour”—a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies,   So every one may dress it to his wish,540 According to the best of dictionaries,   Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even sans “confitures,” it no less true is, There’s pretty picking in those “petits puits.”† LXIX. The mind is lost in mighty contemplation545   Of intellect expended on two courses; And indigestion’s grand multiplication   Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. Who would suppose, from Adam’s simple ration,   That cookery could have call’d forth such resources,550 As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature?

* A dish “à la Lucullus.” This hero, who conquered the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good dishes;—and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has not done more service to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a bloody laurel: besides, he has contrived to earn celebrity from both. †   “Petits puits d’amour garnis des confitures,” a classical and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second course.



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LXX. The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled;   The diners of celebrity dined well; The ladies with more moderation mingled555   In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; Also the younger men too; for a springald   Can’t like ripe age in gourmandise excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.560 LXXI. Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier,   The salmi, the consommè, the purée, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber   Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way: I must not introduce even a spare rib here,565   “Bubble and squeak” would spoil my liquid lay; But I have dined, and must forego, alas! The chaste description even of a “Becasse,” LXXII. And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines   From nature for the service of the goût—570 Taste or the gout,—pronounce it as inclines   Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; But after, there are sometimes certain signs   Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it—575 But I may have, and you too, Reader, dread it. LXXIII. The simple olives, best allies of wine,   Must I pass over in my bill of fare? I must, although a favourite “plat” of mine   In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where:580 On them and bread ’twas oft my luck to dine,   The grass my table-­cloth, in open air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.

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lord byron LXXIV. Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl,585   And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll,   But various as the various meats display’d: Don Juan sat next an “à l’Espagnole”—   No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;590 But so far like a lady, that ’twas drest Superbly, and contained a world of zest, LXXV. By some odd chance too he was placed between   Aurora and the Lady Adeline— A situation difficult, I ween,595   For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. Also the conference which we have seen   Was not such as to encourage him to shine; For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendant eyes seemed to look through him.600 LXXVI. I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears:   This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears,   Of which I can’t tell whence their knowledge springs; Like that same mystic music of the spheres,605   Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. ’Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard Long dialogues which pass’d without a word! LXXVII. Aurora sat with that indifference   Which piques a preux Chevalier—­as it ought:610 Of all offences that’s the worst offence,   Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence,   Was not exactly pleased to be so caught: Like a good ship entangled among ice615 And after so much excellent advice.



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LXXVIII. To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,   Or something which was nothing, as urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely look’d aside,   Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.620 The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?   Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? Heaven knows! But Adeline’s malicious eyes Sparkled with her successful prophecies, LXXIX. And look’d as much as if to say, “I said it;”—625   A kind of triumph I’ll not recommend, Because it sometimes, as I’ve seen or read it,   Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,   To bring what was a jest to a serious end:630 For all men prophesy what is or was, And hate those who won’t let them come to pass. LXXX. Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,   Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions,635   That he would rather make them more than less. Aurora at the last (so history mentions,   Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax’d her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.640 LXXXI. From answering, she began to question: this   With her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss,   Began to dread she’d thaw to a coquette— So very difficult, they say, it is645   To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refined— Aurora’s spirit was not of that kind.

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lord byron LXXXII. But Juan had a sort of winning way,   A proud humility, if such there be,650 Which show’d such deference to what females say,   As if each charming word were a decree. His tact too temper’d him from grave to gay,   And taught him when to be reserved or free: He had the art of drawing people out,655 Without their seeing what he was about. LXXXIII. Aurora, who in her indifference   Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flutterers, though she deem’d he had more sense   Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud,—660 Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)   To feel that flattery which attracts the proud Rather by deference than compliment, And wins even by a delicate dissent. LXXXIV. And then he had good looks;—that point was carried665   Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married—   A case which to the Juries we may leave, Since with digressions we too long have tarried.   Now though we know of old that looks deceive,670 And always have done, somehow these good looks Make more impression than the best of books. LXXXV. Aurora, who look’d more on books than faces,   Was very young, although so very sage, Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,675   Especially upon a printed page. But Virtue’s self, with all her tightest laces,   Has not the natural stays of strict old age; And Socrates, that model of all duty, Own’d to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.680



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LXXXVI. And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic,   But innocently so, as Socrates; And really, if the Sage sublime and Attic   At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic685   Has shown, I know not why they should displease In virgins—­always in a modest way, Observe; for that with me’s a “sine quâ.”* LXXXVII. Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke,   (See Littleton) whene’er I have expressed690 Opinions two, which at first sight may look   Twin opposites, the second is the best. Perhaps I have a third too in a nook,   Or none at all—­which seems a sorry jest; But if a writer should be quite consistent,695 How could he possibly show things existent? LXXXVIII. If people contradict themselves, can I   Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self?—But that’s a lie;   I never did so, never will—­how should I?700 He who doubts all things, nothing can deny;   Truth’s fountains may be clear—­her streams are muddy, And cut through such canals of contradiction, That she must often navigate o’er fiction. LXXXIX. Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,705   Are false, but may be render’d also true By those who sow them in a land that’s arable.   ’Tis wonderful what fable will not do! ’Tis said it makes reality more bearable:   But what’s reality? Who has its clue?710 * Subauditur “Non;” omitted for the sake of euphony.

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lord byron Philosophy? No; she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects? XC. Some millions must be wrong, that’s pretty clear.   Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. God help us! Since we have need on our career715   To keep our holy beacons always bright, ’Tis time that some new Prophet should appear,   Or old indulge man with a second sight. Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres.720 XCI. But here again, why will I thus entangle   Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle;   And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle725   About the present, past, or future state: Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. XCII. But though I am a temperate Theologian,   And also meek as a Metaphysician,730 Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,   As Eldon on a lunatic commission,— In politics my duty is to show John   Bull something of the lower world’s condition. It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,735 To see men let these scoundrel Sovereigns break law. XCIII. But politics, and policy, and piety,   Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety,   But as subservient to a moral use;740 Because my business is to dress society,   And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.



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And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. XCIV. And now I will give up all argument;745   And positively henceforth no temptation Shall “fool me to the top up of my bent;”—   Yes, I’ll begin a thorough reformation. Indeed I never knew what people meant   By deeming that my Muse’s conversation750 Was dangerous;—I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less. XCV. Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?   No; but you have heard—­I understand—­be dumb! And don’t regret the time you may have lost,755   For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most   Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:— For certain reasons, my belief is serious.760 XCVI. Serious? You laugh;—you may; that will I not;   My smiles must be sincere or not at all. I say I do believe a haunted spot   Exists—­and where? That shall I not recal, Because I’d rather it should be forgot,765   “Shadows the soul of Richard” may appal. In short, upon that subject I’ve some qualms very Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbury.* XCVII. The night (I sing by night—­sometimes an owl,   And now and then a nightingale)—is dim,770

*  Hobbes; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that compliment to the souls of other people as to decline their visits of which he had some apprehension.

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lord byron And the loud shriek of sage Minerva’s fowl   Rattles around me her discordant hymn: Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl—   I wish to heaven they would not look so grim; The dying embers dwindle in the grate—775 I think too that I have sate up too late: XCVIII. And therefore, though ’tis by no means my way   To rhyme at noon—­when I have other things To think of, if I ever think,—I say   I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,780 And prudently postpone, until mid-­day,   Treating a topic which alas but brings Shadows;—but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superstition. XCIX. Between two worlds life hovers like a star,785   ’Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge: How little do we know that which we are!   How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar   Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,790 Lash’d from the foam of ages; while the graves Of Empires heave but like some passing waves.

CANTO XVI I. The antique Persians taught three useful things,   To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings—   A mode adopted since by modern youth. Bows have they, generally with two strings;5   Horses they ride without remorse or ruth; At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, But draw the long bow better now than ever.



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II. The cause of this effect, or this defect,—   “For this effect defective comes by cause,”—10 Is what I have not leisure to inspect;   But this I must say in my own applause, Of all the Muses that I recollect,   Whate’er may be her follies or her flaws In some things, mine’s beyond all contradiction15 The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. III. And as she treats all things, and ne’er retreats   From any thing, this Epic will contain A wilderness of the most rare conceits,   Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain.20 ’Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets,   Yet mixed so slightly that you can’t complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is “De rebus cunctis et quibûsdam aliis.” IV. But of all truths which she has told, the most25   True is that which she is about to tell. I said it was a story of a ghost—   What then? I only know it so befel. Have you explored the limits of the coast,   Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?30 ’Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. V. Some people would impose now with authority,   Turpin’s or Monmouth Geoffry’s Chronicle; Men whose historical superiority35   Is always greatest at a miracle. But Saint Augustine has the great priority,   Who bids all men believe the impossible, Because ’tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he Quiets at once with “quia impossibile.”40

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lord byron VI. And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all;   Believe:—if ’tis improbable, you must; And if it is impossible, you shall:   ’Tis always best to take things upon trust. I do not speak profanely, to recal45   Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, As all truths must, the more they are disputed. VII. I merely mean to say what Johnson said,   That in the course of some six thousand years,50 All nations have believed that from the dead   A visitant at intervals appears; And what is strangest upon this strange head,   Is, that whatever bar the reason rears ’Gainst such belief, there’s something stronger still55 In its behalf, let those deny who will. VIII. The dinner and the soirée too were done,   The supper too discussed, the dames admired, The banqueteers had dropped off one by one—   The song was silent, and the dance expired:60 The last thin petticoats were vanished, gone   Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, And nothing brighter gleamed through the saloon Than dying tapers—­and the peeping moon. IX. The evaporation of a joyous day65   Is like the last glass of champagne, without The foam which made its virgin bumper gay;   Or like a system coupled with a doubt; Or like a soda bottle when its spray   Has sparkled and let half its spirit out;70 Or like a billow left by storms behind, Without the animation of the wind;



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X. Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest,   Or none; or like—­like nothing that I know Except itself;—such is the human breast;75   A thing, of which similitudes can show No real likeness,—like the old Tyrian vest   Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, If from a shell-­fish or from cochineal.* So perish every tyrant’s robe piece-­meal!80 XI. But next to dressing for a rout or ball,   Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre May sit like that of Nessus and recal   Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. Titus exclaim’d, “I’ve lost a day!” Of all85   The nights and days most people can remember, (I have had of both, some not to be disdained) I wish they’d state how many they have gained. XII. And Juan, on retiring for the night,   Felt restless, and perplexed, and compromised;90 He thought Aurora Raby’s eyes more bright   Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; If he had known exactly his own plight,   He probably would have philosophised; A great resource to all, and ne’er denied95 Till wanted; therefore Juan only sighed. XIII. He sighed;—the next resource is the full moon,   Where all sighs are deposited; and now It happened luckily, the chaste orb shone   As clear as such a climate will allow;100 *  The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether from a shell-fish or from cochineal, or from kermes, is still an article of dispute; and even its colour—­some say purple, others scarlet: I say nothing.

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lord byron And Juan’s mind was in the proper tone   To hail her with the apostrophe—“Oh, Thou!” Of amatory egotism the Tuism, Which further to explain would be a truism. XIV. But lover, poet, or astronomer,105   Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her:   Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err;)   Deep secrets to her rolling light are told;110 The ocean’s tides and mortal’s brains she sways, And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. XV. Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed   For contemplation rather than his pillow: The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,115   Let in the rippling sound of the lake’s billow, With all the mystery by midnight caused;   Below his window waved (of course) a willow; And he stood gazing out on the cascade That flashed and after darkened in the shade.120 XVI. Upon his table or his toilet,—which   Of these is not exactly ascertained— (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch   Of nicety, where a fact is to be gained) A lamp burned high, while he leant from a niche,125   Where many a gothic ornament remained, In chiselled stone and painted glass, and all That time has left our fathers of their Hall. XVII. Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw   His chamber door wide open—­and went forth130 Into a gallery, of a sombre hue,   Long, furnished with old pictures of great worth,



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Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too,   As doubtless should be people of high birth. But by dim lights the portraits of the dead135 Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. XVIII. The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints   Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint   Of your own footsteps—­voices from the urn140 Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint   Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, As if to ask how you can dare to keep A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. XIX. And the pale smile of Beauties in the grave,145   The charms of other days, in starlight gleams Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave   Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,   But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.150 A picture is the past; even ere its frame Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. XX. As Juan mused on mutability,   Or on his mistress—­terms synonymous— No sound except the echo of his sigh155   Or step ran sadly through that antique house, When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,   A supernatural agent—­or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass Most people as it plays along the arras.160 XXI. It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, arrayed   In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appeared, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,   With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;

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lord byron His garments only a slight murmur made;165   He mov’d as shadowy as the sisters weïrd, But slowly; and as he passed Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. XXII. Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint   Of such a spirit in these halls of old,170 But thought, like most men, there was nothing in’t   Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coined from surviving superstition’s mint,   Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.175 And did he see this? or was it a vapour? XXIII. Once, twice, thrice passed, repassed—­the thing of air,   Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t’other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,   Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base180 As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair   Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; He taxed his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted. XXIV. The third time, after a still longer pause,185   The shadow passed away—­but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause   To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the laws   Of physics, bodies whether short or tall190 Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seemed to evaporate. XXV. He stood—­how long he knew not, but it seemed   An age,—expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strained on the spot where first the figure gleamed;195   Then by degrees recalled his energies,



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And would have passed the whole off as a dream,   But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and returned at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.200 XXVI. All there was as he left it: still his taper   Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;   He rubbed his eyes, and they did not refuse Their office; he took up an old newspaper;205   The paper was right easy to peruse; He read an article the king attacking, And a long eulogy of “Patent Blacking.” XXVII. This savoured of this world; but his hand shook—   He shut his door, and after having read210 A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,   Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. There couched all snugly on his pillow’s nook   With what he had seen his phantasy he fed, And though it was no opiate, slumber crept215 Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. XXVIII. He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,   Pondered upon his visitant or vision, And whether it ought not to be disclosed,   At risk of being quizzed for superstition.220 The more he thought, the more his mind was posed;   In the mean time, his valet, whose precision Was great, because his master brooked no less, Knocked to inform him it was time to dress. XXIX. He dressed; and like young people, he was wont225   To take some trouble with his toilet, but This morning rather spent less time upon’t;   Aside his very mirror soon was put;

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lord byron His curls fell negligently o’er his front,   His clothes were not curbed to their usual cut,230 His very neckcloth’s Gordian knot was tied Almost an hair’s breadth too much on one side. XXX. And when he walked down into the saloon,   He sate him pensive o’er a dish of tea, Which he perhaps had not discovered soon,235   Had it not happened scalding hot to be, Which made him have recourse unto his spoon;   So much distrait he was, that all could see That something was the matter—­Adeline The first—­but what she could not well divine.240 XXXI. She looked, and saw him pale, and turned as pale   Herself; then hastily looked down, and muttered Something, but what’s not stated in my tale.   Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill buttered; The Duchess of Fitz-­Fulke played with her veil,245   And looked at Juan hard, but nothing uttered. Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, Surveyed him with a kind of calm surprise. XXXII. But seeing him all cold and silent still,   And every body wondering more or less,250 Fair Adeline inquired, “If he were ill?”   He started, and said, “Yes—­no—­rather—­yes.” The family physician had great skill,   And being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell255 The cause, but Juan said, “He was quite well.” XXXIII. “Quite well; yes; no.”—These answers were mysterious,   And yet his looks appeared to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious;   Something like illness of a sudden growth260



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Weighed on his spirit, though by no means serious.   But for the rest, as he himself seemed loth To state the case, it might be ta’en for granted It was not the physician that he wanted. XXXIV. Lord Henry, who had now discussed his chocolate,265   Also the muffin whereof he complained, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,   At which he marvelled, since it had not rained; Then asked her Grace what news were of the Duke of late?   Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pained270 With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. XXXV. Then Henry turned to Juan and addressed   A few words of condolence on his state: “You look,” quoth he, “as if you had had your rest275   Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.” “What Friar?” said Juan; and he did his best   To put the question with an air sedate, Or careless; but the effort was not valid To hinder him from growing still more pallid.280 XXXVI. “Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?   The spirit of these walls?”—“In truth not I.” “Why Fame—­but Fame you know’s sometimes a liar—   Tells an odd story, of which by the bye: Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,285   Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed, The Friar of late has not been oft perceived. XXXVII. “The last time was——” “I pray,” said Adeline,—   (Who watched the changes of Don Juan’s brow,290 And from its context thought she could divine   Connections stronger than he chose to avow

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lord byron With this same legend)—“if you but design   To jest, you’ll choose some other theme just now, Because the present tale has oft been told,295 And is not much improved by growing old.” XXXVIII. “Jest!” quoth Milor, “Why, Adeline, you know   That we ourselves—’twas in the Honey Moon— Saw ——” “Well, no matter, ’twas so long ago;   But, come, I’ll set your story to a tune.”300 Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow,   She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touched, and plaintively began to play The air of “’Twas a Friar of Orders Grey.” XXXIX. “But add the words,” cried Henry, “which you made;305   For Adeline is half a poetess,” Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.   Of course the others could not but express In courtesy their wish to see displayed   By one three talents, for there were no less—310 The voice, the words, the harper’s skill, at once Could hardly be united by a dunce. XL. After some fascinating hesitation,—   The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, I can’t tell why, to this dissimulation,—315   Fair Adeline, with eyes fixed on the ground At first, then kindling into animation,   Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, And sang with much simplicity,—a merit Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.320 1. Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,   Who sitteth by Norman stone, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,   And his mass of the days that are gone.



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When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,325   Made Norman Church his prey, And expelled the friars, one friar still   Would not be driven away. 2. Though he came in his might, with King Henry’s right,   To turn church lands to lay,330 With sword in hand, and torch to light   Their walls, if they said nay, A monk remained, unchased, unchained,   And he did not seem formed of clay, For he’s seen in the porch, and he’s seen in the church,335   Though he is not seen by day. 3. And whether for good, or whether for ill,   It is not mine to say; But still to the house of Amundeville   He abideth night and day.340 By the marriage bed of their lords, ’tis said,   He flits on the bridal eve; And ’tis held as faith, to their bed of death,   He comes—­but not to grieve. 4. When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn,345   And when aught is to befall That ancient line, in the pale moonshine   He walks from hall to hall. His form you may trace, but not his face,   ’Tis shadowed by his cowl;350 But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,   And they seem of a parted soul. 5. But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,   He still retains his sway, For he is yet the church’s heir355   Who ever may be the lay.

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lord byron Amundeville is lord by day,   But the monk is lord by night. Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal   To question that friar’s right.360 6. Say nought to him as he walks the hall,   And he’ll say nought to you; He sweeps along in his dusky pall,   As o’er the grass the dew. Then Grammercy! for the Black Friar;365   Heaven sain him! fair or foul, And whatsoe’er may be his prayer,   Let ours be for his soul. XLI. The lady’s voice ceased, and the thrilling wires   Died from the touch that kindled them to sound;370 And the pause followed, which when song expires,   Pervades a moment those who listen round; And then of course the circle much admires,   Nor less applauds as in politeness bound, The tones, the feeling, and the execution,375 To the performer’s diffident confusion. XLII. Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,   As if she rated such accomplishment As the mere pastime of an idle day,   Pursued an instant for her own content,380 Would now and then as ’twere without display,  Yet with display in fact, at times relent To such performances with haughty smile, To show she could, if it were worth her while. XLIII. Now this (but we will whisper it aside)385   Was—­pardon the pedantic illustration— Trampling on Plato’s pride with greater pride,   As did the Cynic on some like occasion;



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Deeming the sage would be much mortified,   Or thrown into a philosophic passion,390 For a spoilt carpet—­but the “Attic Bee” Was much consoled by his own repartee.* XLIV. Thus Adeline would throw into the shade,   (By doing easily whene’er she chose, What dilettanti do with vast parade)395   Their sort of half profession: for it grows To something like this when too oft displayed,   And that it is so, every body knows, Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T’other, Show off—­to please their company or mother.400 XLV. Oh! the long evenings of duets and trios!   The admirations and the speculations; The “Mamma Mia’s!” and the “Amor Mio’s!”   The “Tanti palpiti’s” on such occasions: The “Lasciami’s,” and quavering “Addio’s!”405   Amongst our own most musical of nations; With “Tu mi chamas’s” from Portingale, To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.† XLVI. In Babylon’s bravuras—­as the home   Heart-­ballads of Green Erin or Grey Highlands,410 *  I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, with—“Thus I trample on the pride of Plato!”—“With greater pride,” as the other replied. But as carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece of furniture. †   I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did rather indecorously break through the applauses of an intelligent audience—­intelligent, I mean, as to music—for the words, besides being in recondite languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian)— were sorely disguised by the performers;—this mayoress, I say, broke out with, “Rot your Italianos! for my part, I loves a simple ballat!” Rossini will go a good way to bring most people to the same opinion, some day. Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of Mozart? However, I state this with diffidence, as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of Rossini’s: but we may say, as the connoisseur did of painting, in The Vicar of Wakefield, “That the picture would be better painted if the painter had taken more pains.”

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lord byron That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam   O’er far Atlantic continents or islands, The calentures of music which o’ercome   All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, No more to be beheld but in such visions,—415 Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. XLVII. She also had a twilight tinge of “Blue,”   Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote; Made epigrams occasionally too   Upon her friends, as every body ought.420 But still from that sublimer azure hue,   So much the present dye, she was remote, Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. XLVIII. Aurora—­since we are touching upon taste,425   Which now-­a-­days is the thermometer By whose degrees all characters are classed—   Was more Shakespearian, if I do not err. The worlds beyond this world’s perplexing waste   Had more of her existence, for in her430 There was a depth of feeling to embrace Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space. XLIX. Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace,   The full grown Hebe of Fitz-­Fulke, whose mind, If she had any, was upon her face,435   And that was of a fascinating kind. A little turn for mischief you might trace   Also thereon,—but that’s not much; we find Few females without some such gentle leaven, For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven.440 L. I have not heard she was at all poetic,   Though once she was seen reading the “Bath Guide,”



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And “Hayley’s Triumphs,” which she deemed pathetic,   Because, she said, her temper had been tried So much, the bard had really been prophetic445   Of what she had gone through with,—since a bride. But of all verse, what most insured her praise Were sonnets to herself, or “Bouts rimés.” LI. ’Twere difficult to say what was the object   Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay450 To bear on what appeared to her the subject   Of Juan’s nervous feelings on that day. Perhaps she merely had the simple project   To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it,455 Though why I cannot say—­at least this minute. LII. But so far the immediate effect   Was to restore him to his self propriety, A thing quite necessary to the elect,   Who wish to take the tone of their society:460 In which you cannot be too circumspect,   Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, On pain of much displeasing the Gynocrasy. LIII. And therefore Juan now began to rally465   His spirits, and without more explanation, To jest upon such themes in many a sally.   Her Grace too also seized the same occasion, With various similar remarks to tally,   But wished for a still more detailed narration470 Of this same mystic Friar’s curious doings, About the present family’s deaths and wooings. LIV. Of these few could say more than has been said;   They passed as such things do, for superstition

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lord byron With some, while others, who had more in dread475   The theme, half credited the strange tradition; And much was talked on all sides on that head;   But Juan, when cross-­questioned on the vision, Which some supposed (though he had not avowed it) Had stirred him, answered in a way to cloud it.480 LV. And then, the mid-­day having worn to one,   The company prepared to separate; Some to their several pastimes, or to none,   Some wondering ’twas so early, some so late. There was a goodly match too, to be run485   Between some greyhounds on my Lord’s estate, And a young race-­horse of old pedigree, Matched for the spring, whom several went to see. LVI. There was a picture dealer who had brought   A special Titian, warranted original,490 So precious that it was not to be bought,   Though princes the possessor were besieging all. The king himself had cheapened it, but thought   The Civil List (he deigns to accept, obliging all His subjects by his gracious acceptation)495 Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. LVII. But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,—   The friend of artists, if not arts,—the owner, With motives the most classical and pure,   So that he would have been the very donor,500 Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer,   So much he deemed his patronage an honour, Had brought the Capo d’opera, not for sale, But for his judgment,—never known to fail. LVIII. There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic505   Bricklayer of Babel, called an architect,

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Brought to survey these grey walls, which though so thick,   Might have from time acquired some slight defect; Who, after rummaging the Abbey through thick   And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect510 New buildings of correctest conformation, And throw down old, which he called restoration. LIX. The cost would be a trifle—­an “old song”   Set to some thousands (’tis the usual burthen Of that same tune, when people hum it long)—515   The price would speedily repay its worth in An edifice no less sublime than strong,   By which Lord Henry’s good taste would go forth in Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, For Gothic daring shown in English money.*520 LX. There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage   Lord Henry wished to raise for a new purchase; Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage,   And one on tithes, which sure are Discord’s torches, Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage,525   “Untying” squires “to fight against the churches;”† There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. LXI. There were two poachers caught in a steel trap   Ready for jail, their place of convalescence;530 There was a country girl in a close cap   And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since— Since—­since—­in youth, I had the sad mishap— *  “Ausu Romano, ære Veneto” is the inscription (and well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls between the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a republican work of the Venetians; the inscription, I believe, Imperial; and inscribed by Napoleon the First. It is time to continue to him that title—­there will be a second by and by, “Spes altera mundi,” if he live; let him not defeat it like his father. But in any case he will be preferable to the Imbeciles. There is a glorious field for him, if he know how to cultivate it.          “Though ye untie the winds and bid them fight Against the churches.”—Macbeth.

†

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lord byron   But luckily I have paid few parish fees since) That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with Rigour,535 Presents the problem of a double figure. LXII. A reel within a bottle is a mystery,   One can’t tell how it e’er got in or out, Therefore the present piece of natural history,   I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt,540 And merely state, though not for the consistory,   Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout The constable, beneath a warrant’s banner, Had bagged this poacher upon Nature’s manor. LXIII. Now Justices of Peace must judge all pieces545   Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game And morals of the country from caprices   Of those who have not a licence for the same; And of all things, excepting tithes and leases,   Perhaps these are most difficult to tame:550 Preserving partridges and pretty wenches Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. LXIV. The present culprit was extremely pale,   Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red By nature, as in higher dames less hale555   ’Tis white, at least when they just rise from bed. Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail,   Poor soul! for she was country born and bred, And knew no better in her immorality Than to wax white—­for blushes are for quality.560 LXV. Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye,   Had gathered a large tear into its corner, Which the poor thing at times essayed to dry,   For she was not a sentimental mourner, Parading all her sensibility,565



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  Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, To be called up for her examination. LXVI. Of course these groups were scattered here and there,   Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent.570 The lawyers in the study; and in air   The prize pig, ploughmen, poachers; the men sent From town, viz. architect and dealer, were   Both busy (as a general in his tent Writing dispatches) in their several stations,575 Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. LXVII. But this poor girl was left in the great hall,   While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, Discussed (he hated beer yclept the “small”)   A mighty mug of moral double ale:580 She waited until Justice could recal   Its kind attentions to their proper pale, To name a thing in nomenclature rather Perplexing for most virgins—­a child’s father. LXVIII. You see here was enough of occupation585   For the Lord Henry, linked with dogs and horses. There was much bustle too and preparation   Below stairs on the score of second courses, Because, as suits their rank and situation,   Those who in counties have great land resources,590 Have “public days,” when all men may carouse, Though not exactly what’s called “open house.” LXIX. But once a week or fortnight, uninvited   (Thus we translate a general invitation) All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted,595   May drop in without cards, and take their station At the full board, and sit alike delighted

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lord byron   With fashionable wines and conversation; And as the Isthmus of the grand connection, Talk o’er themselves, the past and next election.600 LXX. Lord Henry was a great electioneerer,   Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. But county contests cost him rather dearer,   Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit Had English influence, in the self-­same sphere here;605   His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit, Was member for the “other Interest” (meaning The same self-­interest, with a different leaning.) LXXI. Courteous and cautious therefore in his county,   He was all things to all men, and dispensed610 To some civility, to others bounty,   And promises to all—­which last commenced To gather to a somewhat large amount, he   Not calculating how much they condensed; But what with keeping some, and breaking others,615 His word had the same value as another’s. LXXII. A friend to freedom and freeholders—­yet   No less a friend to government—­he held, That he exactly the just medium hit   ’Twixt place and patriotism—­albeit compelled,620 Such was his Sovereign’s pleasure (though unfit,   He added modestly, when rebels railed) To hold some sinecures he wished abolished, But that with them all law would be demolished. LXXIII. He was “free to confess” — (whence comes this phrase?625   Is’t English? No—’tis only parliamentary) That innovation’s spirit now-­a-­days   Had made more progress than for the last century. He would not tread a factious path to praise,



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  Though for the public weal disposed to venture high;630 As for his place, he could but say this of it, That the fatigue was greater than the profit. LXXIV. Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life   Had ever been his sole and whole ambition; But could he quit his king in times of strife635   Which threatened the whole country with perdition? When demagogues would with a butcher’s knife   Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!) The Gordian or the Geordi-­an knot, whose strings Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings.640 LXXV. Sooner “come place into the civil list   And champion him to the utmost”—he would keep it, Till duly disappointed or dismissed:   Profit he cared not for, let others reap it; But should the day come when place ceased to exist,645   The country would have far more cause to weep it; For how could it go on? Explain who can! He gloried in the name of Englishman. LXXVI. He was as independent—­aye, much more—   Than those who were not paid for independence,650 As common soldiers, or a common—­Shore,   Have in their several arts or parts ascendance O’er the irregulars in lust or gore,   Who do not give professional attendance. Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager655 To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. LXXVII. All this (save the last stanza) Henry said,   And thought. I say no more—­I’ve said too much; For all of us have either heard or read   Of—­or upon the hustings—­some slight such660 Hints from the independent heart or head

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lord byron   Of the official candidate. I’ll touch No more on this—­the dinner bell hath rung, And grace is said; the grace I should have sung— LXXVIII. But I’m too late, and therefore must make play.665   ’Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old Was wont to boast—­as if a glutton’s tray   Were something very glorious to behold. But ’twas a public feast and public day,—   Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold,670 Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, And every body out of their own sphere. LXXIX. The squires familiarly formal, and   My lords and ladies proudly condescending; The very servants puzzling how to hand675   Their plates—­without it might be too much bending From their high places by the sideboard’s stand—   Yet like their masters fearful of offending. For any deviation from the graces Might cost both men and master too—­their places.680 LXXX. There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen,   Whose hounds ne’er erred, nor greyhounds deigned to lurch; Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen   Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen.685   There were some massy members of the church, Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. LXXXI. There were some country wags too,—and, alas!   Some exiles from the town, who had been driven690 To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass,   And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. And lo! upon that day it came to pass,



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  I sate next that o’erwhelming son of heaven, The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,695 The loudest wit I e’er was deafened with. LXXXII. I knew him in his livelier London days,   A brilliant diner out, though but a curate; And not a joke he cut but earned its praise,   Until preferment, coming at a sure rate,700 (Oh, Providence! how wondrous are thy ways,   Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?) Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o’er Lincoln, A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. LXXXIII. His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes;705   But both were thrown away amongst the fens; For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks.   No longer ready ears and short-­hand pens Imbibed the gay bon mot, or happy hoax:   The poor priest was reduced to common sense,710 Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. LXXXIV. There is a difference, says the song, “between   A beggar and a queen,” or was (of late The latter worse used of the two we’ve seen—715   But we’ll say nothing of affairs of state) A difference “’twixt a bishop and a dean,”   A difference between crockery ware and plate, As between English beef and Spartan broth— And yet great heroes have been bred by both.720 LXXXV. But of all nature’s discrepancies, none   Upon the whole is greater than the difference Beheld between the country and the town,   Of which the latter merits every preference From those who have few resources of their own,725

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lord byron   And only think, or act, or feel with reference To some small plan of interest or ambition— Both which are limited to no condition. LXXXVI. But “en avant!” The light loves languish o’er   Long banquets and too many guests, although730 A slight repast makes people love much more,   Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore   With vivifying Venus, who doth owe To these the invention of champagne and truffles:735 Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. LXXXVII. Dully past o’er the dinner of the day;   And Juan took his place, he knew not where, Confused, in the confusion, and distrait,   And sitting as if nailed upon his chair;740 Though knives and forks clanged round as in a fray,   He seemed unconscious of all passing there, Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. LXXXVIII. On which, at the third asking of the banns,745   He started; and perceiving smiles around Broadening to grins, he coloured more than once,   And hastily—­as nothing can confound A wise man more than laughter from a dunce—   Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound,750 And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it, He had paid his neighbour’s prayer with half a turbot. LXXXIX. This was no bad mistake, as it occurred,   The supplicator being an amateur; But others, who were left with scarce a third,755   Were angry—­as they well might, to be sure. They wondered how a young man so absurd   Lord Henry at his table should endure;



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And this, and his not knowing how much oats Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes.760 XC. They little knew, or might have sympathized,   That he the night before had seen a ghost, A prologue which but slightly harmonized   With the substantial company engrossed By Matter, and so much materialised,765   That one scarce knew at what to marvel most Of two things—­how (the question rather odd is) Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. XCI. But what confused him more than smile or stare   From all the ’squires and ’squiresses around,770 Who wondered at the abstraction of his air,   Especially as he had been renowned For some vivacity among the fair,   Even in the country circle’s narrow bound— (For little things upon my Lord’s estate775 Were good small-­talk for others still less great)— XCII. Was, that he caught Aurora’s eye on his,   And something like a smile upon her cheek. Now this he really rather took amiss:   In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks780 A strong external motive; and in this   Smile of Aurora’s there was nought to pique Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles Which some pretend to trace in ladies’ smiles. XCIII. ’Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation,785   Indicative of some surprise and pity; And Juan grew carnation with vexation,   Which was not very wise and still less witty, Since he had gained at least her observation,   A most important outwork of the city—790 As Juan should have known, had not his senses By last night’s ghost been driven from their defences.

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lord byron XCIV. But what was bad, she did not blush in turn,   Nor seem embarrassed—­quite the contrary; Her aspect was as usual, still—­not stern—795   And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, Yet grew a little pale—­with what? concern?   I know not; but her colour ne’er was high— Though sometimes faintly flushed—­and always clear, As deep seas in a Sunny Atmosphere.800 XCV. But Adeline was occupied by fame   This day; and watching, witching, condescending To the consumers of fish, fowl and game,   And dignity with courtesy so blending, As all must blend whose part it is to aim805   (Especially as the sixth year is ending) At their lord’s, son’s, or similar connection’s Safe conduct through the rocks of re-­elections. XCVI. Though this was most expedient on the whole,   And usual—­Juan, when he cast a glance810 On Adeline while playing her grand role,   Which she went through as though it were a dance, Betraying only now and then her soul   By a look scarce perceptibly askance (Of weariness or scorn) began to feel815 Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; XCVII. So well she acted, all and every part   By turns—­with that vivacious versatility, Which many people take for want of heart.   They err—’tis merely what is called mobility,*820 A thing of temperament and not of art,

*  In French “mobilité.” I am not sure that mobility is English; but it is expressive of a quality which rather belongs to other climates, though it is sometimes seen to a great extent in our own. It may be defined as an excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions—­at the same time without losing the past; and is, though sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most painful and unhappy attribute.



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  Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; And false—­though true; for surely they’re sincerest, Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. XCVIII. This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,825   Heroes sometimes, though seldom—­sages never; But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,   Little that’s great, but much of what is clever; Most orators, but very few financiers,   Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour,830 Of late years, to dispense with Cocker’s rigours, And grow quite figurative with their figures. XCIX. The poets of arithmetic are they   Who, though they prove not two and two to be Five, as they would do in a modest way,835   Have plainly made it out that four are three, Judging by what they take, and what they pay.   The Sinking Fund’s unfathomable sea, That most unliquidating liquid, leaves The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.840 C. While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,   The fair Fitz-­Fulke seemed very much at ease; Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces,   Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize The ridicules of people in all places—845   That honey of your fashionable bees— And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; And this at present was her kind employment. CI. However, the day closed, as days must close;   The evening also waned—­and coffee came.850 Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose,   And curtseying off, as curtsies country dame, Retired: with most unfashionable bows   Their docile esquires also did the same,

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lord byron Delighted with the dinner and their host,855 But with the Lady Adeline the most. CII. Some praised her beauty; others her great grace;   The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face,   Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity.860 Yes; she was truly worthy her high place!   No one could envy her deserved prosperity, And then her dress—­what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity!* CIII. Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises,865   By an impartial indemnification For all her past exertion and soft phrases,   In a most edifying conversation, Which turned upon their late guests’ miens and faces,   And families, even to the last relation;870 Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, And truculent distortion of their tresses. CIV. True, she said little—’twas the rest that broke   Forth into universal epigram; But then ’twas to the purpose what she spoke:875   Like Addison’s “faint praise,” so wont to damn, Her own but served to set off every joke,   As music chimes in with a melodrame. How sweet the task to shield an absent friend! I ask but this of mine, to——not defend. 880 CV. There were but two exceptions to this keen   Skirmish of wits o’er the departed; one, Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;   And Juan too, in general behind none In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,885 *  “Curiosa felicitas.”—Petronius Arbiter.



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  Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: In vain he heard the others rail or rally, He would not join them in a single sally. CVI. ’Tis true he saw Aurora look as though   She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook890 Its motive for that charity we owe   But seldom pay the absent, nor would look Further; it might or it might not be so.   But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, Observing little in his reverie,895 Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. CVII. The ghost at least had done him this much good,   In making him as silent as a ghost, If in the circumstances which ensued   He gained esteem where it was worth the most.900 And certainly Aurora had renewed   In him some feelings he had lately lost Or hardened; feelings which, perhaps ideal, Are so divine, that I must deem them real:— CVIII. The love of higher things and better days;905   The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance Of what is called the world, and the world’s ways;   The moments when we gather from a glance More joy than from all future pride or praise,   Which kindle manhood, but can ne’er entrance910 The heart in an existence of its own, Of which another’s bosom is the zone. CIX. Who would not sigh Αι αι ταν Κυθερειαν!  That hath a memory, or that had a heart? Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian;915   Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. Anacreon only had the soul to tie an   Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart

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lord byron Of Eros: but though thou hast played us many tricks, Still we respect thee, “Alma Venus Genetrix!”920 CX. And full of sentiments, sublime as billows   Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows   Arrived, retired to his; but to despond Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows925   Waved o’er his couch; he meditated, fond Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. CXI. The night was as before: he was undrest,   Saving his night gown, which is an undress;930 Completely “sans culotte,” and without vest;   In short, he hardly could be clothed with less; But apprehensive of his spectral guest,   He sate, with feelings awkward to express, (By those who have not had such visitations)935 Expectant of the ghost’s fresh operations. CXII. And not in vain listened—­Hush! what’s that?   I see—­I see—­Ah, no!—’tis not—­yet ’tis— Ye powers! it is the—­the—­the—­Pooh! the cat!   The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!940 So like a spiritual pit-­a-­pat,   Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. CXIII. Again—­what is’t? The wind? No, no,—this time945   It is the sable Friar as before, With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,   Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again, through shadows of the night sublime,   When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore950



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The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems—­the monk made his blood curdle. CXIV. A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,*   Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,955   Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan’s ear, which throbbed, alas!   For immaterialism’s a serious matter; So that even those whose faith is the most great In souls immortal, shun them tête-­à-­tête.960 CXV. Were his eyes open?—Yes! and his mouth too.   Surprise has this effect—­to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips through   As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,965   Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What opened next?—the door. CXVI. It opened with a most infernal creak,   Like that of Hell. “Lasciate ogni speranza970 Voi che entrate!” The hinge seemed to speak,   Dreadful as Dante’s rhima, or this stanza; Or—­but all words upon such themes are weak;   A single shade’s sufficient to entrance a Hero—­for what is substance to a Spirit?975 Or how is’t matter trembles to come near it? CXVII. The door flew wide, not swiftly—­but, as fly   The sea-­gulls, with a steady, sober flight— And then swung back; nor close—­but stood awry, * See the account of the Ghost of the Uncle of Prince Charles of Saxony raised by Schroepfer—“Karl—­Karl—­was—­walt wolt mich?”

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lord byron   Half letting in long shadows on the light,980 Which still in Juan’s candlesticks burned high,   For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the door-­way, darkening Darkness, stood The sable Friar in his solemn hood. CXVIII. Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken985   The night before; but being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken;   And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; His own internal ghost began to awaken   Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking—990 Hinting that soul and body on the whole Were odds against a disembodied soul. CXIX. And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce;   And he arose, advanced—­the shade retreated; But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,995   Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,   At whatsoever risk of being defeated: The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.1000 CXX. Juan put forth one arm—­Eternal Powers!   It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers   Checquered with all the tracery of the hall; He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers1005   When he can’t tell what ’tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin’s non-­entity Should cause more fear than a whole host’s identity!* *         “ ———Shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, Than could the Substance of ten thousand soldiers,” &c. See Richard III.



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CXXI. But still the shade remained; the blue eyes glared,   And rather variably for stony death;1010 Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,   The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. A straggling curl showed he had been fair-­haired;   A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Gleamed forth, as through the casement’s ivy shroud1015 The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud. CXXII. And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust   His other arm forth—­Wonder upon wonder! It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,   Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.1020 He found, as people on most trials must,   That he had made at first a silly blunder, And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall, instead of what he sought. CXXIII. The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul1025   As ever lurked beneath a holy hood: A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole   Forth into something much like flesh and blood; Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,   And they revealed—­alas! that e’er they should!1030 In full, voluptuous, but not o’ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace—­Fitz-­Fulke!

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To the Po.—June 1819 These verses were written by Lord Byron when the Countess G—— was at Ravenna, and he was travelling down the Po to join her:— River, that rollest by the ancient walls   Where dwells the lady of my love: when she Walks by thy brink and there perchance recalls   A faint and fleeting memory of me;— What if thy deep and ample stream should be5   A mirror of my heart; where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee   Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed. What do I say? “A mirror of my heart!”   Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong:10 Such as my feelings were and are, thou art,   And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them; not for ever   Thou overflowest thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils: congenial river,15   Thy floods subside—­and mine have sunk away; But left long wrecks behind us, and again,   Borne on our old unchanged career we move: Thou tendest wildly to the main,   And I to loving one I should not love.20 The current I behold will sweep beneath   Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe   The twilight air, unchained from Summer’s heat. She will look on thee: I have looked on thee,25   Full of that thought, and from that moment ne’er Thy waters could I name—­ne’er name or see,   Without the inseparable sigh for her. Her bright eyes will be imaged on thy stream—   Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now;30

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lord byron But mine can not witness, even in a dream,   That happy wave repass me in its flow. The wave that bears my tear returns no more,   Will she return, by whom that tear shall sweep? Both tread thy bank, both wander on thy shore,35   I near the source, she by the dark blue deep. But that which keepeth us apart, is not   Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, But the distractions of a various lot,—   Ah, various as the climates of our birth.40 A stranger loves a lady of the land   Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fanned   By the black wind that chills the Polar flood. My blood is all meridian: were it not45   I had not left my clime:—I should not be, In spite of torture ne’er to be forgot,   A slave again of love—­at least of thee. ’Tis vain to struggle: let me perish young,   Live as I lived, love as I have loved:50 To dust if I return from dust I sprung,   And then at least my heart cannot be moved.



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Stanzas [‘Remember thee—­remember thee!’] [Lady Caroline Lamb’s] c­ onduct was unaccountable madness—­a ­combination of spite and jealousy. It was perfectly agreed and understood that we were to meet as strangers. We were at a ball. She came up and asked me if she might waltz. I thought it perfectly indifferent whether she waltzed or not, or with whom, and I told her so, in different terms, but with much coolness. After she had finished, a comi-­tragic scene occurred which was in the mouth of every one. She stabbed herself with a pair of scissars, and cut herself with a tumbler. Soon after this she promised young—— . . . . if he would call me out. I suppose he did not think her worth fighting for. Yet can any one believe that she should be so infatuated after all this as to call at my apartments—­certainly with no view of shooting herself. I was from home, but finding “Vathek” on the table, she wrote in the first page, “Remember me!”—Yes, I had cause to remember her, and in the irritability of the moment wrote, under the two words, these two stanzas: Remember thee—­remember thee!   Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream; Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,   And haunt thee like a feverish dream. Remember thee!—aye, doubt it not—5   Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot—  Thou false to him—­thou fiend to me!

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Messolonghi Jan. 22, 1824 “On this day I complete my thirty-­sixth year.” ’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,   Since others it has ceased to move; Yet, though I cannot be beloved,       Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf,5   The flowers and fruits of love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief,       Are mine alone. The fire that on my bosom preys,   Is like to some volcanic isle,10 No torch is kindled at its blaze;—       A funeral pile. The hope, the fears, the jealous care,   Th’ exalted portion of the pain, And power of love, I cannot share,15       But wear the chain. But ’tis not here—­it is not here—   Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now— Where glory seals the hero’s bier,       Or binds his brow.20 The sword, the banner, and the field,   Glory and Greece, around us see; The Spartan borne upon his shield       Was not more free. Awake! not Greece—­she is awake!—25   Awake, my spirit,—think through whom My life blood tastes its parent lake—         And then strike home! I tread reviving passions down,   Unworthy Manhood—­unto thee30



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Indifferent should the smile or frown         Of beauty be. If thou regret thy youth,—why live?—   The land of honourable death Is here—­up to the field, and give35         Away thy breath! Seek out—­less often sought than found—   A soldier’s grave, for thee the best. Then look around, and choose thy ground,         And take thy rest.40

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When I Left thy Shores, O Naxos! An original Greek Air, the words, never before published, by Lord Byron . . . Some years since at a party, at the house of the honorable Douglas Kinnaird in London, a Lady was playing a manuscript Greek Air, which Lord Byron produced. A friend of his Lordship who was present, admiring the music, requested the Poet to adapt some English words to it; which was immediately complied with by his lordship, who wrote the words under the music and presented it to the friend at whose request they were written, and who now has the original manuscript in Lord Byron’s hand writing in his possession, from which by permission, the following copy was taken. That friend of the great poet is Edmund Kean, Esq. to whom the Publishers express their gratitude, and beg leave to dedicate the interesting Fugitive. When I left thy shores, O Naxos   Not a tear in sorrow fell Not a sigh or falter’d accent   Spoke my bosom’s struggling swell. Yet my heart sunk chill within me5   And I wav’d a hand as cold When I thought thy shores O Naxos   I should never more behold. Still the blue wave danc’d around us   Midst the sunbeams’ jocund smile10 Still the air breath’d balmy summer   Wafted from that happy Isle. When some hand the strain awaking   Of my home and native shore Then ’twas first I wept O Naxos15   That I ne’er should see thee more.



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I Speak Not—­I Trace Not. I speak not—­I trace not—­I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound—­there were guilt in the fame, But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thought that dwells in that silence of heart. Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,5 Were those hours—­can their joy or their bitterness cease? We repent—­we abjure—­we will break from our chain, We must part—­we must fly to—­unite it again. Oh! thine be the gladness and mine be the guilt, Forgive me adored one—­forsake if thou wilt,10 But the heart which I bear shall expire undebased, And man shall not break it—­whatever thou mayst. And stern to the haughty—­but humble to thee, My soul in its bitterest blackness shall be; And our days seem as swift—­and our moments more sweet15 With thee by my side—­than the world at our feet. One sigh of thy sorrow—­one look of thy love Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And the heartless may wonder at all we resign, Thy lip shall reply not to them—­but to mine.20

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from Thomas Moore, The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with Notices of his Life (1830) Extract from an Unpublished Poem [‘Could I remount the river of my years’] Could I remount the river of my years To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, I would not trace again the stream of hours Between their outworn banks of wither’d flowers, But bid it flow as now—­until it glides5 Into the number of the nameless tides. * * * * * * What is this Death?—a quiet of the heart? The whole of that of which we are a part? For Life is but a vision—­what I see Of all which lives alone is life to me,10 And being so—­the absent are the dead, Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread A dreary shroud around us, and invest With sad remembrancers our hours of rest.   The absent are the dead—­for they are cold,15 And ne’er can be what once we did behold; And they are changed, and cheerless,—or if yet The unforgotten do not all forget, Since thus divided—­equal must it be If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;20 It may be both—­but one day end it must In the dark union of insensate dust.   The under-­earth inhabitants—­are they But mingled millions decomposed to clay? The ashes of a thousand ages spread25 Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? Or do they in their silent cities dwell Each in his incommunicative cell? Or have they their own language? and a sense Of breathless being?—darken’d and intense30 As midnight in her solitude?—Oh Earth! Where are the past?—and wherefore had they birth? The dead are thy inheritors—­and we But bubbles on thy surface; and the key



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Of thy profundity is in the grave,35 The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, Where I would walk in spirit, and behold Our elements resolved to things untold, And fathom hidden wonders, and explore The essence of great bosoms now no more.40 * * * * * *

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To Augusta [‘My sister! my sweet sister! if a name’] I.   My sister! my sweet sister! if a name   Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.   Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim   No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:   Go where I will, to me thou art the same—5   A loved regret which I would not resign.   There yet are two things in my destiny,— A world to roam through, and a home with thee. II.   The first were nothing—­had I still the last,   It were the haven of my happiness;10   But other claims and other ties thou hast,   And mine is not the wish to make them less.   A strange doom is thy father’s son’s, and past   Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;   Reversed for him our grandsire’s fate of yore,*—15 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. III.   If my inheritance of storms hath been   In other elements, and on the rocks   Of perils, overlook’d or unforeseen,   I have sustain’d my share of worldly shocks,20   The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen   My errors with defensive paradox;   I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe. *  Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of “Foul-weather Jack.” “But, though it were tempest-tost, Still his bark could not be lost.” He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager (in Anson’s Voyage), and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after, as commander of a similar expedition.



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IV.   Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.25   My whole life was a contest, since the day   That gave me being, gave me that which marr’d   The gift,—a fate, or will, that walk’d astray;   And I at times have found the struggle hard,   And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:30   But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive. V.   Kingdoms and empires in my little day   I have outlived, and yet I am not old;   And when I look on this, the petty spray35   Of my own years of trouble, which have roll’d   Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:   Something—­I know not what—­does still uphold   A spirit of slight patience;—not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.40 VI.   Perhaps the workings of defiance stir   Within me,—or perhaps a cold despair,   Brought on when ills habitually recur,—   Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,   (For even to this may change of soul refer,45   And with light armour we may learn to bear,)   Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot. VII.   I feel almost at times as I have felt   In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,50   Which do remember me of where I dwelt   Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,   Come as of yore upon me, and can melt   My heart with recognition of their looks;   And even at moments I could think I see55 Some living thing to love—­but none like thee.

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lord byron VIII.   Here are the Alpine landscapes which create   A fund for contemplation;—to admire   Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;   But something worthier do such scenes inspire:60   Here to be lonely is not desolate,   For much I view which I could most desire,   And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. IX.   Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I grow65   The fool of my own wishes, and forget   The solitude which I have vaunted so   Has lost its praise in this but one regret;   There may be others which I less may show;—   I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet70   I feel an ebb in my philosophy, And the tide rising in my alter’d eye. X.   I did remind thee of our own dear lake,*   By the old hall which may be mine no more.   Leman’s is fair; but think not I forsake75   The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:   Sad havoc Time must with my memory make  Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;   Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resign’d for ever, or divided far.80 XI.   The world is all before me; I but ask   Of nature that with which she will comply—   It is but in her summer’s sun to bask,   To mingle with the quiet of her sky,   To see her gentle face without a mask,85   And never gaze on it with apathy.   She was my early friend, and now shall be My sister—­till I look again on thee. *  The lake of Newstead Abbey



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XII.   I can reduce all feelings but this one;   And that I would not;—for at length I see90   Such scenes as those wherein my life begun.   The earliest—­even the only paths for me—   Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,   I had been better than I now can be;   The passions which have torn me would have slept;95 I had not suffer’d, and thou hadst not wept. XIII.   With false ambition what had I to do?   Little with love, and least of all with fame;   And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,   And made me all which they can make—­a name.100   Yet this was not the end I did pursue;   Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.   But all is over—­I am one the more To baffled millions which have gone before. XIV.   And for the future, this world’s future may105   From me demand but little of my care;   I have outlived myself by many a day;   Having survived so many things that were;   My years have been no slumber, but the prey   Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share110   Of life which might have fill’d a century, Before its fourth in time had pass’d me by. XV.   And for the remnant which may be to come   I am content; and for the past I feel   Not thankless,—for within the crowded sum115   Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,   And for the present, I would not benumb   My feelings farther.—Nor shall I conceal   That with all this I still can look around, And worship Nature with a thought profound.120

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lord byron XVI.   For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart   I know myself secure, as thou in mine;   We were and are—­I am, even as thou art—   Beings who ne’er each other can resign;   It is the same, together or apart,125   From life’s commencement to its slow decline   We are entwined—­let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last!



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Francesca of Rimini Translation from the Inferno of Dante, Canto 5th “The land where I was born sits by the seas,   Upon that shore to which the Po descends,   With all his followers, in search of peace. Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,   Seized him for the fair person which was ta’en5   From me, and me even yet the mode offends. Love, who to none beloved to love again   Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong,   That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along,  10   But Caina waits for him our life who ended:”   These were the accents utter’d by her tongue.— Since I first listen’d to these souls offended,   I bow’d my visage, and so kept it till—   “What think’st thou?” said the bard; {when / then} I unbended,15 And recommenced: “Alas! unto such ill   How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies,   Led these their evil fortune to fulfil!” And then I turn’d unto their side my eyes,   And said, “Francesca, thy sad destinies  20   Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs,   By what and how thy Love to Passion rose,   So as his dim desires to recognise?” Then she to me: “The greatest of all woes25   Is to {remind us of / recall to mind} our happy days   In misery, and {that / this} thy teacher knows. But if to learn our passion’s first root preys   Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,   I will {do even / relate} as he who weeps and says.—30 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh,   Of Lancilot, how Love enchain’d him too.   We were alone, quite unsuspiciously, But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue   All o’er discolour’d by that reading were;35   But one point only wholly {us o’erthrew / overthrew}; When we read the {long-­sighed-­for / desired} smile of her,

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lord byron   To be thus kiss’d by such {devoted / a fervent} lover,   He, who from me can be divided ne’er, Kiss’d my mouth, trembling in the act all over.40   Accursed was the book and he who wrote!   That day no further leaf we did uncover.”— While thus one Spirit told us of their lot,   The other wept, so that with pity’s thralls   I swoon’d as if by death I had been smote,45 And fell down even as a dead body falls.



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[‘When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home’] When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,   Let him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,   And get knock’d on the head for his labours. To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,5   And is always as nobly requited; Then battle for freedom wherever you can,   And, if not shot or hang’d, you’ll get knighted.

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[‘Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story’] Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-­and-­twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?5 ’Tis but as a dead-­flower with May-­dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? Oh Fame! if I e’er took delight in thy praises, ’Twas less for the sake of thy high-­sounding phrases,10 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear One discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o’er aught that was bright in my story,15 I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.



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[‘Could Love for ever’] Composed Dec. 1, 1819 Could Love for ever Run like a river, And Time’s endeavour   Be tried in vain; No other pleasure5 With this could measure; And like a treasure   We’d hug the chain. But since our sighing Ends not in dying,10 And, formed for flying,   Love plumes his wing; Then, for this reason, Let’s love a season; But let that season be only Spring.15   When lovers parted   Feel broken-­hearted,   And, all hopes thwarted,   Expect to die;   A few years older,20   Ah! how much colder   They might behold her   For whom they sigh.   When linked together,   Through every weather,25   We pluck Love’s feather    From out his wing,   He’ll sadly shiver,   And droop for ever, Without the plumage that sped his spring.30   Like Chiefs of Faction,   His life is action,—   A formal paction,    Which curbs his reign,   Obscures his glory,35   Despot no more, he

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lord byron   Such territory   Quits with disdain.   Still, still advancing,   With banners glancing,40   His power enhancing,    He must march on:   Repose but cloys him,   Retreat destroys him; Love brooks not a degraded throne!45   Wait not, fond lover!   Till years are over,   And then recover    As from a dream.   While each bewailing50   The other’s failing,   With wrath and railing    All hideous seem;   While first decreasing,   Yet not quite ceasing,55   Pause not till teazing,    All passion blight:   If once diminished,   His reign is finished,— One last embrace then, and bid good-­night!60   So shall Affection   To recollection   The dear connexion    Bring back with joy;   You have not waited65   Till, tired and hated,   All passion sated   Began to cloy.   Your last embraces   Leave no cold traces,—70   The same fond faces    As through the past;   And eyes, the mirrors   Of your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture; not least, though last!75



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  True separations   Ask more than patience;   What desperations    From such have risen!   And yet remaining,80   What is’t but chaining   Hearts which, once waning,   Beat ’gainst their prison?   Time can but cloy love,   And use destroy love:85   The winged boy, Love,    Is but for boys;   You’ll find it torture,   Though sharper, shorter, To wean, and not wear out your joys.90

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Dedication to Don Juan [I–­II] I. Bob Southey! You’re a poet—­Poet-­laureate,   And representative of all the race, Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory at   Last,—yours has lately been a common case,— And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at,5   With all the Lakers in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like “four and twenty Blackbirds in a pie; II. “Which pie being open’d they began to sing”   (This old song and new simile holds good),10 “A dainty dish to set before the King,”   Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;— And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,   But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood,— Explaining metaphysics to the nation—15 I wish he would explain his Explanation. III. You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,   At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below,   And be the only Blackbird in the dish;20 And then you overstrain yourself, or so,   And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob! IV. And Wordsworth, in a rather long “Excursion”25   (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), Has given a sample from the vasty version   Of his new system to perplex the sages; ’Tis poetry—­at least by his assertion,



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  And may appear so when the dog-star rages—30 And he who understands it would be able To add a story to the Tower of Babel. V. You—Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion   From better company, have kept your own At Keswick, and through still continued fusion35   Of one another’s minds at last have grown To deem as a most logical conclusion,   That Poesy has wreaths for you alone: There is a narrowness in such a notion, Which makes me wish you’d change your lakes for ocean.40 VI. I would not imitate the petty thought,   Nor coin my self-­love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought,   Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary; ­was’t for that you wrought?45   And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. You’re shabby fellows—­true—­but poets still, And duly seated on the immortal hill. VII. Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows—   Perhaps some virtuous blushes;—­let them go—50 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs—   And for the fame you would engross below, The field is universal, and allows   Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow: Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try55 ’Gainst you the question with posterity. VIII. For me who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,   Contend not with you on the winged steed, I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,   The fame you envy, and the skill you need;60 And recollect a poet nothing loses

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lord byron   In giving to his brethren their full meed Of merit, and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise. IX. He that reserves his laurels for posterity65   (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) Has generally no great crop to spare it, he   Being only injured by his own assertion; And although here and there some glorious rarity   Arise like Titan from the sea’s immersion,70 The major part of such appellants go To—­God knows where—­for no one else can know. X. If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,   Milton appeal’d to the Avenger, Time, If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs,75   And makes the word “Miltonic” mean “sublime,” He deign’d not to belie his soul in songs,   Nor turn his very talent to a crime; He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, But closed the tyrant-­hater he begun.80 XI. Think’st thou, could he—the blind Old Man—arise   Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,   Or be alive again—­again all hoar With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,85   And heartless daughters—worn—and pale—and poor: Would he adore a sultan? he obey The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? XII. Cold-­blooded, smooth-­faced, placid miscreant!   Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin’s gore,90 And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,   Transferr’d to gorge upon a sister ­shore;



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The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,   With just enough of talent, and no more, To lengthen fetters by another fix’d,95 And offer poison long already mix’d. XIII. An orator of such set trash of phrase   Ineffably—legitimately vile, That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,   Nor foes—­all nations—­condescend to smile,—100 Not even a sprightly blunder’s spark can blaze   From that Ixion grindstone’s ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion. XIV. A bungler even in its disgusting trade,105   And botching, patching, leaving still behind Something of which its masters are afraid,   States to be curb’d, and thoughts to be confined, Conspiracy or Congress to be made—   Cobbling at manacles for all mankind—110 A tinkering slave-­maker, who mends old chains, With God and man’s abhorrence for its gains. XV. If we may judge of matter by the mind,   Emasculated to the marrow It Hath but two objects, ­how to serve, and bind,115   Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit; Eutropius of its many masters—­blind   To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, Fearless—because no feeling dwells in ice, Its very courage stagnates to a vice.120 XVI. Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,   For I will never feel them;—­Italy! Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds

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lord byron   Beneath the lie this State-­thing breathed o’er thee— Thy clanking chain, and Erin’s yet green wounds,125   Have voices—­tongues to cry aloud for me. Europe has slaves—allies—kings—armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill. XVII. Meantime—Sir Laureate—I proceed to dedicate,   In honest simple verse, this song to you.130 And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate,   ’Tis that I still retain my “buff and blue;” My politics as yet are all to educate:   Apostasy’s so fashionable, too, To keep one creed’s a task grown quite Herculean;135 Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-­Julian? Venice, September 16. 1818



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Verses by Lord Byron [‘I watched thee when the foe was at our side’] The last he ever wrote; from a rough copy found amongst his papers at the back of the “Song of Suli.” Copied November, 1824.—John C. Hobhouse. A note attached to the verses by Lord Byron states they were addressed to no one in particular, and were a mere poetical Scherzo.—J.C.H. 1. I watched thee when the foe was at our side,   Ready to strike at him—­or thee and me Were safety hopeless—­rather than divide   Aught with one loved save love and liberty. 2. I watched thee in the breakers, when the rock5   Received our prow and all was storm and fear, And bade thee cling to me through every shock;   This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier. 3. I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,   Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground10 When over-­worn with watching, ne’er to rise   From thence if thou an early grave hadst found. 4. The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,   And men and nature reeled as if with wine. Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?15   For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine. 5. And when convulsive throes denied my breath   The faintest utterance to my fading thought,

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lord byron To thee—­to thee—­e’en in the gasp of death   My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.20 6. Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,   And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will. Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot   To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.



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Don Juan. Canto XVII fragment I. The world is full of orphans: firstly, those   Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase; But many a lonely tree the loftier grows   Than others crowded in the Forest’s maze— The next are such as are not doomed to lose5   Their tender parents, in their budding days, But, merely, their parental tenderness, Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less. II. The next are “only Children,” as they are styled,   Who grow up Children only, since th’ old saw10 Pronounces that an “only’s ” a spoilt child—   But not to go too far, I hold it law, That where their education, harsh or mild,   Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe, The sufferers—­be’t in heart or intellect—15 Whate’er the cause, are orphans in effect. III. But to return unto the stricter rule—   As far as words make rules—­our common notion Of orphan paints at once a parish school,   A half-­starved babe, a wreck upon Life’s ocean,20 A human (what the Italians nickname) “Mule!”   A theme for Pity or some worse emotion; Yet, if examined, it might be admitted The wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied. IV. Too soon they are Parents to themselves: for what25   Are Tutors, Guardians, and so forth, compared With Nature’s genial Genitors? so that   A child of Chancery, that Star-­Chamber ward, (I’ll take the likeness I can first come at),

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lord byron   Is like—­a duckling by Dame Partlett reared,30 And frights—­especially if ’t is a daughter, The old Hen—­by running headlong to the water. V. There is a common-­place book argument,   Which glibly glides from every tongue; When any dare a new light to present,35   “If you are right, then everybody’s wrong!” Suppose the converse of this precedent   So often urged, so loudly and so long; “If you are wrong, then everybody’s right!” Was ever everybody yet so quite?40 VI. Therefore I would solicit free discussion   Upon all points—­no matter what, or whose— Because as Ages upon Ages push on,   The last is apt the former to accuse Of pillowing its head on a pin-­cushion,45   Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse: What was a paradox becomes a truth or A something like it—witness Luther! VII. The Sacraments have been reduced to two,   And Witches unto none, though somewhat late50 Since burning ag’ed women (save a few—   Not witches only b—­ches—­who create Mischief in families, as some know or knew,   Should still be singed, but lightly, let me state,) Has been declared an act of inurbanity,55 Malgré Sir Matthew Hales’s great humanity. VIII. Great Galileo was debarred the Sun,   Because he fixed it; and, to stop his talking, How Earth could round the solar orbit run,   Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking:60



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The man was well-­nigh dead, ere men begun   To think his skull had not some need of caulking; But now, it seems, he’s right—­his notion just: No doubt a consolation to his dust. IX. Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates—­but pages65   Might be filled up, as vainly as before, With the sad usage of all sorts of sages,   Who in his life-­time, each, was deemed a Bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages:   This they must bear with and, perhaps, much more;70 The wise man’s sure when he no more can share it, he Will have a firm Post Obit on posterity. X. If such doom waits each intellectual Giant,   We little people in our lesser way, To Life’s small rubs should surely be more pliant,75   And so for one will I—­as well I may— Would that I were less bilious—­but, oh, fie on ’t!   Just as I make my mind up every day, To be a “totus, teres,” Stoic, Sage, The wind shifts and I fly into a rage.80 XI. Temperate I am—­yet never had a temper;   Modest I am—­yet with some slight assurance; Changeable too—­yet somehow “Idem semper:”   Patient—­but not enamoured of endurance; Cheerful—­but, sometimes, rather apt to whimper:85   Mild—­but at times a sort of “Hercules furens:” So that I almost think that the same skin For one without—­has two or three within. XII. Our Hero was, in Canto the Sixteenth,   Left in a tender moonlight situation,90 Such as enables Man to show his strength

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lord byron   Moral or physical: on this occasion Whether his virtue triumphed—­or, at length,   His vice—­for he was of a kindling nation— Is more than I shall venture to describe;—95 Unless some Beauty with a kiss should bribe. XIII. I leave the thing a problem, like all things:—   The morning came—­and breakfast, tea and toast, Of which most men partake, but no one sings.   The company whose birth, wealth, worth, has cost100 My trembling Lyre already several strings,   Assembled with our hostess, and mine host; The guests dropped in—­the last but one, Her Grace, The latest, Juan, with his virgin face. XIV. Which best is to encounter—­Ghost, or none,105   ’Twere difficult to say—­but Juan looked As if he had combated with more than one,   Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brooked The light, that through the Gothic window shone:   Her Grace, too, had a sort of air rebuked—110 Seemed pale and shivered, as if she had kept A vigil, or dreamt rather more than slept.

NOTES FUGITIVE PIECES (1806) B was eighteen years old and living in Southwell with his mother when he took steps to set his poems in type for the first time, working with local Newark printers Samuel and John Ridge. In producing the book, he was aided by his friend and neighbour Elizabeth Pigot and her brother, John. Between late July and November 1806, thirty-­ eight lyrics were printed in proof sheets, with no title page or table of contents. Only three complete copies (at the British Library, Texas, and the Berg) survive, along with a partial copy at Newstead Abbey, and it is doubtful that many more were ever printed. The poems are mostly light verses of flirtation and youthful love, school translations, and meditations on B’s ancestry. Southwell acquaintances—­ notably the Rev. J. C. Becher—­complained about some of the amatory poems, especially ‘To Mary’, which B never republished. B also took pains to remove the ardent same-­sex eroticism of ‘Epitaph on a Beloved Friend’. Fugitive Pieces (S. and J. Ridge, 1806) was a false start, and B immediately began to revise his plans for an inaugural volume. Many of the poems were revamped and included in his increasingly polished volumes, particularly Hours of Idleness (1807), which launched his public poetic career. The early Fugitive Pieces versions of the poems (with a few obvious typos silently corrected) are reprinted here, as they are not otherwise readily available.

On Leaving N—­s t—­d Newstead Abbey, the dilapidated ancestral residence of the Byrons in Nottinghamshire, which B inherited with the title in 1798. It was built as an Augustinian priory in 1170 and granted to Sir John Byron by Henry VIII in 1540. The poem was likely written November 1803. Also published as the first poem in Hours of Idleness. ll. 5–8  barons . . . remain: No evidence exists to prove B’s ancestors took part in the crusades, though wooden panelling at Newstead depicts the heads of Christian soldiers and Saracens. l. 7  escutcheon: a shield or coat of arms. ll. 9–12  Robert . . . death: B had several early ancestors named Robert and John, descendants of Ralph de Burun who held Horeston Castle in the eleventh century. B himself seems to be the source of the idea that John died in battle near Ascalon, site of important conflicts of the First and Second Crusades. l. 13  Paul . . . Cressy: B has invented these ancestors who he claims fought at the battle of Crécy (1346), in which an English force under Edward III (the Black Prince) defeated the French under Philip VI. ll. 17–18  Marston . . . field: a key defeat (in 1644) for the Royalists in the English Civil War. The Byrons all fought loyally for Charles I, with John Byron (1599–1652) commanding troops at Marston Moor. Prince Rupert of the Rhine (1619–1682), a

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cavalry commander during the English Civil War and a lifelong Royalist. The ‘four brothers’ are a fanciful elaboration.

To Maria—— Probably written for Mary Chaworth, B’s first love, who had married another man in August 1805. B changed the title to ‘To Emma’ in later editions.

Epitaph on a Beloved Friend The identity of this early friend is unknown. For Hours of Idleness, B removed the word ‘Beloved’ from the title and revised heavily from l. 11 forward, eliminating the poem’s erotic overtones. l. 1  Oh . . . dear!: echoes Alexander Pope’s ‘Eloisa to Abelard’, l. 31: ‘Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!’ p. 6  Harrow, 1803: B attended Harrow School in Greater London in his early-­to-­ middle teens, from April 1801 until August 1805.

To Mary Written in the summer of 1806, with reference to an unidentified blonde woman (Elizabeth Pigot called her ‘that naughty Mary’) that B knew in London. This poem was judged too sexually explicit by a number of people in B’s circle, and he cancelled it from all future publications. See also ‘To Mary, on Receiving her Picture’ (p. 10). ll. 49–50  God of Day . . . Venus: In classical myth, Apollo reveals the adultery of Mars and Venus to her husband Vulcan. Ovid, Ars Amatoria 2.130–5.

[‘When to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice’] Printed without a title in Fugitive Pieces. B titled this poem ‘A Fragment’ in Hours of Idleness.

On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill. 1806 B attended Harrow School in Greater London from 1801 to 1805. He probably wrote this poem in the late summer of 1806. It was revised and reprinted in Hours of Idleness, where it was prefaced with an epigraph from Virgil’s Aeneid (8.560): ‘Oh! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos’ (‘Oh that Jupiter would restore my bygone years!’). l. 18  Zanga . . . Alonzo: characters from Edward Young’s 1721 play The Revenge. B  declaimed speeches from The Revenge and King Lear at Harrow Speech Days, 6 June and 4 July 1805. l. 20  Mossop: Henry Mossop (1729–1773) was an Irish actor who worked for a time with the influential man of the theatre, David Garrick (1717–1779).



notes to pages 10­–15

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To Mary, on Receiving her Picture Written before 1806. A note by Elizabeth Pigot reads, ‘This poem was to that naughty Mary to whom the lines were written which occasioned such a commotion in the State and were the reason of this Edition being put in the fire’. See ‘To Mary’ (p. 6).

The Cornelian Probably written in late October 1806, with reference to John Edleston (1790–1818), a chorister at Trinity Chapel, Cambridge. He and B shared a passionate relationship, and the two exchanged rings, Edleston giving B one with a heart-­shaped cornelian (a  semi-­precious gemstone). Other poems for Edleston include ‘Stanzas to Jessy’ (p. 19) and the ‘To Thyrza’ poems (pp. 133–6).

HOURS OF IDLENESS (1807) Hours of Idleness marked the first true public appearance of B as a poet, following two privately printed volumes, Fugitive Pieces and Poems on Various Occasions. Published in June 1807, Hours of Idleness was printed as a small octavo by the local Newark firm of Samuel and John Ridge and was distributed by various London booksellers. The title page has the following epigraphs: Μητ' αρ με μαλ' αινεε μητε τι νεικει Homer. Iliad. 10. [‘do not praise me so, nor blame me’] Virginibus puerisque Canto.

Horace. [‘I sing of girls and boys.’]

He whistled as he went for want of thought. Dryden. [Cymon and Iphigenia, line 85] The book contains a section of schoolboy translations and imitations of the classics, in addition to lyrics (two-­thirds of them taken from the privately printed volumes) devoted to childhood memories, early love, and Newstead Abbey and its environs. B identifies himself as ‘A Minor’ on the title page, and writes in a preface, ‘These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man, who has lately completed his nineteenth year’ (Hours of Idleness (1st ed. 1807), p. v). In general, Hours of Idleness had decent sales and reviews, but B’s insouciance, combined with some flaunting of his aristocratic position, made the book a target for reviewer Henry Brougham in the Edinburgh Review. Brougham’s negative attack prompted B to amplify the outrage of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809), his subsequent satire on the current literary scene.

Lachin Y. Gair Written in early 1807, with reference to B’s memories of his boyhood in Aberdeen; see also ‘Song’ [‘When I rov’d, a young Highlander, o’er the dark heath’]. Lochnagar is a mountain in the Scottish Grampians. The poem is modelled after Thomas Campbell’s 1801 poem ‘Exile of Erin’.

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ll. 27–8  Culloden . . . applause: The Gordans were Jacobites and fought for ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ in the uprisings that culminated in the Battle of Culloden in 1745. l. 31  Pibroch: music for the bagpipe, not an instrument; B later corrected his error.

To ——— [‘Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine’] Written in 1806 or 1807, apparently for B’s early love, Mary Chaworth, who had married another man in 1805.

STANZAS TO JESSY [‘THERE IS A MYSTIC THREAD OF LIFE’] First published in Monthly Literary Recreations (London, July 1807), 22, in the same issue as B’s review of Wordsworth’s Poems in Two Volumes. The poem was likely inspired by John Edleston, the Cambridge chorister whom B adored; see also ‘The Cornelian’ (p. 11) and the two poems ‘To Thyrza’ (pp. 133–6). Most reprintings of the poem after 1816 carry this misleading prefatory note: ‘The following stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few months before their separation.’

LETTER TO ELIZABETH BRIDGET PIGOT, 2 AUGUST 1807 p. 20  Elizabeth Bridget Pigot: Pigot (1783–1866) was one of B’s close friends when he lived with his mother at Southwell in Nottingham. p. 20  Ridge: John Ridge (c.1788–c.1828), Nottinghamshire bookseller and printer of some of B’s earliest verse including Hours of Idleness (1807), his first public volume of poetry and the work to which B here refers. p. 20  Literary Recreations: Monthly Literary Recreations, (London, July 1807), a short-­lived periodical published by Crosby, the London agent for Ridge, B’s publisher. p. 21 Bosworth field . . . Hutton’s account: B’s poem, probably modelled after William Hutton’s The Battle of Bosworth Field (1788), was never published and is now lost.

POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED (1808) Poems Original and Translated (S. and J. Ridge, 1808) is the new title B gave to the second edition of Hours of Idleness. This edition adds some further poems, of which we reprint two. With fewer ornamental touches, the book seems a more modest production than Hours of Idleness, but it does add a frontispiece engraving showing a view of Harrow, with the following quotation from B’s ‘Childish Recollections’: ‘Ida! blessed spot where Science holds her reign! / How joyous once I join’d thy youthful train!’ The epigraphs to the volume repeat two of the three from Hours of Idleness:



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Μητ' αρ με μαλ’ αινεε μητε τι νεικει Homer. Iliad. 10. [‘do not praise me so, nor blame me’] He whistled as he went for want of thought. Dryden. [Cymon and Iphigenia, line 85] B eliminated the juvenile preface, reordered the poems slightly, and cut several entirely. The volume is dedicated to Frederick, Earl of Carlisle by ‘his obliged ward and affectionate kinsman, the author’. The last of B’s youthful volumes of lyrics, POT shares with them a pervasive sense of retrospection, a chronic melancholy, and a devotion to the classics. It also shows the influence of Ossian and Thomas Moore’s erotic verse on B’s early poetic style.

song [‘When I rov’d, a young Highlander, o’er the dark heath’] Written in late 1807 or early 1808, based on B’s memories of his boyhood in Aberdeen and his early sweetheart, Mary Duff. See also ‘Stanzas’ [‘I would I were a careless child’] (p. 26) and ‘Lachin Y. Gair’ (p. 15). l. 20n  Breasting the lofty surge: Henry V, III, Chorus, 13.

stanzas [‘I would I were a careless child’] Written in late 1807 or early 1808, conveying the jaded hedonism of B’s time at Cambridge.

IMITATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS (1809) Imitations and Translations from the Ancient and Modern Classics, together with Original Poems Never Before Published (Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1809) was an editorial project of John Cam Hobhouse, B’s close friend from Trinity College, Cambridge. As the title indicates, Hobhouse collected imitations and translations of classical works of literature from his classmates, including some of his own. There is also a section of original lyric contributions, including nine by B, all signed with the initials ‘LB’. Printed by Thomas Davison, Imitations and Translations bears an epigraph from Martial: ‘nos hæc novimus esse nihil’ (‘we know that these things are mere trifles’), which was also the epigraph for John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera (1728). B’s poems in the volume track his growing disillusionment and dissatisfaction with his life in England, lamenting broken relationships and prefiguring the alienated and melancholy persona he would elaborate in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Hobhouse’s book was published to little success, appearing after he and B had departed on their tour of the East.

Inscription on the Monument of a Favourite Dog Written soon after B’s Newfoundland dog Boatswain died of rabies in November 1808 at Newstead Abbey. This poem was inscribed on a large monument in the rear garden, along with the following epitaphic inscription, written by Hobhouse:

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notes to pages 31–37 Near this Spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human Ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a DOG, who was born in Newfoundland May 1803 and died at Newstead Novr 18th 1808

Boatswain actually died, of rabies, on 10 November (BLJ, 2:176). l. 20  Thy smiles . . . deceit: On the original monument and in an early manuscript version, this line reads, ‘Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit’. l. 26  I never . . . lies: On the original monument and in an early manuscript version, this line reads, ‘I never knew but one,—and here he lies’.

to *************** [‘Well! thou art happy, and I feel’] Written early November 1808, after B dined with Mary Chaworth Musters (B’s first love) and her husband at Annesley. The couple had two children, Mary Ann (b. 1806) and John George (b. 1807) at that time.

a love song. to ******* [‘Remind me not, remind me not’] Written 12–13 August 1808, apparently with reference to Miss Cameron, one of B’s lovers, whom he used to sneak down to Brighton by dressing her in boys’ clothing.

to the same [‘And wilt thou weep when I am low?’] Written 12 August 1808, also for Miss Cameron (see note to previous poem).

Stanzas to ****** on Leaving England Probably written in June 1809 at Falmouth, as B was preparing to depart on his Mediterranean tour. In his copy of this edition, B wrote the name ‘Mrs. Musters’ (i.e., Mary Chaworth Musters) to replace the asterisks of the title.

LETTER TO MRS. CATHERINE GORDON BYRON, 28 JUNE 1810 p. 37  Fletcher: William Fletcher (1771–c.1841): B’s valet at Newstead. Fletcher accompanied B on his Mediterranean tour from 1809 to 1811. B sent him home a few months before his own return to England.



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p. 37  Sestos to Abydos: See B’s lyric ‘Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos. May 9, 1810’ (p. 130). p. 37  Wortley’s: Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762): British aristocrat, traveller, and writer, now known primarily for her letters from the Ottoman Empire. p. 38  St Sophia’s: Hagia Sophia, Byzantine church converted into a mosque after the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453. p. 38  E. Bards: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, B’s 1809 satire of British literary culture. p. 38  Sanders: George Sanders (1774–1846), minor Scottish painter. In 1807, B had commissioned a portrait (now in the Royal Collection Trust) of himself for his mother for 250 guineas. p. 39  seat: B’s hereditary seat in the House of Lords, which he had assumed on 13 March 1809. p. 39  Joe Murray: older serving man at Newstead Abbey.

AN ODE TO THE FRAMERS OF THE FRAME BILL (1812) First published anonymously in the Morning Chronicle (London), 2 March 1812 (issue 13359). Following industrial protests by textile workers (the Luddites) in Nottingham, the Tories introduced a bill to make it a felony, carrying the death penalty, to destroy weaving frames. In his maiden speech in the House of Lords on 27 February, B had attacked the bill, and a report on that speech had appeared in the Morning Chronicle the next day. The poem was picked up by other newspapers, including the Nottingham Review on 6 March. l. 1 Lord E——n! . . . R——r!: Lord Eldon (1751–1839) was the current Lord High Chancellor and Richard Ryder (1766–1832) was the Home Secretary. l. 3 Hawkesbury, Harrowby: prominent Tory statesmen. Hawkesbury is Lord Liverpool (1770–1828), who would become Prime Minister in June. Harrowby is Dudley Ryder, 1st Earl of Harrowby (1762–1847), cabinet minister and brother of Richard Ryder. l. 15 Gibbets on Sherwood: men hanged on the trees of Sherwood Forest, in Nottingham. l. 19  Jack Ketches: hangmen, executioners.

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT: AND OTHER POEMS (1812) ‘I awoke to find myself famous.’ So B described a morning soon after 10 March 1812, the publication day of his extraordinary poem detailing the travels and reflections of a noble, brooding wanderer as he moves from the Iberian Peninsula through the exotic and less visited regions of Europe’s borderlands in the Eastern Mediterranean. Written in a series of Spenserian stanzas, the first two cantos of

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notes to page 43

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage ( John Murray, 1812) appeared as a richly printed quarto on thick paper in a first edition of 500 copies that sold out almost immediately. Priced at 5 shillings, the book was meant to appeal to a wealthy, educated, and aristocratic audience. B had begun writing the poem in late October of 1809 in what is now Albania and Greece while travelling with his friend John Cam Hobhouse. Composition was brisk and a second canto, written mostly in Athens, followed in spring 1810. B revised and augmented the poem after his return to England in July 1811. Spotting a potential gold mine, the genteel publisher John Murray issued both cantos together in March 1812. After the vigorous sales of the first printing, the poem would continue through a run of ten further editions over the next three years. Following an epigraph from Fougeret de Monbron’s Le  Cosmopolite, the volume included not only the two cantos of B’s long poem, but also detailed notes on various cultural references often written in a mordant tone, and a series of lyrics amplifying the Byronic persona and reflecting his experiences while travelling in the Levant. This combination of a long poem featuring an alienated hero, shorter personal lyrics, and learned annotations was a winning sales formula. The structure of the book also conveyed B’s passionate engagement with Greece both ancient and modern. Upon its publication, B enjoyed unparalleled celebrity in the most elite circles of Regency London from 1812 to 1816. Printed by Murray as a luxury object, B’s poem took its place alongside a flood of worldly goods into an increasingly wealthy cosmopolitan and commercial metropolis. Yet the hero of the poem was nothing if not critical of the pious myths of heroism and class privilege that fed this growing culture of consumption. Indeed, the poem offers sustained and pointed criticism of Europe’s political order as the conflict between France and England intensified and Napoleon moved the Revolutionary Wars into the Iberian Peninsula. Maintaining the British war effort through a shifting series of alliances frequently meant making common cause with the Ottoman empire, whose subjection of Greece B saw as an execrable insult to freedom in its place of birth. Throughout the poem, this sense of history as a process of war and failure and retrogression echoed and exacerbated a recurrent series of personal losses to produce the first instantiation of the Byronic hero: melancholy, deep-­ feeling, troubled by loss, combining a penetrating and frequently self-­lacerating inwardness with an aloof and sceptical externality, a figure both alienated and engaged. The poem offers various inflections of this hero as ‘o’er him many changing scenes . . . roll’ (CHP I, l. 330), overlaying the war-­torn landscape of Europe upon a mental landscape coloured with the narrator’s personal despair. In B’s vision, each becomes a symbol of the other: an implacable mix of the suffering individual and the sorrow of the world. We reproduce the first edition here, with later additions presented in square brackets: the ‘Addition to the Preface’, which appeared in the fifth edition; and ‘To Ianthe’, and CHP II, sts. 27, 77–83, and 89–90, all of which were added in the seventh edition (1814). We print B’s footnotes and endnotes as they appeared in the first edition, omitting those added by him at later stages. Space limitations prevent us from reproducing B’s extensive appendix of additional material, much of it related to Turkish culture and modern Greek politics and literature.



notes to pages 43–46

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p. 43  Epigraph: ‘The universe is a type of book, of which you have only read the first page when you have seen only your own homeland. I have turned many pages, and I have found them all equally bad. Such study has been by no means unfruitful. I used to hate my country. All the foolishness of various peoples, amongst whom I have lived, have reconciled me to her. If that had been the only benefit of my travels, I would regret neither the expense nor the trouble.’ (Fr.) Fougeret de Monbron, Le Cosmopolite, ou le Citoyen du Monde (1753).

Preface p. 43  Harold: The hero’s name was originally ‘Childe Burun’ in manuscript. p. 43 Border Minstrelsy: Walter Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1810), 1:290–300. p. 44  Dr. Beattie: James Beattie, letter to Dr Blacklock, 22 September 1766; William Forbes, Life of Beattie (1806), 1:89.

[addition to the preface] p. 44  l’amour . . . antique: ‘love of the good old times, ancient love’ (Fr.). p. 44  Cours d’amour . . . gentilesse: ‘lessons in love, conversations about love or courtesy and gentleness’ (Fr.). p. 44  Rolland . . . St Palaye: De la Curne de Sainte-­Palaye, Mémoires sur l’Ancienne Chevalerie (1781) and Rolland d’Erceville, Recherches sur le Prérogatives de Dames . . . (1787), 18–30 passim. p. 44 No . . . templar: John Hookham Frere, ‘The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement’, Poetry of the Anti-­Jacobin (1799), 166–91. p. 44  Garter . . . Salisbury: the Order of the Garter, the most prestigious British order of chivalry, founded in 1348, when, according to legend, the Countess of Salisbury’s garter slipped from her leg while she was dancing and King Edward III graciously returned it to her. p. 45  Burke: Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790), 112–13. p. 45  Bayard . . . Banks: Chevalier de Bayard (1474–1524), known as the fearless and faultless knight and the epitome of chivalry. Joseph Banks (1743–1820), travel writer whose account of the Queen of Tahiti was maliciously lampooned and sexualized in An Epistle from Mr Banks . . . To Oberea, Queen of Otaheite (1773). p. 45  Timon . . . Zeluco: Timon, misanthropic nobleman of fifth-­century Athens; Zeluco, eponymous wicked hero of a 1789 novel by John Moore.

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage [To Ianthe] This prefatory lyric, added in the seventh edition (1814), is addressed to Charlotte Harley (1801–1880), the thirteen-­year-­old daughter of Lady Oxford (1774–1824), B’s intimate friend at this time. On Ianthe, see Ovid’s Metamorphoses, 9.714. l. 19  Peri: a beautiful female fairy, in Persian and Armenian mythology.

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notes to pages 47–61 Canto I

l. 8  Nine: the Nine Muses of Greek mythology. l. 10  Whilome . . . Albion: Wilholme, once upon a time. B uses archaic, Spenserian language primarily in the early stanzas of the poem; Albion, England. l. 61  Paphian girls: concubines. Paphos was an ancient Greek city on the coast of Cyprus sacred to Aphrodite, goddess of erotic love. l. 77  lemans: mistresses, lovers. l. 79  feere: companion, consort. l. 81 Mammon . . . Seraphs: Mammon, devil associated with wealth and greed; Seraphs, order of angels. l. 199  Biscay: Atlantic gulf that is the point of entry by sea into northern Spain and Portugal. l. 215  locust host: the French Army, which had invaded Portugal in 1807 under Napoleon, ‘Gaul’s unsparing lord’ (l. 224). l. 259  Honorius: Friar Honório (d. 1596), a monk who lived many years in seclusion in a grotto near the Convent of the Capuchos. l. 275  Vathek: William Beckford (1760–1844), friend of B and author of the gothic-­ oriental novel, Vathek (1784). From 1794 to 1796, Beckford rented and attempted to renovate the Palace of Monserrate and its gardens. l. 298  Marialva’s dome: referring to the controversial Cintra agreement (1808), which gave the defeated French army safe passage out of Portugal. It was signed at Tôrres Vedras, not (as B thought) at the mansion of the Marquis of Marialva. l. 334  luckless queen: Maria I of Portugal (1734–1816), who was incapacitated by mental illness in her later years. l. 338  Babylonian whore: the Catholic church. See Revelation 17:5. l. 358  For . . . foes: From 1808 to 1814, Spain was fighting a war of resistance against French forces under Napoleon. l. 369  streamlet: the Caia River, tributary of the Guadiana (l. 379), ‘the bleeding stream’ (l. 386). B crossed it on 23 July 1809. ll. 388–9  Pelagio . . . traitor-­sire: After his father Count Julian of Ceuta (Cava) aided a Muslim invasion in 711, King Pelagio (Palayo, d. c.737) began the many centuries of Christian resistance or reconquista. Cf. Robert Southey’s Roderick the Last of the Gauls (1814). l. 394 cross . . . crescent: After centuries of conflict, the last Islamic state in the Iberian peninsula was defeated by Christian forces at Grenada in 1492 by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. l. 421  Siroc: the sirocco, a hot and dry wind that blows across the Mediterranean region. l. 448  Talavera: the bloody battle of Talavera, fought 27–8 July 1809. l. 451n  Collins: B alludes to ‘Ode written in the beginning of the year 1746’ [‘How Sleep the Brave’] by William Collins (1721–1759). l. 459  Albuera: another costly battle of the Peninsular War, fought 16 May 1811 (i.e., after B’s visit). l. 484  Ilion, Tyre: The destruction of the ancient cities of Ilion (Troy) and Tyre is legendary. Saville fell to the French on 31 January 1810, six months after B’s visit, as he was drafting this poem.



notes to pages 61–78

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l. 490  clarion . . . rebeck: clarion, trumpet; rebeck, three-­stringed instrument. ll. 509–12  Godoy . . . adulterate joy: Manuel de Godoy (1767–1851) was the Spanish Prime Minister under Charles IV and the queen’s lover. Many blamed his negotiations and treaties with France for the occupation and wars that followed. l. 523  badge of crimson hue: a marker of loyalty to Ferdinand VII, the exiled Spanish king. ll. 558–61  Spanish maid . . . war: Augustina de Aragón (1786–1857), the ‘maid of Saragoza’ who famously helped defend that city against invading French forces in 1808; Anlace, dagger. l. 595n  Aul. Gel.: Aulus Gellius (125–c.180 ce), Roman author of Noctes Atticae, in which Gellius quotes these lines from Marcus Terentius Varro (116–126 ce). l. 612n  Castri . . . Parnassus: Greek mountain, seat of the Muses and sacred to Apollo, god of poetry. B wrote this and the stanzas that follow in Castri (ancient Delphi). l. 646  plant: the laurel, emblem of poetic skill. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Daphne is transformed into a laurel tree to save her from the pursuit of Apollo. l. 651  Pythian: Pythia was the high priestess of the temple at Delphi. ll. 666–7  Paphos . . . queen: Venus, or Aphrodite. Paphos was the Greek island sacred to her. l. 679  kibes: B misunderstands this word from Hamlet, V.i, as meaning heels; it means sores. l. 687  roar: the bellow of a bull. This ‘solemn feast’ is (ironically) a bullfight. l. 697  Hackney . . . chair: the Hackney, whiskey, and one-­horse chair are all types of carriages. l. 702  Thamis: the river Thames, which flows through central London. l. 707   Horn: ‘swearing on the horns’, a comic drinking ritual of B’s day. l. 749  loaded walls: In later editions, B changed this to ‘peopled walls’. l. 802  Duenna: elderly chaperone meant to guard the virtue of a Spanish maiden. l. 818n Medio . . . Luc.: B’s ll. 818–19 translate this phrase from Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, IV, 1133–4. l. 827  Cain’s . . . doom: In Genesis 4, Cain is marked by God and condemned to wander the earth eternally, in punishment for the murder of his brother, Abel. l. 854  wanderer: Ahasuerus, the legendary ‘Wandering Jew’ cursed to roam the earth eternally for mocking Christ at the Crucifixion. ll. 914–16  Pizarros . . . Quito’s sons: Francisco Pizarro (1471–1541) conquered Peru and enslaved the Incas. Quito is the capital of Ecuador, a province of Peru. Some Spanish colonies rebelled in the wake of the French occupation of the ‘parent clime’ (l. 917). l. 919  Barossa: along with Talavera and Albuera, the scene of a battle (5 March 1811) between France and the Spanish allies, including Britain.

Canto II l. 1  blue-­eyed maid: Homeric epithet indicating Pallas Athena. l. 30  kindly given: Cf. Pope, ‘Essay on Man’, line 85. l. 55  wisest son: Socrates. The quotation attributed to him (the Socratic paradox) is quasi-­apocryphal and likely derives from Plato’s Apology 21d.

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notes to pages 78–84

l. 61  Acheron: legendary river in Hades, the classical underworld. l. 66  Sadducee: ancient Jewish sect that did not believe in spirits or the resurrection of the dead. l. 72  Bactrian, Samian: Zoroaster, ancient Persian prophet, and Pythagoras, ancient Greek philosopher, both of whom believed in immortal spirits. l. 73  thou . . . fled: referring to John Edleston, B’s intimate friend at Cambridge, who died in 1811. He is the subject of sts. 95–6 and the ‘Thyrza’ poems published here (pp. 133–6). l. 91  who . . . plunderers: Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin (1766–1841), a Scotsman who removed sculptures and friezes from the Parthenon in Greece and sold them to the British Museum. ll. 106–7  Her sons . . . pains: B added the following note to these lines in the seventh edition (1814): I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines:—“When the last of the Metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri; Τέλοζ!—I was present.” The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Disdar. ll. 118–19  Ægis . . . Havoc: The Visigoth King Alaric plundered Athens in 395 ce. The Greek historian Zosimus (fl. 500 ce) records that Alaric was struck with awe by a vision of Athena (‘Pallas’) and Achilles striding above the walls of the city. The Ægis is Athena’s shield. l. 120  Peleus’ son: the Greek hero Achilles, whom B imagines returning from Hades (the ‘Stygian shore’ ruled by Pluto) to defend the Parthenon from Elgin’s depredations. l. 144  land . . . crimes: Harold is still in Spain, where the poem left him at the end of Canto I. l. 185  Arion: ancient Greek lyric poet. l. 190  Calpe’s straits: the strait of Gibraltar, separating the Iberian Peninsula from North Africa and Morocco (‘Mauritania’). l. 209  Dian: Diana, Greek goddess of the moon. ll. 235–43  St. 27 (bracketed here) was not present in the first edition: B added it for the seventh edition (1814). l. 253  Calypso’s isles: B associates Goza (Gozo) with Calypso’s isle, so that he can compare Mrs. Constance Spencer Smith (1785–1829), a recent lover (‘Sweet Florence’, l. 266) whom he encountered in Malta, to the goddess. l. 258  mortal bride: Penelope, Odysseus’s wife, whom he longed to rejoin despite spending years with the goddess Calypso. ll. 259–61  Here . . . sigh’d: In Fénelon’s Télémaque (1699), Mentor urges Telemachus (Odysseus’s son) from the cliffs to avoid his entrapment by Calypso.



notes to pages 87–100

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l. 334  Iskander: Alexander the Great (356–323 bce). His ‘name-­sake’ (l. 336) is the Albanian hero George Castriot, known as Skanderbeg (1405–1468) who fought against the Ottoman Empire for his country’s freedom. l. 346  Lesbian’s grave: Sappho of Lesbos (c.630–570 bce), Greek lyric poet who, according to legend, killed herself for love by leaping off the Leucadian cliffs. ll. 397–8  Ambracia’s gulf . . . thing: Octavian defeated Antony’s forces at Actium in the Ambracian gulf (31 bce) after Antony deserted the battle to follow his beloved Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. l. 418 Albania’s chief: Ali Pasha (1741–1822), powerful and ruthless ruler of Ioannina (Yanina) on behalf of the Ottoman empire. B visited him in Tepelene in the fall of 1809. l. 469  Dodona: famous oracle site of Zeus ( Jove) in the ancient Greek world, located in this region (Ioannania, in Epirus). l. 502  santons: Muslim holy men. l. 520  mutilated son: eunuch. l. 530  Muezzin: Mu’addhin; in the Islamic world, the person who calls the faithful to prayer. l. 532  Ramazani’s fast: the holy month of Ramadan in the Islamic faith, observed with daily fasting and prayer. ll. 542–4  rove . . . move: These rhyme words are reversed in later editions of the poem. ll. 561–2  Hafiz . . . Teian: Hafiz (1315–1390), Persian poet; Teian (c.585–485 bce), Greek poet Anacreon of Teos. Both often take love as their theme. l. 563  But . . . ruth: ruth, to be rued or regretted. For later editions, B revised this line to read, ‘But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth’, with an allusion to the Biblical Ruth, who marries Boaz, a much older man. l. 685  Muchtar: the Pasha of Berat, Ali’s eldest son, who had been sent to repel a Russian invasion in 1809. l. 687n  forlorn hope: vanguard sent into battle and most likely to be killed was called ‘The Forlorn Hope’. Cf. DJ VII, l. 490. l. 699  Thermopylæ: In 480 bce, a small band of Greek warriors led by the Spartan King Leonidas defended a pass against a vastly larger Persian army for several days, fighting to the last man. l. 703 Thrasybulus: Athenian general (c.440–388 bce) who resisted the ‘thirty tyrants’ (l. 706) imposed upon Athens after its defeat in the Peloponnesian War. l. 707  carle: churl, peasant. l. 726  Helots: serfs or slaves, the term derives from a subjugated population of Sparta. ll. 729–91  Sts. 77–83 (bracketed here) were not present in the first edition: B added them for the seventh edition (1814). l. 729  city: Constantinople, or Istanbul (‘Stamboul’, l. 748), capital of the Byzantine Empire, conquered by the Ottomans in 1453. l. 731  Serai: seraglio or haram, and by extension, the Sultan’s palace. l. 749  Sophia: the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople (Istanbul), originally a Christian cathedral, converted to a mosque by the Ottomans after 1453.

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notes to pages 100–110

l. 755 Bosphorus: Constantinople (Istanbul) sits along the Bosphorus strait, a waterway connecting the Black Sea to the Aegean. l. 765  caique: long, narrow rowboat. ll. 792–3 Lacedemon . . . Epaminondas: Lacedaemon, mythical Greek king who founded and named Sparta; Epaminondas, fourth-­century Greek general who liberated Thebes, defeating the Spartans at Leuctra in 371 bce. l. 794  arts: changed to ‘hearts’ in later editions. l. 812  Tritonia: Athena, but B seems to describe the ruins of the temple of Poseidon on ‘Colonna’s cliff ’ (l. 813), another name for Cape Suonion. l. 822  Hymettus: Greek mountain famed for its production of honey. l. 826 Mendeli: another name for Mount Pentelicus, source of marble for the ­monuments of ancient Greece. See B’s endnote to ll. 810–11. l. 836  Marathon: site of legendary Greek victory over the Persians in 490 bce. ll. 837–54  Sts. 89–90 (bracketed here) were not present in the first edition: B added them for the seventh edition (1814). l. 891  Thou: John Edleston. See note to l. 73 above.

B’s Endnotes Canto I p. 106, n.2  Pena: in later editions, B added the following note: Since the publication of this Poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Señora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the ñ, which alters the signification of the word: with it, Peña signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage as, though the common acceptation affixed to it is “our Lady of the Rock,” I may well assume the other sense from the severities practised there.

Canto II p. 110, n.2  Gropius: In later editions, B added the following footnote here: This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose of sketching, in which he excels; but I am sorry to say, that he has, through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been treading at humble distance in the footsteps of Sr. Lusieri.—A shipful of his trophies was detained, and I believe confiscated at Constantinople in 1810.—I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that “this was not in his bond;” that he was employed solely as a painter, and that his noble patron disavows all connection with him, except as an artist.—If the error in the first and second edition has given the noble Lord a moment’s pain, I am very sorry



notes to pages 110–130

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for it; Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the name of his agent; and though I cannot much condemn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, I am happy in being one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much pleasure in contradicting this as I felt regret in stating it.

Poems Written in an Album Written at Malta in September 1809 for the autograph album of Constance Spencer Smith, wife of British diplomat John Spencer Smith. She and B had a brief, inconclusive love affair. She appears as ‘Florence’ in CHP II, sts. 32–3 and in B’s ‘Stanzas’ composed during a thunderstorm in Albania (p. 127). This was the first poem printed in the sequence of lyrics in the volume.

Stanzas [‘Chill and mirk is the nightly blast’] On 11 October 1809, B was travelling from Janina to Tepelene in Albania, along with Hobhouse and an entourage. Crossing the Pindus mountains, the party became lost at night during a storm, and B spent most of the night huddled in a Turkish cemetery. There he wrote this poem for Constance Spencer Smith, with whom he had fallen in love at Malta the previous month. See also ‘Written in an Album’ (p. 127) and CHP II, sts. 32–3. l. 41  Siroc: See note to CHP I, l. 421 above. l. 54  If Cadiz . . . free: Cadiz was not taken by the French under Napoleon, as was feared it might be. B imagines Constance thinking of him ‘amidst the fair white walls’ of Cadiz, in Spain.

Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos. May 9, 1810. Written aboard the Salsette frigate, 9 May 1810, several days after the swim described in B’s footnote. B boasted half-­ironically of his feat to a number of correspondents; see BLJ, 1:237–53. ll. 2–4  Leander . . . Hellespont!: in Greek legend, Leander would swim across the strait, from Abydos to Sestos, to visit his lover, Hero, a priestess of Aphrodite (the Venus of l. 8). One night he drowned, and she followed him in a suicidal leap from her tower. See Ovid, Heroides, letters 18–19 and Marlowe’s Hero and Leander (1598). Note 1 Chevalier . . . Olivier . . . Tarragona: Jean Baptiste Lechevalier, Voyage de le Propontide (1800); Guillaume Olivier, Voyage dans l’Empire Othoman (1801–1807). Tarragona was in charge of the English consulate at Chanak-­Kalessi, the ‘Asiatic fort’ B mentions here.

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notes to pages 131–137

Song. Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. Athens, 1810. [‘Maid of Athens, ere we part’] Written early February 1810. While he was in Athens from late December 1809 until early March 1810, B rented rooms in the home of a Greek widow, Tarsia Macri, who had three young daughters. This poem is written for the youngest, Teresa, who was only twelve at the time. Her mother tried to engineer a marriage, but B declined, and his attraction was not durable. p. 131n  Juvenal, Satires, II.6.195.

Written beneath a Picture Written in the first months of 1812. The draft manuscript indicates the picture was of someone with the initials ‘J.V.D.’, as yet unidentified.

To Thyrza [‘Without a stone to mark the spot’] Written between 17 and 27 October 1811, during a visit to Cambridge (‘these, to me, deserted towers’, l. 26). One of a series of poems written in memory of John Edleston, the Cambridge chorister with whom B had a passionate romance while at Trinity. Edleston had died of consumption in May 1811, but B only got the news in early October. B took the name ‘Thyrza’ from Solomon Gessner’s The Death of Abel (1758). l. 41  the pledge we wore: B and Edleston exchanged rings, and B received one with a cornelian stone in the shape of a heart, the subject of B’s lyric, ‘The Cornelian’. See also the following poem.

To Thyrza [‘One struggle more, and I am free’] Written between December 1811 and January 1812, in memory of John Edleston. See note to the previous poem for biographical context. This was the final poem printed in the volume. l. 41  My Thyrza’s pledge: See note to ‘To Thyrza [“Without a stone to mark the spot”]’, l. 41.

LETTER TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB, 29 APRIL 1813 p. 137 Lady Caroline Lamb: An Anglo-­Irish aristocrat married to the Whig ­ olitician William Lamb, Lady Caroline Lamb (1785–1828) had a tempestuous p affair with B for three months in 1812 and later wrote the roman-­à-­clef Glenarvon (1816) about him. p. 137  Ly. O: Lady Jane Oxford (1774–1824), wife of Edward Harley, 5th Earl of Oxford. B had an affair with her after leaving Caroline Lamb.



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p. 137  Ly. M: Lady Elizabeth Melbourne (1751–1818), mother-­in-­law of Caroline Lamb and one of Byron’s most trusted confidants during his Regency years of fame.

LETTER TO ANNABELLA MILBANKE, 6 SEPTEMBER 1813 p. 138  Annabella Milbanke: Byron’s future wife who rejected his marriage proposal in 1812 before accepting a subsequent proposal in 1814. p. 138  Ly. M: Lady Melbourne (see next letter). p. 138  Baillie: Joanna Baillie (1762–1851), British dramatist famous in her day for her Plays on the Passions (1798–1812). p. 139  ‘Perhaps . . . East’: Alexander Pope (1688–1744), Moral Essays, epistle 1, ll. 111–12.

LETTER TO LADY MELBOURNE, 8 OCTOBER 1813 p. 140 Lady Elizabeth Melbourne: Elizabeth Lamb, Viscountess Melbourne (1751–1818), influential and celebrated Whig hostess, mother-­in-­law of Caroline Lamb, and one of B’s most trusted confidants during his Regency years of fame. p. 140  Ph.: Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster (1793–1837), wife of B’s friend James Wedderburn Webster. The flirtation described here did not result in an affair, but became the subject of ‘When We Two Parted’ (p. 201) and the source of the billiard scene in Don Juan XV. Lady Frances later had an affair with the Duke of Wellington. p. 140 speech: See Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (1759–1767), book 8, ch. 22. p. 142  The Way . . . Him: The Way to Keep Him (1760), comedy by Arthur Murphy (1727–1805).

THE GIAOUR (1813; 7th EDITION) The Giaour ( John Murray, 1813) was written in the English spa town of Cheltenham in the autumn of 1812 at the instigation of John Murray who, after the success of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, offered B one thousand guineas for a new poem. B referred to the work as his ‘snake of a poem—­which has been lengthening its rattles every month’ (BLJ, 3:100). The poem appeared as a quarto volume in June of 1813. Its first edition contained 684 lines with an epigraph from Thomas Moore’s Irish Melodies and a dedication to the English poet Samuel Rogers, whose similarly fragmented The Voyage of Columbus (1812) served as one of B’s main formal inspirations for the poem. Other influences include Barthélemy d’Herbelot’s Bibliothèque Orientale (1697) and William Beckford’s oriental romance Vathek (1786). Sales of the poem were brisk, and

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notes to pages 145–150

the poem went through numerous editions, with B adding material continuously. The poem’s seventh edition, which appeared in December 1813, stretched to its complete form of 1334 lines, nearly double its original length. This was the last version that B corrected in proof, and it serves as our copy text here. We treat this as essentially a different poem from the first edition as published in June, hence its placement in our chronology. The ‘Advertisement’ and internal references (e.g., Port Leone, l. 177) establish the main setting of the poem in Ottoman-­ruled Athens shortly after 1779, when Hassan Ghazi broke the rebellion of the Arnauts (Albanians) in the Morea. The second half of the poem is set on Mount Athos in north-­eastern Greece. The poem tells the story of a young Venetian man—­the Giaour, or non-­believer in Islam—­who becomes the lover of Leila, the favourite wife in the haram of Hassan, a Turkish emir. When the affair is discovered, Leila is sewn into a sack and drowned. The Giaour then kills Hassan in revenge. The story is loosely based on an episode from B’s travels in the Levant from  1809 to 1811, as he recounts through Lord Sligo’s narrative of the incident (LJ, 2:257–8) and in his own letters (BLJ, 3:200). One of the challenges of reading this poem lies in its fragmentary, non-­chronological quality and its frequent shifts between speakers, ranging from its opening lament for Greece in a contemporary voice (ll. 1–167), to the narration of a Muslim fisherman, to the perspective of an omniscient storyteller, to snippets from the Giaour and Hassan, to a dialogue between a boatman and Hassan, to the Giaour’s confession in his own words (ll. 971–1334). The narrative is punctuated with B’s copious notes, which typically offer an ironic perspective on the stern tragedy of the story. p. 145  Moore: Thomas Moore (1779–1852) Irish poet, B’s close friend and literary executor. The quotation is from ‘As a beam o’er the face of the waters’, Irish Melodies (1808–1834). p. 145  Rogers: Samuel Rogers (1763–1855), celebrated English poet whose fragmentary work The Voyage of Columbus (1812) was influential on the form of The Giaour. p. 145  Seven Islands . . . Morea: These details establish the date of the story after 1779, when Ottoman general Hassan Ghazi crushed the Arnaut (Albanian) rebellion in the Morea (Peloponnesus). The Russians had invaded in 1770 as part of the Russian-­Turkish conflict, facilitating the revolt of the Mainotes (Greeks of the Southern Peloponnesus) against the Ottomans. By 1779, the Mainotes had established a virtually independent state but it collapsed soon thereafter. l. 2  Athenian’s grave: Themistocles (524–459 bce), Greek general who led Athens against the Persians. l. 9 Colonna’s height: Colonna, now Cape Sunium, an ancient city at Greece’s southern tip. l. 109 Thermopylæ: a heroic group of 300 Spartans led by Leonidas held the Persians off at this narrow pass in 480 bce. l. 113  Salamis: site of famous Greek naval victory over the Persians in 480 bce. l. 141  vilain-­bonds: the bonds of serfdom; subjection to an overlord. l. 171  Mainote: people of the Southern Peloponnesus with reputation as fierce warriors. l. 177  Port Leone: Piraeus, an ancient port serving Athens.



notes to pages 150–183

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l. 189  lower: lour, appear dark and threatening. l. 199  Othman’s sons: Osman I (ruled 1299–1324 or 1326), founder of the Ottoman dynasty. l. 228  Rhamazani: Ramadan, Muslim month of daily fasting and nightly feasting (including the Bairam). l. 339  Fakir: Muslim ascetic living exclusively on alms. l. 444  Serai: seraglio, women’s apartments in an Ottoman palace. l. 456  Georgian: from Georgia, region in the southern Caucasus. l. 465  Nubians: ethnic group from present-­day Sudan, here referring to eunuch harem guards. l. 486  Houris: beautiful young women expected to accompany the Muslim faithful in Paradise. l. 491  Muftis: Islamic clerics qualified to issue opinions on Sharia law. l. 522  arquebuss: Turkish long rifle. l. 528  Parne’s vale: Mount Parnes (Parnasus) valley. l. 549  Tartar: ethnic group from Central Asia known for ferocity. l. 566  Liakura: Mount Parnasus. l. 571  Chiaus: Ottoman official, commonly messenger or sergeant. l. 605  ambush’d: concealed. l. 661  falchion: slightly curved medieval broadsword. l. 784  Afrits: powerful demons in Muslim myth. l. 787  Caloyer: an austere, reclusive Greek Orthodox monk, resident of Mount Athos; referring now to the Giaour. l. 896  Gorgon: female monster of Greek myth whose gaze turns viewers to stone. l. 1040  Nazarene: Christian; derived from Nazareth, Jesus’s home. l. 1044  Galileans: Christians. l. 1058  Cain: See Genesis 4:11–16; the mark of Cain was a sign from God protecting Cain, condemned to live with his guilt over the murder of his brother Abel, from premature death. l. 1076  Taheer: Hassan’s augur or fortune-­teller. l. 1087  Pard: leopard. l. 1102  Ætna: Sicilian volcano.

Byrons’s Notes to the Giaour l. 479n20 D’Herbelot: Barthélemy d’Herbelot, author of Bibliothèque Orientale (1697), a key influence for The Giaour; John Richardson, Dictionary of Persian, Arabic, and English (1777). l. 483n21  facilis descensus Averni: ‘easy is the descent to Avernus’ (Lat.), Virgil, Aeneid, book 6. l. 494n23  plus Arabe qu’en Arabie: ‘More Arab than Arabia’ (Fr.). l. 593n27  Capitan Pacha: probably a reference to Ali Pasha (1740–1822), Ottoman ruler of present-­day Albania. B met him in 1809 in Tepelene. l. 755n37  Tournefort . . . Arsenius: Joseph Pitton de Tournefort’s Relation d’un Voyage du Levant (1717), quoted in notes to book 8 of Robert Southey’s Thalaba the

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notes to pages 183–190

Destroyer  (1801); Arsenius Apostolius (c.1468–1538 ce), Greek scholar and bishop of Monemvasia. l. 1077n40  Tahiri . . . Basili: Tahiri and Basili were B’s Albanian servants; B describes this incident in his letters, see BLJ, 2:30–1. Palao-­castro: ‘old fortress’ (modern Greek); ‘villanous company’, from 1 Henry IV, III.3. l. 1334n43 Vathek . . . Rasselas: William Beckford’s Vathek (1786) and Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas (1759).

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE (1814; 3rd EDITION) In April 1814, Napoleon renounced his throne and agreed to exile on the island of Elba, terms signed as part of the Treaty of Fontainebleau. As this was being negotiated between 4 and 11 April, B wrote diary entries on Napoleon, noting on 10 April, ‘To-­day I have boxed one hour—­written an Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte—­copied it—­eaten six biscuits—­drunk four bottles of soda water—­redde away the rest of my time’ (BLJ, 3:257). The poem was published by John Murray on 16 April. Stanza 5 appeared four days after initial publication, as part of the third edition, which we reproduce here. B also wrote three additional stanzas, 17–19, omitted here, that were not printed in his lifetime (CPW, 3:265–66). The Ode was first published anonymously; B’s name appeared on the title page from the twelfth edition onward. B related personally to Napoleon and regretted his fall, but the Ode castigates the Emperor, especially his decision to accept exile rather than choose a noble suicide. Cf. CHP III, sts. 36–45 and DJ XI, sts. 55–6. p. 186 epigraph  Expende . . . Invenies?: ‘Put Hannibal on the scale: How much do the remains of the greatest general weigh?’ (Lat.) Juvenal, Satires, 10.147–8. l. 8  Morning Star: Lucifer, see Isaiah 14:12. l. 26  Pagod: idol. l. 29n  Certaminis . . . Cassiodorus: ‘the joys of war’ (Lat.), attributed to Attila the Hun (fl. c.406–453 ce). The Battle of Châlons (or Catalaunian Plains) was fought in 451 ce, and is narrated by Cassiodorus, a Roman statesman and scholar, in his lost Gothic History (written 526–533 ce), which survives in the Getica of Jordanes (written 551 ce). See also Gibbon, Decline and Fall, vol. 3, ch. 25. l. 46 He: Milo of Croton, who died when devoured by wolves with his hands wedged into a tree. l. 55  Roman: Lucius Sulla (138–78 bce) resigned the office of dictator in 79 bce. l. 64  Spaniard: Charles V (1500–1558), Holy Roman Emperor from 1519 until his abdication in 1556. l. 109  she: Marie Louise of Austria (1791–1847), Napoleon’s second wife. l. 125  Corinth’s pedagogue: Dionysius the Younger (397–343 bce), twice tyrant of Syracuse, retired to Corinth in 344 bce to open a school. l. 127  Timour: Tamerlane (1136–1405), who caged the Sultan of Turkey, Bajazet I, in 1402.



notes to pages 190–196

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l. 131  he of Babylon: Nebuchadnezzar, Biblical Babylonian king who went mad after leaving the throne (Daniel 4). l. 142n  The fiend’s . . . her chaste: Shakespeare, Othello, 4.1.69–70.

HEBREW MELODIES (1815) From late September 1814 until June 1815, B, encouraged by his friend Douglas Kinnaird, was composing song lyrics as part of a collaboration with the Jewish composer Isaac Nathan (1792–1864), who set them to arrangements based on liturgical sources. John Braham (1774–1856) assisted Nathan with the musical arrangements. Many of these poems deal with scriptural themes, but they also included B’s best known secular lyric, ‘She Walks in Beauty’. A collection of twenty-­four lyrics was published as Hebrew Melodies by John Murray around 23 May 1815. Nathan himself had already published twelve of them, with accompanying sheet music, in April 1815, as A Selection of Hebrew Melodies (Part I), but we have chosen the Murray publication as a contemporaneous and more authoritative source. Nathan published more of B’s lyrics with music in November 1815 in Part II, and then, after B’s death, he released a second further augmented Selection (1827–1829). The latter publication includes ‘I speak not—­I trace not’ (p. 995). ‘Bright be the place of thy soul!’ (p. 201) was a product of the Nathan collaboration also. B and Kinnaird were both involved with the Drury Lane Theatre at this time, and B’s song writing was related to his proximity to the world of the stage. It also reflects his lifelong enthusiasm for Thomas Moore’s Irish Melodies. B’s lyric set to a Greek air, ‘When I Left thy Shores, O Naxos!’ (p. 994) emerges from this period as well.

She Walks in Beauty Written 12 June 1814, the morning after B saw Mrs Anne Beatrix Wilmot-­Horton (the wife of B’s cousin, Robert John Wilmot-­Horton), at a party. Mrs Wilmot (1788–1871) was in mourning and dressed in a black, spangled gown, which inspired the opening lines of this famous lyric.

My Soul is Dark Written in November–December 1814, with reference to David playing the harp for King Saul (1 Samuel 16:14–23).

Sun of the Sleepless! Written in the first half of September 1814. The manuscript version has ‘Moonbeam’ in l. 7. l. 5  light of other days: alluding to Thomas Moore’s poem ‘Oft in the stilly night’ from Irish Melodies: ‘Fond memory brings the light / Of other days around me’ (ll. 3–4).

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notes to pages 196–201 The Destruction of SeMnacherib

Written 17 February 1815, at Seaham. In the first edition of Hebrew Melodies, the poem is entitled, ‘The Destruction of Semnacherib’. According to the Bible, the Assyrian king Sennacherib unsuccessfully besieged Jerusalem; 2 Kings 19: 31–6.

POEMS (1816) After B departed from England in late April 1816, his publisher Murray gathered together this slim collection of verses in order to claim ownership over poems related to the marriage separation of Lord and Lady Byron, especially ‘Fare thee Well!’. The volume also includes several fugitive poems from B’s song-­writing collaboration with Isaac Nathan. Here we depart from our usual policy of presenting poems strictly in order of their first printings, so as to reflect the impact of this composite volume as issued by Murray. ‘Stanzas’ [‘Bright be the place of thy soul’] was first published in the Examiner and then as a song sheet by Nathan in 1815. [‘When we two parted’] was also first printed as a song sheet by Nathan in 1815. B had ‘Fare Thee Well!’ privately printed, and it then appeared in the Champion and other periodicals before being collected by Murray. Poems ( John Murray, 1816) appeared in the late spring or early summer of 1816. It opens with the following editorial note, excusing the private and personal nature of its contents: As some of the Verses in this Collection were evidently not intended for general circulation, they would not have appeared in this authentic form, had they not been already dispersed through the medium of the public press, to an extent that must take away the regret which, under other circumstances, the reader might perhaps experience in finding them included amongst the acknowledged publications of the Noble Author. The appearance of this volume energized the gossip surrounding B’s domestic affairs. The poems it contained—­particularly ‘A Sketch from Private Life’, a malicious attack on Lady Byron’s maid whom B accused of spying on the couple—­turned the tide of public opinion against him.

stanzas [‘Bright be the place of thy soul!’] Written in early June 1815, a part of B’s collaboration with Isaac Nathan. First published, signed ‘B——N’, in the Examiner no. 389 (11 June 1815): 381. Published as a song sheet by Nathan in 1815 before its appearance in Poems (1816). ll. 9–10  Light . . . be: Cf. Ossian, ‘The War of Inis-­Thona’: ‘Green be the place of my rest’, and the Latin funerary inscription ‘sit tibi terra levis’ (‘may the earth lie lightly upon thee’).

[‘When we two parted’] First published by Isaac Nathan as a song-­sheet in 1815, then in Poems (1816). Although B dates the poem to 1808 in this printing, it was actually written in August



notes to pages 201–207

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or September 1815, when he heard of Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster’s affair with the Duke of Wellington. B had an intense, though ultimately inconclusive, flirtation with her in 1813–1814; see his letter to Lady Melbourne (p. 140). In an 1823 letter, B  wrote that the poem originally ended with this ‘concluding stanza—­which was never printed with the others’ (BLJ, 10:198): Then—­fare thee well—­Fanny—   Now doubly undone— To prove false unto many—   As faithless to One— Thou art past all recalling  Even would I recall— For the woman once falling   Forever must fall.—

stanzas for music [‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters’] Written in late March or early April 1816, probably for Claire Claremont, known for her beautiful singing voice. She and B had a love affair that began around this time, resulting in the birth of Allegra on 12 January 1817.

Fare Thee Well! Written 18 March 1816, the day after B signed the preliminary Separation Agreement with his wife. First printed in fifty copies for private circulation on 8 April, then reprinted in the Champion on 14 April, and picked up by other periodicals (including Leigh Hunt’s Examiner) immediately thereafter. B sent a copy to Lady Byron in late March or early April, apparently hoping for a reconciliation. The Champion printing was an orchestrated attack on B by Henry Brougham and editor John Scott. There, the poem was accompanied by ‘A Sketch from Private Life’, B’s bitter attack on Lady Byron’s maid Jane Clermont, as well as by essays criticizing B’s personal conduct and politics. The Poems (1816) printing was the first authorized for the public. p. 203, epigraph  Alas! they had been friends . . . once hath been: first added in Poems (1816). Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘Christabel’ was not published until 25 May 1816, but B had known the poem for over a year and used his influence with Murray to see it into print. B met Coleridge on 10 April 1816, which likely prompted B’s addition of the epigraph. ll. 47–8  where’er . . . go: Ruth 1:16.

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO THE THIRD (1816) Begun at sea on 25 April 1816 as B departed England for good, and written in large part between May and June, with some additions in July. From the Villa Diodati, B sent two fair-­copies of the manuscript back to Murray: one in late August (a copy made by Claire

1044

notes to pages 207–213

Claremont and carried by Percy Shelley) and one in early September (B’s own copy, carried by Scrope Davies). Murray paid £2000 for the copyright to this canto and The Prisoner of Chillon. He published Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: Canto the Third (John Murray, 1816) on 18 November. It was instantly popular, selling 7000 copies in the first weeks thereafter. Our source here is the third issue of the first edition, which appeared just days after the first issue and corrects a number of small early errors. CHP III is a continuation of the Spenserian long poem that had made B famous in 1812, written in a more tortured, richer key, including meditations on Napoleon at Waterloo and set primarily in the Rhine valley and the Alps. Like Manfred and the Prisoner of Chillon volume, this instalment reflects B’s painful emotions arising from his failed marriage and flight from England. It is also marked by attempts to assert consolations of nature in the manner of Wordsworth, urged on B by Percy Shelley during the poem’s composition. After reading the poem, Lady Byron called B ‘the absolute monarch of words’, who ‘uses them, as Bonaparte did lives, for conquest. . . . His allusions to me in “Childe Harold” are cruel and cold, but with such a semblance as to make me appear so, and to attract all sympathy to himself ’ (BB, 2:677). Sir Walter Scott wrote that in this canto, ‘Byron has more avowedly identified with his personage’, calling the poem ‘wilder and less sweet’, containing ‘even darker and more powerful pourings forth of the spirit which boils within him. . . . We gaze upon the powerful and ruined mind which he presents us’.

Canto III p. 207  Afin que cette application . . . le temps: ‘Ultimately, this work forces you to think of other things. That, and time, is really the best remedy’ (Fr.). Oeuvres de Frédéric le Grand, 31 vols. (1846–1857), 25:49–50. l. 2  Ada: Augusta Ada Byron (later Lovelace; 1815–1852), B’s daughter by Lady Byron (1792–1860). Ada became an important mathematician and collaborated with Charles Babbage (1791–1871). B never saw his daughter again after the separation from his wife. l. 75  holier ground: Greece, site of Harold’s travels in Cantos I–II. l. 118  the Chaldean: astronomer from ancient Babylon. l. 145  Empire’s dust: Waterloo, site in Belgium where English and European armies defeated Napoleon on 18 June 1815, ending France’s as­pir­ations to control Europe. l. 153  king-­making Victory: the Congress of Vienna (1814–1815), which restored the Bourbons to France’s throne and re-­established European monarchies, thwarting the promise of the French Revolution. l. 158  eagle: Napoleon (1769–1821). See B’s note, and also the reference to falconry in st. 15. l. 198  it is: On the basis of manuscript sources, some editions print ‘and out’ rather than the first ‘it is’. l. 200  Brunswick’s . . . chieftain: Frederick, Duke of Brunswick (1771–1815), nicknamed the ‘Black Duke’, killed at Quatre-­Bras. His father Charles had died in 1806 fighting Napoleon’s victorious forces at the double battle of Jena-­Auerstädt.



notes to pages 214–225

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l. 226  Cameron’s gathering: Cameron’s gathering, the battle song of the Scottish highland Clan Cameron, whose chief is called Lochiel. l. 227  Albyn: Scotland. l. 229  pibroch: bagpipe music. l. 261 gallant Howard: Frederick Howard (1785–1815), B’s cousin, killed at Waterloo. l. 307  Psalmist . . . man: ‘The days of our years are threescore years and ten’; Psalms 90:10. l. 316  greatest . . . of men: Napoleon. In this and the following ten stanzas, B mixes ­elements of self-­description into this characterization. l. 366  Philip’s son: Alexander the Great (356–323 bce), son of Philip of Macedon, who in a famous anecdote expressed admiration for the self-­possession of the philosopher Diogenes. See Plutarch, Life of Alexander 1.14. l. 396  rusts ingloriously: See Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida, III.iii: ‘to have done is to hang / Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail / In monumental mockery’. l. 450  Lethe: mythical river of forgetfulness. ll. 476–7 one fond breast . . . dwelt: a reference to B’s half-­sister Augusta Leigh (1783–1851), with whom he had an intimate relationship. ll. 496–535  The castled crag . . . banks of Rhine: B sent the first draft of this inset lyric to Augusta Leigh, with the note, ‘May 11th 1816—Written on the banks of the Rhine—­to my dearest sister with some flowers’. l. 541  Marceau: French General François Séverin Marceau-­Desgraviers (1769–1796), who helped to quash the anti-­Jacobin risings in the Vendée (1793) and was killed fighting for the Revolutionary armies in the 1796 Rhine campaigns. See B’s note to st. 57. l. 567  vultures: a reference to Prometheus. The original draft and two fair copy manuscripts have ‘sleepless’ for ‘ceaseless’, but B never corrected the printed version. l. 601  Morat: site of 1476 Swiss patriot victory over a larger invading force from Burgundy, after which thousands of Burgundian corpses were left unburied for centuries, some bits of which were later taken off by B in 1816. l. 606  Stygian: referring to the river Styx in the classical Underworld. ll. 608–9  While . . . stand: At Cannae, the Carthaginian army defeated the Romans in 216 bce; at Marathon, a small force of Athenians defeated a larger Persian army in 490 bce. B’s analogy here contrasts wars of conquest with battles for freedom. l. 616 Draconic clause: Draco was a seventh-­century Athenian lawgiver whose strictness persists in ‘draconian’. B added the following unpublished note in one ­manuscript: Draco—­the author of the first Red Book on record was an Athenian special pleader in great business.—Hippias—­the Athenian Bourbon was in the battle of Marathon and did not keep at the respectful distance from danger of the Ghent refugees—­ but the English and Prussians resembled the Medes and the Persians as little as Blucher and the British General did Datis and Artaphernes and Buonaparte was still more remote in cause and character from Miltiades—­and a parallel “after the manner of Plutarch” might have still existed in the fortunes of the sons of Pisistratus and the reigning doctors of right-­divinity.

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notes to pages 225–243

ll. 627–9  Julia . . . grave: Julia Alpinula, apocryphal Swiss heroine from the first century. The inscription is now generally acknowledged by scholars to be a later humanist forgery. See B’s note to st. 65. l. 644  Lake Leman: Lake Geneva. l. 725 Rousseau: Jean-­Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), foundational writer of the French Romantic movement, famous for his political writings, his Confessions (1769), and Julie; or, The New Heloise (1761), a novel of passionate love (see sts. 79 and 99–104). l. 762 Pythian: like the oracle of Apollo; B suggests that Rousseau’s writings inspired the French Revolution. l. 848  Cytherea’s zone: mythic girdle or breast-­band of Aphrodite, which had the power to provoke desire for its wearer. l. 959  lore: printed as ‘love’ in early editions. B corrected it in later proofs. l. 1024 Carthaginian: Hannibal (247–183 bce), renowned military leader from Carthage, who won significant victories during the Second Punic War and almost captured Rome. l. 1050  rank breath: Cf. Shakespeare, Coriolanus, III.i.

Byron’s Notes to Canto III l. 158n1  A Falcon towering . . . and killed: Shakespeare, Macbeth, II.iv. l. 180n2  Harmodius and Aristogeiton were patriots in sixth century bce who assassinated the Athenian tyrant Hipparchus. The story is told in Thucydides, but B here refers to Robert Bland’s Collections from the Greek Anthology (1813) some of which were translated by Thomas Denman (1779–1854). l. 188n3  a ball was given in Brussels: The Duchess of Richmond hosted this ball on 15 June 1815, the eve of the battle of Quatre-­Bras, three days prior to Waterloo. l. 234n4  Cameron . . . Donald: Sir Ewan Cameron of Lochiel (1629–1719) was a Royalist Scots soldier, whose grandson, Donald Cameron (1695–1748), fought at Culloden in the Jacobite rising of 1745. Their descendant John Cameron died at Quatre-­Bras. l. 235n5 Soignies . . . Ardennes: The forest of Soignies is near Brussels, while Ardennes (not the Arden of Shakespeare) is in Luxembourg. See Tacitus, Annals, 1.60 and 3.42. l. 270n6  Major Howard: B’s relation Major Hon. Frederick Howard (1785–1815) was killed at Waterloo. l. 303n7  Tacitus, Histories, 5.7; B refers here to the Dead Sea, which the Greeks called Lake Asphaltites. l. 369n8  if we have writ our annals true: Shakespeare, Coriolanus, V.iv. l. 429n9  What wants . . . king should have: See ‘Johnie Armstrang’, in Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1810). l. 634n15  Julia Alpinula . . . annos XXIII: The epitaph, a seventeenth-­century forgery, translates roughly as follows: ‘Here lies Julia Alpinula, unhappy child of an unlucky father, priestess of the Goddess of Aventicum. I could not save my father whose fate it was to die badly. I lived 23 years.’ l. 642n16  June 3d . . . July 20th: In the six-­week gap between the two parts of this note, B moved to the Villa Diodati overlooking Lake Geneva.



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l. 860n20  these lines: i.e. ll. 860–904. l. 927n21 Rousseau’s Heloise . . . Les Confessions: B quotes from Jean-­ Jacques Rousseau, Julie; or, The New Heloise (1761) and The Confessions (1782). local habitations . . . airy nothings: Shakespeare, Midsummer Night’s Dream, V.i. l. 1057n23  If it be thus: B slightly misquotes the first line, which should be ‘If it be so . . .’. See Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.iii. l. 1064n24  there is always . . . to them: See François de la Rochefoucauld, Réflexions ou Maximes Morales (1665), no. 99.

ALPINE JOURNAL (17–29 SEPTEMBER 1816) A journal-­letter that B kept for his sister Augusta Leigh during his travels through the Alps in September 1816. For context, see B’s letter to Augusta, 8 September 1816 (p. 269). p. 247  [17 Sept.] Diodati: the house B had rented on the shore of Lake Geneva in the summer of 1816, and the setting for the famous ghost-­story competition that resulted in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. p. 248  [18 Sept.] Bosquet de Julie: referring to Rousseau’s Julie, ou la Nouvelle Héloïse (1761), an epistolary novel about the love between Julie, a young noblewoman, and her tutor Saint-­Preux. p. 248  Blucher: Prussian Field Marshal Blücher (1742–1819). p. 250  [22 Sept.] tail . . . Apocalypse: Compare Manfred II.ii.6–8 p. 251 [23 Sept.]  family: Compare Manfred I.i.65–7.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON AND OTHER POEMS (1816) Between 14 and 25 August 1816, Claire Claremont produced a fair copy manuscript of B’s ‘The Prisoner of Chillon’ (not included here) and the shorter poems that were part of this volume. In early September, Percy Shelley returned to England and brought this manuscript to Murray who published it on 5 December 1816 in an edition of six thousand copies. The collection as a whole reflects the passionate unsettlement of B’s life and the darkening of his imagination during the spring and summer of 1816, after his separation from Lady Byron and his self-­exile from England. The poem ‘Darkness’ also reflects the horror-­story atmosphere of the Villa Diodati during the ‘haunted summer’ of 1816 with the Shelleys, when Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein. The third canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and Manfred were also written around this time. ‘The Incantation’ from Act I of Manfred was first published in this volume as a separate lyric.

stanzas to ——— [‘Though the day of my destiny’s over’] Written 24 July 1816 at the Villa Diodati. Titled ‘Stanzas to Augusta’ in B’s draft, this poem reflects B’s bitter feelings in the wake of his separation from Lady Byron, and his longing for his half-­sister Augusta.

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notes to pages 257–261

l. 29  disclaim: all of B’s manuscript copies read ‘betray’. Murray or Gifford likely made the alteration to improve the rhyme.

Darkness Written at Villa Diodati between 21 July and 25 August 1816, as an offshoot of the ‘haunted summer’ horror-­story competition between B, the Shelleys, and Polidori that resulted in Frankenstein and The Vampyre. The poem echoes the Bible ( Jeremiah 4:23–26, Ezekiel 32:7–10 and 38:20–22, Joel 2:31, and Revelation 6:12), while also reflecting the influence of Enlightenment scientists like Buffon and Fontenelle who put forward catastrophic models of the earth’s history. M. G. Lewis’s visit to Diodati in August likely catalysed the gothic theme and imagery. For the poem’s many sources and allusions, see CPW, 4:459–60. l. 50  clung: shrivelled; cf. Macbeth V.v.40 (‘’Till famine cling thee’). l. 75 Ships . . . sea: recalls Coleridge’s ‘The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere’, ll. 107–24.

Churchill’s Grave, A Fact Literally Rendered Composed at Villa Diodati, July 1816. Shortly before his final departure from England, on 25 April, B had visited the grave of the eighteenth-­century satiric poet and rake Charles Churchill (1731–1764) at Dover. Hobhouse noted that ‘Byron lay down on the grave and gave the man a crown to restore the turf ’. The poem takes its cue from Churchill’s ‘The Candidate’, ll. 145–55. It is also a serious parody of Wordsworth’s mode in poems like ‘The Thorn’ and ‘The Old Cumberland Beggar’. On the manuscript, B has written the following: The following poem (as most that I have endeavoured to write) is founded on a fact; and this detail is an attempt at a serious imitation of the style of a great poet—­ its beaut­ies and its defects: I say the style; for the thoughts I claim as my own. In this, if there be anything ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth: of whom there can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as defects of his style; and it ought to be remembered, that, in such things, whether there be praise or dispraise, there is always what is called a compliment, however unintentional.

The Dream Written in July 1816 at Villa Diodati. Moore says the poem ‘cost [Byron] many a tear in writing’ because of its melancholy autobiographical content. Stanzas 2 and 3 present B’s love for Mary Chaworth in 1803 and 1804, set at Annesley Hall, her home. Nearby Howatt Hill was planted with a circle of trees (ll. 35–8), which Mary’s husband had cut down after reading this poem. Stanza 4 recalls B’s journey to the East, and specifically 14 March 1810, when he rested by a fountain while travelling from Smyrna



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to Ephesus. Stanza 5 deals with Mary’s marriage to John Musters, circa 1809–1811. Stanza 6 presents B’s own wedding day at Seaham on 2 January 1815. Stanza 7 refers to Mary’s nervous breakdown of August 1814, which occurred after she separated from her husband in March of that year, during which time she was writing sentimental letters to B. Stanza 8 brings the poem back to B’s present circumstances. l. 191n  Mithridates VI (135–163 bce) was legendary for his immunity to poisons acquired by regularly swallowing sub-­lethal doses. ll. 195–201  And made . . . a secret: recalls Act I of Manfred and Revelation 20:12.

Prometheus Written in July or early August 1816. Prometheus (meaning ‘forethought’) was a Titan of Greek myth who stole fire from the Gods and gave it to mankind. Zeus punished him by chaining him to rock, where he was tormented by a vulture (or eagle). The Romantics embraced Prometheus as a figure of enlightened rebellion against tyranny; Percy Shelley was translating Aeschylus’s Prometheus Bound at this time (and would go on to write his epic sequel, Prometheus Unbound), and Mary Shelley was writing Frankenstein, with its subtitle, ‘The Modern Prometheus’. B had loved Aeschylus since his Harrow days. See also CHP IV, l. 163.

LETTER TO AUGUSTA LEIGH, 8 SEPTEMBER 1816 p. 269  Augusta Leigh: 1783–1851; B’s older half-­sister through his father’s previous marriage. The two met after B went to Harrow and she became a sympathetic confidant for the remainder of B’s life. They began an incestuous affair in 1813, rumoured to have continued during B’s marriage. p. 270  foolish girl: Clare Clairmont, Mary Shelley’s half-­sister, with whom he began a brief affair before leaving England and then resumed when she visited with Mary and Percy Shelley during the famous summer of 1816. On 12 January 1817, Claire gave birth to their daughter, Allegra. p. 270  Stael: Madame de Staël (1766–1817), renowned European author and ­intellectual.

MANFRED, A DRAMATIC POEM (1817) Begun in Switzerland in August 1816 and completed at Venice in early 1817. B rewrote the original, more irreverent third act in late April–early May. Published 16 June in an edition of six thousand copies, Manfred (John Murray, 1817) was B’s first poem cast in dramatic form, and although it was not intended for the stage, it reflects his experience working with playwrights and actors at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane in 1815–1816. In its focus on guilt and unnameable sin, Manfred offers a confessional, mythic, gothic gloss on the recent events of B’s life, namely the separation from his wife and his

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notes to pages 273–291

sexual affair with his half-­sister, Augusta. The poem was in part inspired by B’s travels in the Alps and the sublime landscapes that impressed themselves on his mind (see his ‘Alpine Journal’, pp. 247–53). Written at the end of the haunted summer of 1816, the composition of Manfred was catalysed by conversations with the gothic author M.G. ‘Monk’ Lewis, who visited B at the Villa Diodati for two weeks in August. The poem also reframes Goethe’s Faust, which B first encountered in a French translation in 1813. Manfred is the epitome of the self-­reliant, self-­damned Byronic hero, cast here in a barely disguised allegory of B in his own personal struggles. Popular but scandalous upon its publication in England, the poem was widely translated and admired throughout Europe in the nineteenth century. p. 273  There . . . philosophy: Shakespeare, Hamlet, I.v.168–9. Added in the third issue of the first edition.

Act I, Scene I ll. 10–12  Sorrow . . . Life: Ecclesiastes 1:8 and Genesis 2:9. ll. 192–261  When the moon . . . now wither!: This section of the poem was first published in PCOP (1816) as ‘The Incantation’ with a note describing it as ‘a Chorus in an unfinished Witch drama’. B originally wrote it with Lady Byron (and himself) in mind. l. 244  seeming virtuous: Shakespeare, Hamlet, I.v.46.

Act I, Scene II l. 66  blasted pines: Cf. B’s ‘Alpine Journal’, 23 September (p. 251) l. 99  Mount Rosenberg: In 1806, an avalanche on Mount Rossberg, Switzerland, killed hundreds of people in the villages below.

Act II, Scene I l. 40  William Tell: Swiss folk hero of the fourteenth century, famous for his skill with a crossbow and his resistance to Austrian tyranny. l. 86  just defence: In B’s original draft, this line was followed by another, not printed until CPW: ‘My wrongs were all on those I should have cherished—’

Act II, Scene II l. 7–8 Giant steed . . . Apocalypse: Revelation 6:8. Cf. B’s ‘Alpine Journal’, 22 September (p. 250). l. 142  Crœsus: sixth-­century King of Lydia, legendary for his great wealth. l. 167  detested yoke: In B’s original draft, this line was followed by another, not printed until CPW: ‘This heaving burthen, this accursed breath—’. ll. 181–2  Prophet . . . Endor: 1 Samuel 28. The Witch of Endor raises the spirit of the prophet Samuel, who foretold the death of King Saul.



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Act II, Scene III l. 14 Arimanes: from Ahriman, chief spirit of evil and darkness in Persian Zoroastrianism.

Act II, Scene IV l. 83  Astarte: Hellenic name for Astoreth (or Ishtar), the ancient Middle Eastern goddess of love and beauty. l. 166  Where?: The draft manuscript has a response from Nemesis here: ‘That will be seen hereafter.’

Act III, Scene I l. 5  key and casket: remnants of a discarded third act, in which Manfred uses them to summon the demon Ashtaroth. See CPW, 4:467–71. l. 13  Kalon: ideal good and beauty, in Platonic philosophy. l. 19  St. Maurice: an Augustinian priory (as B’s Newstead Abbey had been), located in the Rhone Valley southeast of Chillon in Switzerland. l. 63  Vengeance is mine alone: Romans 12:19 and Deuteronomy 32:35. l. 73  hell of heaven: Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost, 4.73–8. ll. 88–96  Emperor . . . fidelity: B conflates Otho, Rome’s sixth emperor, with Nero, of whom this story is told in Suetonius’s Lives of the Caesars 6.49. l. 128  Simoom: hot desert wind. Cf. Giaour, ll. 282–5 (p. 152).

Act III, Scene II l. 13  Chaldean shepherds: residents of Mesopotamia where worship of the Hebrew God began.

Act III, Scene IV l. 151  Old man! . . . die: This line was not printed in the first edition but appears in all editions thereafter.

Byron’s Notes to Manfred II.ii.92–3n2  Iamblichus was a Neoplatonic philosopher of fourth-­century Greece. In Lives of the Philosophers and Sophists, Eunapius (b. 346) tells of his pulling blonde (Eros) and dark-­haired (Anteros) boy-­spirits from the spring at Gadara in Syria. II.ii.190–1n3  In Plutarch’s ‘Life of Cimon’ 6.4–6, Pausanias mistakenly murders the maiden Cleonice (whom he had intended to seduce or rape) and is haunted by her phantom.

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notes to pages 312–319 LETTER TO THOMAS MOORE, 28 JANUARY 1817

p. 312  Thomas Moore: Irish poet (1779–1852), man of letters, and close confidant of B during the Regency years and beyond. Moore visited B in Venice in 1819. p. 312  King Ludd: Nedd Ludd, weaver whose name was borrowed by the worker’s resistance to machine looms, the Luddite Movement, in B’s Nottinghamshire and other Northern counties. p. 312  this meek . . . peace: Shakespeare, Richard III, I.i. p. 313  I know . . . &c.: Shakespeare, Othello, III.iii. p. 313  Marianna S: Marianna Segati, one of B’s married Venetian lovers.

LETTER TO THOMAS MOORE, 28 FEBRUARY 1817 [‘SO WE’LL GO NO MORE A ­R OVING’] p. 315  W.W. . . . Chronicle: James Wedderburn Webster, husband of Frances Webster (see Letter to Lady Melbourne, 8 October 1813, p. 140), author of Waterloo and Other Poems (1816), which opens with an epigraph from CHP and contains ‘Lines on Lord Byron’s Portrait’ and ‘On a favorite dog buried at Newstead Abbey’. John Wilson Croker reviewed the book negatively for the Quarterly Review (July 1816). James Perry was the owner and editor of the Morning Chronicle. p. 315  Partridge: Jonathan Swift, under the pseudonym Isaac Bickerstaff, predicted the death of astrologer John Partridge (1644–1714) as part of a hoax in 1708. p. 316  there . . . man: Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, II.v. Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850) edited the Edinburgh Review, an important quarterly journal that had often featured favourable reviews of B’s work. p. 316  like . . . ages: Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), ch. 14.

LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 1817 p. 317  John Murray: John Murray II (1778–1843), B’s literary counsellor and ­publisher from 1812 until their break over the censorship of Don Juan in late 1822. p. 317  occasion: B refers to CHP III, published by Murray the previous November. p. 317  Lallah Rookh: Thomas Moore’s oriental romance Lalla Rookh (1817). p. 318  Horace . . . Claudian: Horace (65–68 bce) was the leading Roman poet in the age of Augustus, whereas Claudius Claudianus (370–404 ad) was a mediocre poet of late antiquity.

LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, 8 JANUARY 1818 [‘MY DEAR MR. MURRAY’] l. 3 ultimate Canto: The manuscript for Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto IV, brought to Murray in London by B’s friend, John Cam Hobhouse.



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l. 13 Gally: Henry Galley Knight (1786–1846), author of Oriental verse tales Alashtar (1817) and Phrosyne (1817). l. 19  Sotheby’s tour: William Sotheby (1757–1833), Farewell to Italy, and occasional poems (1818). l. 38  Spence: Joseph Spence (1699–1768), known for posthumous Anecdotes, observations and characters of books and men (1820). l. 40  Queen Mary’s Epistle-­craft: George Chalmers, The Life of Mary Queen of Scots (1819). l. 41  Whistlecraft: John Hookham Frere (1769–1846), whose ottava rima poems published under the pseudonym Whistlecraft were a model for B’s Beppo and Don Juan. l. 43  Gordon: General Thomas Gordon (1788–1841), fought in Russia and Greece and later became known for his History of the Greek Revolution (1832). ll. 58–60  Canning . . . Ward: George Canning (1770–1827) and John William Ward (1781–1833), British statesmen; Sir John Wilmot (1784–1841), B’s cousin, later present at the burning of his Memoirs.

BEPPO, A VENETIAN STORY (1818; 5th EDITION) Written in La Mira, outside of Venice, towards the end of 1817, Beppo (John Murray, 1818) combines amorous comedy and sexual hijinks with a sharp, sure core of what B called ‘politics and ferocity’ (BLJ, 6:10). The poem tells of Laura, the much younger wife of Beppo, a merchant seaman who, when the story opens, is travelling abroad and thought dead. In his absence, Laura takes the Count as her cavalier servante, a formal, ritualized lover common in Venetian society. On the day of Carnival, Beppo returns dressed as a Turk to confront his wife, but the story ends in mutual forgiveness and friendship. Though driven by a ribald sexual comedy, the poem maintains a firm line of political critique through its narrator, who repeatedly underscores the contrasts between the fluidity of the Italian language and lifestyle and the rigid harshness of the English tongue and manners. The poem has a quickness of language that picks up from the Italian what B called the ‘gentle liquids’ (st. 44, l. 349) of its sound. The rapidity of the poem’s movement matched B’s mode of composition. B claimed to have written Beppo in just two nights in a bout of enthusiasm bubbling over from his pleasurable encounter with Whistlecraft, the pseudonym of John Hookam Frere, another of John Murray’s authors who helped bring the ottava rima form into English. Having immersed himself in Italian, B already knew the form from Giambattista Casti, Luigi Pulci (whom he had been translating), and others. Beppo was published anonymously by Murray in February 1818 in a quarto volume of ninety-­five stanzas and forty-­nine pages. B’s name first appeared on the title page in the fifth edition from April 1818. For this reason, we take our text from the fifth edition, which has the advantage of including the four additional stanzas (sts. 28, 38, 39, 53) added to the poem in the fourth edition. The poem featured two stanzas per page with the large font, generous margins, and abundant white space typical of the print luxuries to which Murray regularly treated B’s verse. Sales for the poem were not on par with the

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notes to pages 325–334

numbers achieved by the Eastern Tales, but 3000 copies sold with ease and B was encouraged enough by the critical reception to produce a sequel, a poem ‘meant to be a little quietly facetious upon everything’ (BLJ, 6:67). It was to be called Don Juan. p. 325  S.A.: Samuel Ayscough, editor of The Dramatic Works of William Shakespeare, with Explanatory Notes (1807). l. 3  Shrove Tuesday: day preceding Ash Wednesday and the Lenten fast, traditionally marked by feasting and celebration. l. 16  strumming: sexual innuendo. l. 19  harlequins: comic servants wearing chequered outfits. l. 24  Freethinkers: atheists; religious costumes were banned at the Venetian carnival. l. 30  Phlegethon: river in Hades, classical underworld. l. 35  Monmouth-­street . . . Rag Fair: both were notable places in London for second-­ hand clothes. ll. 39–40  Covent Garden . . . Piazza: an arcade or ‘Piazza’ built by Inigo Jones ran alongside London’s Covent Garden. l. 42  farewell to flesh: carnis, flesh; vale, farewell (Lat.). l. 48  packet: small ship. l. 63  Harvey: fish sauce popular at the time. ll. 85–8  Titian . . . Giorgione: ‘Titian’, TizianoVecellio (1488–1586), and ‘Giorgione’, Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco (c.1477/78–1510), both major Venetian painters; Titian’s Urbino Venus is in the Uffizi, Florence and the second painting is Titian’s Triple Portrait (c.1500), previously attributed to Giorgione. Works by both painters were at Venice’s Manfrini Palace. l. 112  Pleiad: Of the seven daughters of Atlas, one, Merope, was seduced by a mortal, Sisyphus; when the seven were translated into a constellation, she, ashamed, shone least brightly. l. 112n  Quæ . . . solent: ‘They are called seven but are nevertheless six’. Ovid, Fasti, 4. l. 117  Goldoni: Carlo Goldoni (1707–1793), Venetian playwright. l. 123  Mercuries: Mercury, Roman messenger god. l. 129  Shakespeare: See Othello’s reference to a ‘weed . . . so lovely fair’, Shakespeare, Othello, IV.ii. l. 136  cavalier servente: lover of a married woman, commonly accepted in upper-­ class Italian society. l. 139  sooty devil: See Othello’s reference to a ‘sooty bosom’, Shakespeare, Othello, I.ii. l. 154  Rialto: Venetian island marked by a grand marble bridge. l. 195  pratique: clearance to enter a port after quarantine. l. 224  Ariadne: After helping him kill the Minotaur, Ariadne married Theseus, who abandoned her at Naxos. In some versions of the myth, she then became the lover of Bacchus, setting up a triangle much like Beppo. l. 238  coxcomb: vain dandy. l. 246  sock and buskin: comedy and tragedy. l. 248  seccatura: boring! (It.) l. 257  Improvisatori: improvising poets. l. 293  Po to Teio: Italian and Portugese rivers.



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l. 320  tippet: short cape. l. 336  dray: cart for heavy loads. l. 337  becaficas: small songbirds, a delicacy. l. 368  Canova: Antonia Canova (1757–1822), Italian Neoclassical sculptor. l. 368n  In talking . . . devil: Raffaello Sanzo (1483–1520), Italian painter rumoured by Vasari to have died of lovemaking. l. 369  England . . . still: William Cowper, The Task (1785), book 2. l. 374  Habeas Corpus: a protective against false imprisonment, suspended in 1817, restored in 1818. l. 383  Regent: the Prince of Wales, ruled as Regent 1811–1820, while George III was deemed insane. l. 388  Gazette: The London Gazette, daily journal of record for the government, sent out by subscription. l. 391  recent glories: Waterloo (1815) about which B is facetious. l. 403  Parnassus: mountain seat of the Muses. B here mocks his own earlier work. l. 410  Dandy: man devoted to fashion, associated with Beau Brummel (1778–1840) during the Regency. l. 412  Walker’s Lexicon: John Walker, Rhyming Dictionary (1775). l. 445  Mrs. Boehm’s masquerade: London society event, June 1817. l. 448  varnished faces: See Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, II.v. l. 461  Vauxhall: open-­aired place of public entertainment in London. l. 481  Thor: Norse god of thunder, referring to Napoleon’s Russian campaign of 1812, the failure of which was often blamed on cold weather. l. 508  hippish: depressed. l. 528  Banquo’s kings: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV.i. l. 543 Wilberforce and Romilly: William Wilberforce (1759–1833) and Samuel Romilly (1757–1818), political reformers. l. 555  philogyny: love of women. l. 558  pad: bed. l. 560  ad libitum: as you desire (Lat.). l. 574  blues: bluestockings, or literary women. l. 575  Botherbys: Botherby, William Southeby (1757–1833), a minor poet whom B thought responsible for an anonymous letter denigrating PCOP. Though mistaken, B refused Murray’s request to alter the stanzas. l. 581  Triton . . . minnows: Shakespeare, Coriolanus, III.i; Triton, sea god. l. 594  foolscap: paper size, roughly 8″ × 13″. l. 603  S—­tt . . . M—­re: Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832), Samuel Rogers (1763–1855), and Thomas Moore (1779–1852), all authors B admired. l. 605  mighty mother’s: Pope, Dunciad, l. 1. l. 624  mathematics: sneering reference to B’s wife, Lady Byron (1792–1860), a stellar mathematician. l. 628  my life: reference to B’s Memoirs begun alongside Beppo and burnt after his death. l. 639  Saturn: ancient Roman god of agriculture associated with the Golden Age, replaced by Jupiter and the Olympians.

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notes to pages 346–353

l. 665  Aurora: Roman goddess of dawn. l. 685  Bow-­street gemmen: Bow Street Runners, London constables linked to Bow Street court. l. 711  hartshorn: ammonia, sourced from deer’s antlers. l. 749  bastinadoes: torture, beatings on the feet. l. 757  Robin Crusoe: Robinson Crusoe (1719), novel by Daniel Defoe. l. 759  polacca: Mediterranean sailing ship. l. 768  Cape Bonn: north Tunisia.

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO THE FOURTH ‘My dear Mr. Murray’, wrote B on 8 January 1818: ‘You’re in a damned hurry / To set up this ultimate Canto / But (if they don’t rob us) / You’ll see Mr. Hobhouse / Will bring it safe in his portmanteau . . .’ (p. 319). The manuscript of this last instalment of Childe Harold ( John Murray, 1818) was delivered by Byron’s close friend and the work’s dedicatee, John Cam Hobhouse, to John Murray early in 1818 and published on 28 April. Byron, now accepting money for his writing, was paid 2500 guineas for the copyright. Though just under seventy stanzas longer than the poem’s third canto, the new volume had over three times as many pages and sold for 12 shillings. As with  the other cantos, Murray printed this one in deluxe editions with only two stanzas per page in large font. Hobhouse’s copious historical notations, combined with Byron’s notes, swelled to over 130 pages and occupied more space than the poem itself. In this edition, we have reluctantly omitted Byron and Hobhouse’s extensive notes for reasons of space. Composed in Venice primarily in July 1817 and then revised through the remainder of the year, this fourth canto narrates Byron’s April and May 1817 trip from Venice to Rome by way of Ferrara and Florence. As in CHP III, the poem remains coiled with Byron’s ambivalence about the end of his marriage and his departure from England, now over a year in the past. The Wordsworthian consolations of nature are largely replaced by the more formed and wrought charms of art: as B meanders through the Italian peninsula he reflects on sculpture and architecture, on the writing of Tasso, Ariosto, Petrarch, Bocaccio, and Dante, and on the treasures of Florence’s Uffizi and the Vatican galleries in Rome. This is also the landscape made famous by the battles and leaders of Roman antiquity, and reflections on the triumphs and decline of Rome feature prominently. As B stands in Rome ‘a ruin amidst ruins’, the poem unfurls a series of contrasts, between the inevitable decay of civilization that it laments so poignantly and the more enduring possibility of art’s immortality; between the ascent of freedom and the domination and submission so characteristic of post-­Napoleonic power politics; between the pull of sympathy and the lure of violence. Canto IV met with a warm critical reception. William Gifford, the esteemed editor of the Quarterly Review, wrote privately to John Murray on 5 February 1818 that Canto IV was ‘beyond question, the first of his efforts. There are beauties in it which cannot be surpassed. . . . I suppose there will be much contest about it—­much applause



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and reproof, and wonder & pity’ (LJM, 249). More publicly, in the May 1818 issue of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, John Wilson called this ‘the finest canto of Childe Harold, the finest, beyond all comparison, of Byron’s poems’. p. 353  ‘I have seen Tuscany, Lombardy, Romagna, / That mountain which divides, and that which encloses / Italy, and the one sea and the other, which bathe it’, Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533), Satira, 3.58–60. p. 353  January 2, 1818: The third anniversary of B’s marriage. p. 353  Hobhouse: John Cam Hobhouse (1786–1869), B’s friend and companion for many of the travels on which Childe Harold is based. p. 355  Mi pare . . . prima: ‘It seems to me that in a thoroughly poetic country, which boasts the sweetest language, all the different ways should be attempted, and that as long as the home of Alfieri and Monti has not lost its ancient worth, it should be the first in everything.’ Original to B, not a quotation. p. 355  La pianta . . . prova: ‘The human plant is more sturdy in Italy than anywhere else, and even the heinous crimes committed there are proof of it.’ Alfieri, De Principe e delle lettere (1795), 3.11. p. 355  Roma! . . . prima: ‘Rome! Rome! Rome! Rome, thou are not now as thou wast before.’ p. 355  Non movero . . . assorda: ‘I shall never move a bit where the crowd deafens us with its prattle’. Giuseppe Parini, ‘La Recità de’ Versi’, Odi (1758–1790). The first line quoted actually reads: ‘Non toccherò già corda’. l. 1  Bridge of Sighs: As B notes in manuscript, ‘The “Bridge of Sighs” (il Ponte dei Sospiri) divides the Doge’s Palace from the state prison.—It is roofed and divided by a wall into two passages.—By the one—­the prisoner was conveyed to judgment—­by the other he returned to death, being generally strangled in an adjoining chamber’. l. 8  winged Lion: emblem of Venice’s patron saint, St Mark the Evangelist. See note to l. 95. l. 10  Cybele: ancient mother of the gods, commonly shown wearing a crown of towers. l. 19 Tasso: Torquato Tasso (1544–1595), Venetian poet, author of Jerusalem Delivered (1581), stanzas of which were sometimes sung by gondoliers. l. 31  dogeless: the Doge was the ruler of Venice. The last Doge, Ludovico Manin, was deposed by Napoleon in 1797. ll. 33–4  Rialto . . . Pierre: Rialto is a bridge spanning Venice’s Grand Canal; the next three names refer to main characters respectively in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice and Othello, and Thomas Otway’s Venice Preserved (1682). ll. 85–6  Sparta . . . he: As B notes in manuscript, ‘The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the strangers who praised the memory of her son’. Brasidas was a Spartan general in the Peloponnesian War (431–404 bce). ll. 91–3  spouseless Adriatic . . . Bucentaur: On Ascension Day, the doge would drop a ring from the state barge, the Bucentaur, into the Adriatic, thus ceremoniously marrying Venice to the sea. The French destroyed the last Bucentaur in 1798. l. 95  St. Mark . . . lion: The Lion of Venice sits atop a granite column in Piazza San Marco, Venice, in front of the Doge’s Palace. Another sculpture of a winged lion sits above the Palace’s Porta della Carta.

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notes to pages 359–368

l. 100  Suabian . . . Austrian: The Duke of Suabia (Frederic Barbarossa) submitted to the Pope in 1177; Emperor Francis I of Austria, ruled Venice after the Treaty of Paris (1814). l. 107  Dandolo: Enrico Dandolo, Doge 1192–1205, commanded the fleet that captured Constantinople (Byzantium), in 1204 during the Fourth Crusade. l. 109  steeds of brass: Four bronze horses sat above the Basilica San Marco after they were taken from Constantinople in 1204; looted by Napoleon in 1797 but returned to Venice in 1815. l. 111  Doria: Pietro Doria, Genoese admiral killed at the battle of Chioggia (1380); according to Hobhouse’s notes to the poem, he threatened to bridle the horses of St Mark. l. 118  Tyre: ancient Phoenician city. l. 124  Candia: Crete, a key part of the Venetian empire, lost to the Ottoman Empire in 1669. l. 125 Lepanto: Battle of Lepanto, which ended Ottoman supremacy in the Mediterranean on 7 October 1571. l. 136  Syracuse: ill-­fated Sicilian Expedition of the Peloponnesian War (415–413 bce) resulted in Athens’s brutal defeat in Syracuse. l. 148  knot: the Treaty of Paris (1814) returned Venice to Austrian rule. l. 172  tannen: According to B’s note in manuscript, ‘a species of fir peculiar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be perceived’. ll. 235–6  The moon . . . her: B notes in manuscript that this is ‘a literal and hardly sufficient delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth) as contemplated during many a ride along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira’. l. 238  Friuli’s mountains: the Alps northeast of Venice. l. 247  Rhætian hill: the Alps northwest of Venice. l. 250  Brenta: river running to the Adriatic south of Venice. l. 264 Laura’s lover: Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374), renowned poet buried in Arqua, in the Euganean Hills, northeast Italy. l. 307  Ferrara: city in Emilia-­Romagna region, northeast Italy, home of Tasso and ducal seat of the house of Este. The following stanzas refer to Tasso’s persecution by Alphonso II d’Este (1533–1597), the subject also of B’s The Lament of Tasso (1817). l. 315  Dante: Dante Alighieri (1265–1321), author of Divine Comedy. ll. 339–40  Cruscan quire . . . Boileau: attacks on Tasso by the Florentine Accademia della Crusca and French critic Nicholas Boileau-­Despréaux (1636–1711). l. 354  Bards . . . Chivalry: alludes to Dante’s Inferno and the Orlando Furioso, a chivalric epic by Ariosto, to whom B compares Scottish novelist and poet, Walter Scott (1771–1832). l. 370  Italia! oh Italia!: This stanza and the next are a near translation of a sonnet by Vincenzo da Filicaja (1642–1707) beginning ‘Italia, Italia, O tu coi feo la sorte’. l. 384  Po: river in northern Italy. l. 390  friend of Tully: Servius Sulpicius Rufus (106–143 bce), friend of Marcus Tullius Cicero (‘Tully’, also 106–143 bce).



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ll. 392–4  Megara . . . Corinth: all ancient Greek sites of classical ruins. As Servius Sulpicius observes, all were ‘once famous and flourishing’ and ‘now lie overturned and buried in their ruins’. l. 424  Arno: Italian river, flows through Florence (‘Etrurian Athens’). l. 433  Goddess . . . stone: the Venus de Medici, famous ancient sculpture now in the Uffizi, Florence. l. 450 Dardan . . . prize: referring to the Judgment of Paris, where the ‘Dardan Shepherd’ (Paris) awarded the prize for beauty to Aphrodite (Venus, in Roman myth). ll. 452–4  Anchises . . . War: Anchises was the father of Aeneas by Venus. Venus’s lover Mars is the god of war. l. 457  Feeding . . . cheek: Ovid, Elegies, 11.6. l. 478  Santa Croce: Basilica Santa Croce, a Franciscan church in Florence holding the tombs of Michelangelo (1475–1564), Alfieri (1749–1803), Galileo Galilei (1564– 1642), and Niccolo Machiavelli (1469–1527). In a manuscript note, B calls it ‘the Mecca of Italy’. l. 495  Canova: Antonio Canova (1757–1822), Italian sculptor. ll. 496–8  Etruscan . . . Prose: Etruria was the ancient name for Tuscany, the region around Florence, whose ‘Bard of Prose’ was Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–1375), author of The Decameron (‘Hundred Tales of Love’). ll. 505–6  Dante . . . shore: Dante was buried at Ravenna (‘afar’) and is here compared to Scipio Africanus (236–183 bce), a military hero exiled from Rome whose epitaph condemns the city’s ungratefulness. l. 519  tomb: Boccaccio was buried in Certaldo, where church authorities moved his tomb from the church’s central nave. ll. 523–6  And . . . more: At Junia’s funeral procession, Tiberius Caesar forbade carrying busts of her brother, Marcus Junius Brutus (85–42 bce), and her husband, Gaius Cassius Longinus (87–42 bce), both involved in the plot to assassinate Julius Caesar. l. 542 Art’s . . . shrine: the Uffizi, prominent Florentine art museum, among the most important in Italy. l. 551  Thrasimene’s lake: site of Carthaginian general Hannibal’s victory over the Romans in 217 bce. l. 584  Sanguinetto: a stream distant from the more powerful river Clitumnus in Italy, literally ‘little bloody one’. l. 613  roar of waters: falls of Terni (Cascata delle Marmore) on the Velino river in Italy, later compared to the Phlegethon, mythical river of fire in Hades. l. 649  Apennine: Italian mountain range. l. 654  Jungfrau: mountain in the Alps, of which Mont Blanc is the highest. l. 657  Chimari: the Ceraunian (Acroceraunian in st. 74) mountains in southwest Albania. ll. 659–63 Parnassus . . . Atlas: all mountains in Greece with rich le­ gend­ ary ­associations. ll. 665–6  Soracte’s height . . . aid: an allusion to Horace’s Odes, 1.9 describing Soracte (Monte Soratte, near Rome) covered in snow.

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notes to pages 377–391

l. 703  Niobe: mythological daughter of Tantalus whose twelve children were slain by Apollo. l. 707  Scipios: an ancient Roman family, many with distinguished mili­tary service, whose tomb was discovered on the Appian Way in 1760 and soon looted and hence contains ‘no ashes’. l. 712  Goth: Eastern German people who conquered Rome in 476. l. 735  Livy: Titus Livius (59 bce–17 ce), historian of Rome. l. 740  Sylla: Lucius Cornelius Sulla (138–178 bce), Roman general. l. 758  Cromwell: Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658), key republican figure in English Civil War. ll. 766–9  The third . . . clay: As B notes in manuscript, ‘On the third of September Cromwell gained the victory of Dunbar [1650]; a year afterwards he obtained “his crowning mercy” of Worcester; and a few years after, on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for him, died [1658]’. l. 775  dread statue: statue of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus (106–48 bce), Roman general and political rival of Caesar. l. 785  She-­wolf: legendary Capitoline wolf, who nursed Rome’s founders, Romulus and Remus. l. 800  one vain man: Napoleon Bonaparte, subject of sts. 89–92. l. 809  Alcides: Roman name for Heracles, son of Zeus and mightiest of Greek heroes. ll. 858–9  Columbia . . . Pallas: Columbia refers to the United States; Pallas was the Greek goddess of war, said to have sprung full-­g rown from head of Zeus. l. 865 France . . . crime: the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution ­(1793–1794). l. 883  stern . . . tower: tomb of Caecilia Metella, built in the first century bce on the Appian Way and one of the best preserved Roman monuments. l. 904  Cornelia: dutiful daughter of Scipio Africanus and mother of the Gracchi, Roman warriors. l. 905  Egypt’s . . . queen: Cleopatra. l. 951  Palatine: one of Rome’s seven hills, originally the city centre, where the Imperial Palace stood. ll. 987–9  Titus . . . climb: Titus and Trajan were both Roman emperors; in the later sixteenth century, figures of St Peter and St Paul were installed atop the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius. l. 1000  rock of Triumph: Tarpeian rock, the place from which traitors were thrown in ancient Rome. ll. 1022–6 Rienzi . . . Numa: Nicolas (‘Cola’) di Rienzi (1313–1354 ce), Roman reformer and patriot, subsequently compared to Numa Pompilius, successor of Romulus, legendary Roman lawgiver, and husband of the nymph Egeria (sts. 115, 118). l. 1037  Elysian: relating to Elysium, place for the dead in classical myth. l. 1129  upas: tropical hardwood, proverbial source of poisonous sap. l. 1143  couch: cure, referring to cataract removal. l. 1144  Arches on arches: the Colosseum, ancient Roman amphitheatre. l. 1179  they: the circle that supported Byron’s wife in their acrimonious separation.



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l. 1183  Thou . . . abyss: Aeschylus (525–426 bce), Athenian dramatist and author of revenge trilogy, the Oresteia, described in this stanza. l. 1221  Janus: two-­faced ancient Roman god. l. 1245  slaughtered: the Colosseum was the site of often fatal gladiatorial battles. l. 1252  Gladiator: the Dying Gaul, a famous ancient sculpture of a gladiator in Rome’s Capitoline museum. l. 1264  Danube: river in central Europe that flows through Vienna, a reference to Rome’s conquered provinces like Dacia, whose people (‘Goths’, l. 1269) were enslaved as gladiators. l. 1314  Pantheon: former ancient Roman temple, now a church. Completed by the emperor Hadrian around 126 ce, this remains the world’s largest dome of unreinforced concrete. Its circular form is open to the sky at a central oculus (‘sole aperture’ in st. 147). l. 1329  old man . . . fair: a reference to the Caritas Romana legend where a woman sustains her imprisoned father through breast feeding. Her selflessness was rewarded with her father’s release. l. 1351  milky way: In Greek myth, Zeus let his mortal son Heracles suckle the divine Hera while she slept. Awakened, Hera pushed the child away and the spurting liquid created the milky way. l. 1360  Mole: mausoleum of Hadrian, now the Castel Sant’Angelo, a cylindrical building in Parco Adriano. Not modelled on the pyramids. ll. 1369–75  dome . . . Sophia’s: St Peter’s, papal church in Rome, compared with the temple of Diana (‘the Ephesian’s miracle’) that Byron in­accur­ate­ly thought he had seen at Ephesus in 1810 and Hagia Sophia, the most important Byzantine church, now a mosque in Istanbul. l. 1381  Zion’s desolation: Solomon’s temple, the First Temple of Jerusalem, was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar in 587/586 bce. It was replaced by the Second Temple, which was destroyed by the Romans after a rebellion in 70 ce. l. 1433  Laocoon: In Virgil Aeneid, book 2, the priest Laocoön warns the Trojans not to trust Greek gifts, after which he and his sons are attacked by serpents, as depicted in the famous ancient statue in Vatican’s Museo Pio-­Clementino (along with Apollo of st. 161). ll. 1441–2  Lord . . . light: Apollo, here referring to the Apollo Belvedere sculpture in the Vatican. l. 1468  Pilgrim: i.e. Harold, mentioned only here in the canto. l. 1494  fardels: burdens; see Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.i. ll. 1501–2  royal . . . grief: Princess Charlotte, daughter of the Prince Regent and presumptive heir, who died in childbirth in November 1817 after one year as wife of Leopold of Saxe-­Coburg (‘lonely lord’, l. 1519). l. 1519  Iris: messenger goddess, often represented by a rainbow. ll. 1536–7  strange fate . . . sovereigns: as B notes in manuscript: Mary died on the scaffold [1587]; Elizabeth of a broken heart [1603]; Charles V a hermit [1558]; Louis XIV a bankrupt in means and glory [1715]; Cromwell [1658] of anxiety; and, “the greatest is behind”, Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added of names equally illustrious and unhappy.

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notes to pages 402–409

l. 1549  Nemi: volcanic basin Lago di Nemi, just south of Rome and not far from Albano (st. 174). l. 1562  Arms . . . Man: opening words of Virgil’s Aeneid. ll. 1574–5  Calpe’s . . . Euxine: the limestone Penyal d’Ifac in Calpe, a town in Spain’s Costa Brava; Euxine references the Black Sea, whose clashing rocks (‘Symplegades’ of stanza 176) were said to resist ships. l. 1624  oak leviathans: great sailing ships. l. 1629  spoils of Trafalgar: as B notes in manuscript, ‘The Gale of wind which succeeded the battle of Trafalgar [1805] destroyed the greater part (if not all) of the prizes—­nineteen sail of the line—­taken on that memorable day’. To this, he adds of Trafalgar, [W]e dwell on this action, not because it was gained by Blucher or Wellington, but because it was lost by Buonaparte—­a man who, with all his vices and his faults, never yet found an adversary with a tithe of his talents (as far as the expression can apply to a conqueror) or his good intentions, his clemency or his fortitude. Look at his successors throughout Europe, whose imitation of the worst parts of his policy is only limit­ed by their comparative impotence, and their positive imbecility.

DON JUAN [I–II] (1819) B composed the first canto of Don Juan between July and September of 1818 while living at the Palazzo Mocenigo in Venice. He began the second canto in December, sending both to Murray from Venice at the start of April 1819. Murray published them on 15 July in a run of 1500 copies. Printed on thick paper in a large font, the edition was priced well out of reach of most consumers at £1 11s. 6d. Each page of this deluxe quarto edition contained only two stanzas surrounded by a virtual sea of white space. Soon thereafter, Murray printed a demy octavo edition (9s. 6d.) and then, in 1820, two smaller and cheaper editions (7s. and 5s.). Sales in 1819 were strong, but, with 300 copies of deluxe quarto remaining in September, not nearly as vigorous as Beppo—­nor did they match the wild commercial success of B’s earlier works, although this would change as the poem’s popularity gained momentum and sales increased for later cantos. The first edition of Don Juan ([John Murray], 1819) appeared without its dedication and, perhaps more notably, without the names of either its author or publisher. Murray and many of B’s friends deemed the material too controversial, in part for its aggressively anti-­Tory politics and frontal, ad hominem attacks on figures like the Foreign Secretary Viscount Castlereagh, but also because its frank depiction of sexuality, and especially of female desire, was perceived as an assault on contemporary sexual mores. When the first canto of the poem privately made the rounds of B’s London circle, it provoked doubts in Hobhouse, who, along with Kinnaird, Hookham Frere, Scrope Davies, and others, advised against publication as it stood and encouraged excisions. Objections turned on the perceived cruelty of B’s treatment of Donna Inez as a transparent stand-­in for Lady Byron and on what Hobhouse called ‘blasphemy &



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bawdry’. Murray suggested that sales numbers were hindered by B’s refusal to alter several stanzas. But refuse B did, though Murray resorted to asterisks to cover particularly offensive passages (reproduced here in this edition). Faced with the qualms and cautions of his publisher and close literary advisors, B was prompted to some of his more spirited prose in defence of Don Juan. ‘For my part I think you are all crazed’, he told Murray (BLJ, 6:125). B wrote jointly to Hobhouse and Kinnaird on 19 January 1819 to say that ‘Don Juan shall be an entire horse or none’, and that he would not ‘submit to have the poem mutilated’ (BLJ, 6:91). To Murray he declared, ‘You sha’n’t make Canticles of my Cantos. The poem will please if it is lively—­if it is stupid it will fail—­but I will have none of your damned cutting & slashing’ (BLJ, 6:105). More poignantly, he asked ‘you have so many “divine” poems, is it nothing to have written a Human one?’ The reaction of the press was as Murray predicted. The reviewer for Blackwood’s (August 1819) called Don Juan a ‘thorough and intense infusion of genius and vice—­power and profligacy’, one in which the author is ‘Impiously railing against his God—­madly and meanly disloyal to his Sovereign and his country—­and brutally outraging all the best feelings of family ­honour, affection, and confidence’. According to the reviewer, Don Juan reveals B’s ‘calm careless ferociousness of contented and satisfied depravity’. These cantos of Don Juan jolt, sometimes ferociously, between levity, horror, and romance, but this, for B, served to ‘heighten the fun’ while exposing the contradictions of human experience. Or, as he put it in the poem itself, ‘if a writer should be quite consistent/ How could he possibly show things existent?’ (DJ XV, st. 87). Its first Canto describes Juan’s upbringing by Donna Inez, his prudish but hypocritical mother (based in part on Lady Byron), and his subsequent affair with the married Donna Julia. In Canto II, Juan, fleeing from Julia’s husband, sets sail with his tutor only to suffer shipwreck and scenes of cannibalism, an account taken in part from his grandfather John Byron’s experiences at sea. After witnessing the deaths of his shipmates, Juan washes up (like Odysseus) on an idyllic island where he is nursed and loved by the young Greek island princess, Haidee. To Juan’s adventures, B attaches ironic commentary on human follies and contemporary politics and poetry, largely through the narrator’s garrulous digressions and virtuoso rhymes. B’s confidence in the ottava rima form (stanzas of eight lines, using two alternate rhymes and a closing couplet: abababcc) is a triumph in its own right and the source of much of the poem’s contained force and outright comedy, especially in the perfection of polysyllabic ‘feminine’ rhymes (rhyme words ending in unstressed syllables) and hudibrastic rhyming (where a single word is rhymed with a trio, with ‘intellectual / hen-­peck’d you all’ being perhaps the most famous example). Add to this the colloquial diction and worldly-­wise humour of the narrator’s digressions, which include sharp turns to satire, and the result was the first instalment of what would become B’s undisputed masterpiece.

Canto I p. 409  Difficile . . . dicere: ‘’Tis no slight task to write on common things’ (Lat.), Horace, Ars Poetica 128 (B’s translation, CPW, 1:296).

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notes to pages 409–416

ll. 9–10  Vernon . . . Howe: catalogue of British military heroes, followed by a similar list of French leaders and revolutionaries, who would have been covered in the newspapers (‘Moniteur and Courier’) in sts. 1–4. ll. 13–14  Banquo’s . . . nine farrow: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV.i.126ff. l. 25  Nelson: Horatio, Lord Nelson (1785–1805), British naval hero who defeated Napoleon’s forces and died at the Battle of Trafalgar (1805). The names in the stanza’s final line are all British admirals, hence slighted by the Prince Regent’s preference for the army (‘land service’). l. 28  inurn’d: Cf. Shakespeare, Hamlet, I.iv.52. l. 41  in medias res: ‘in the middle of things’ (Lat.), the appropriate starting point for an epic poem, according to Horace in the Ars Poetica. l. 60  proverb: ‘Quien no ha visto Sevilla / No ha visto maravilla’ (‘Who has not seen Seville has not seen a wonder’, Span.). l. 66  Hidalgo: member of Spanish nobility. Don is an honorific form of address in Spain. l. 82  Calderon . . . Lopé: Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681) and Lopé de Vega (1562– 1635), classical Spanish dramatists. l. 85  Feinagle: Gregor von Feinaigle (1780–1819), a German monk known for his techniques of memorization. l. 89  Her . . . mathematical: reference to B’s wife, a skilled mathematician of whom Inez is clearly a caricature. l. 91  Attic: classically Greek and thus elevated or refined. ll. 111–12  Hebrew noun . . . d—­n: Yahweh, meaning ‘God’ (Heb.). See Exodus 3:13–14. ll. 113–20  The asterisks here were used to censor st. 15 in the first edition: Some women use their tongues—­she look’d a lecture,   Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, An all-­in-­all sufficient self-­director, 115   Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, The Law’s expounder, and the State’s corrector,   Whose suicide was almost an anomaly— One sad example more, that “All is vanity”,— (The jury brought their verdict in “Insanity”). 120 [l. 116]  Sir Samuel Romilly (1757–1818) was a British politician who earned B’s enmity by representing Lady Byron in the separation proceedings. He had recently committed suicide following the death of his wife. [l. 119]  All is vanity: Ecclesiastes 1:2. l. 122  Miss Edgeworth: novelist Maria Edgeworth (1767–1849). l. 123  Mrs. Trimmer: educational pamphleteer Sarah Trimmer (1741–1810). l. 124  Cœlebs’ Wife: Coeleb’s in Search of a Wife (1809), a novel by conservative Hannah More; like Edgeworth and Trimmer, More was a staunch moralist. l. 127  female . . . fall: Alexander Pope, Rape of the Lock, Canto II, l. 17. l. 134  Harrison: John Harrison (1693–1776), a heralded British horologist. l. 165  brain . . . fan: Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, II.iii.19. l. 237  malus animus: ill intent, fraud (Lat.).



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ll. 247–8  resurrection . . . dissection: allusion to ‘resurrection men’, who stole corpses and sold them for anatomy lessons. l. 271  tertian: a fever that recurs every other day. l. 279 Numa’s . . . Pompilius: successor of Romulus, legendary Roman lawgiver (753–673 bce). See CHP IV, sts. 114–18. l. 288  Doctors’ Commons: divorce court, in England (not Spain); one of many references to B’s autobiography. l. 289  intestate: without a will. l. 290  chancery: Chancery was the court that adjudicated wills and estates (messuages). l. 300  Castile . . . Arragon: ancient Iberian kingdoms and seats of Spanish nobility. ll. 329–33  Ovid’s . . . Longinus: Ovid (43 bce–17 ce), Anacreon (c.582–c.485 bce), and Catullus (c.84–c.54 bce) are classical authors known for erotic poetry, as is the Greek poet Sappho, whose ‘Ode to Aphrodite’ was praised by Longinus. l. 336  Formosum . . . Corydon: Virgil’s homoerotic second eclogue begins, with the longing of the shepherd Corydon (‘pastor Corydon’) for pretty (‘formosum’) Alexis. ll. 337–44  Lucretius’  . . . Martial: another catalogue of classical authors, this time referring to Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura, Juvenal’s satires on Roman corruption, and Martial’s epigrams. l. 371  Jerome . . . Chrysostom: St Jerome (348–420 ce) and St Chrysostom (345–407 ce), early Church fathers. l. 375 Augustine . . . Confessions: St Augustine of Hippo (345–430 ce), whose Confessions tell of early sensual indulgence before his conversion to Christianity. l. 385  wax’d . . . grace: echoing Luke 2:40. l. 420  Verbum sat: ‘A word to the wise is enough’ (‘Verbum sat sapienti est’, Lat.). l. 439  zone . . . Cupid: Venus’s girdle (‘zone’) and Cupid’s bow were characteristic attributes that produce passionate love. l. 442  Moorish: The Moors were African Muslims who controlled much of Spain for centuries. When their conquered king Muhammad XII (‘Boabdil’) looked on Grenada for the last time in 1492, he wept (l. 446). l. 494  mi . . . mente: comes to mind (It.). l. 508  snow . . . St. Anthony: Though originally printed as St Anthony, B corrected this in proofs to St Francis, of Assisi (1181–1226), who kept lustful thoughts away by rolling in, and creating a wife of, snow. We keep the original but note the mistake here. See also DJ VI, st. 17. l. 567  Armida: Saracen sorceress who seduces the hero Rinaldo in Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered (1575). l. 598 Tarquin: tyrannical kings of ancient Rome, noted for their cruelty. Cf. Shakespeare’s Rape of Lucrece. l. 650  mail of proof: strong armour. l. 652  mole: a great mass or large stone structure. ll. 670–1  inter nos . . . entre nous: just between us (in Lat. and Fr.). l. 684 Medea: classical heroine known for her violent passions. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses, book 7. l. 754  Boscan, or Garcilasso: Juan Boscán Almogáver (c.1490–1542) and Garcilaso de la Vega (c.1501–1536), Spanish poets who often wrote of love.

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notes to pages 434–445

l. 824  post-­obits: debts paid after death; here, punishments and rewards in the afterlife. See also DJ I, st. 125. l. 828  houri: a maiden in the Muslim paradise. l. 829  Moore: Thomas ‘Anacreon’ Moore (1779–1852), B’s close friend and popular poet, author of Lalla Rookh (1817), an epic poem of Mughal-­Islamic romance. l. 864  Louis: French coin, the louis d’or. l. 937  Xerxes: King of Persia (519–465 bce). See also DJ II, st. 180. l. 959  Aristotle . . . Rules: in his Poetics (c.335 bce), Aristotle sets out the rules of epic poetry. l. 999  Israelites: moneylenders. l. 1016  Prometheus: hero of Greek myth punished for giving fire to mankind. ll. 1029–30  vaccination . . . rockets: Dr Edward Jenner (1749–1823) introduced the smallpox vaccination, derived from cowpox; Sir William Congreve (1772–1828) designed a military rocket. [ll. 1031–2]  The last two lines of sts. 129–30, along with all of st. 131 (see notes to ll. 1039–40 and 1141–8 below), were censored and replaced by asterisks in the first edition, and not restored until 1832. The cancelled lines here are ‘With which the ­doctor paid off an old pox / By borrowing a new one from an ox’. l. 1034  galvanism: Luigi Galvani (1737–1798) showed that muscles contract when stimulated by electricity. l. 1036  Humane Society: the Royal Humane Society (founded 1774) to promote artificial respiration and the resuscitation of the drowned. [ll. 1039–40]  Asterisks were used in the first edition to censor these lines, which were not restored until 1832: ‘I said the small-­pox has gone out of late, / Perhaps it may be followed by the great’. Another name for syphilis is the ‘great pox’. [ll. 1141–8]  St. 131: Asterisks were used in the first edition to censor these lines: ’Tis said the great came from America,   Perhaps it may set out on its return; The population there so spreads, they say,   ’Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 1145   So that civilization they may learn, And which in ravage the more loathesome evil is, Their real lues, or our pseudo-­syphilis. [l. 1148]  lues: Latin for syphillis (lues venera). The disease was popularly believed to have been brought to Europe from America by Columbus. l. 1052  Davy’s lantern: Sir Humphrey Davy (1778–1829) invented a miner’s safety lamp in 1815. l. 1102  encumber: To commit adultery is to place symbolic horns on the head of the cuckolded husband. l. 1110  levee: daily ceremony of reception held in the bedchamber of royalty or distinguished citizens. l. 1177  Cortejo: a publicly acknowledged lover of a married lady (Span.), like the Italian cavalier servente.



notes to pages 445–461

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ll. 1185, 1187  Cazzani; Corniani: vulgar Italian puns on cazzo (‘prick’) and cornuto (‘horned’ or ‘cuckolded’). ll. 1268–70  myrmidons . . . Achates: mock-­epic references to Achilles’s troops (myrmidons) and Aeneas’s faithful companion (Achates). l. 1294  Job: Biblical reference to Job’s wife, who scolds him (Job 2:6–10). l. 1305  posse comitatus: power of the country (Lat.); a group empowered to enforce the law of the land. l. 1328  Clarence . . . Malmsey butt: See Shakespeare, Richard III, I.iv. l. 1338  Hebrew Chronicle: Biblical reference to the elderly King David (1 Kings 1), who was sent a young maiden to warm him up. l. 1340  blister: medical treatment. l. 1471  Tartar: Mongol warrior; byword for ferocity. l. 1487  Joseph: Biblical allusion to Joseph and Potiphar’s wife. See Genesis 39:11–19. l. 1508  nonsuit . . . annul: two legal outcomes, the withdrawal of the plaintiff or the voiding of the case. l. 1511  Gurney: William Gurney (1777–1855), famous English shorthand reporter. ll. 1513–84  Sts. 190–8: As McGann notes in his commentary to CPW, ‘The text of Canto I, sts. 190–98, remains corrupt through all received editions’, because Murrray mislaid B’s initial proof corrections (CPW, 5:666). The most significant difference was the transposition of sts. 195–6, not corrected until CPW. However, in keeping with our editorial preference for B’s early editions, we return these stanzas to their initial ordering and follow throughout the text of the first edition. l. 1516  Vandals: a Germanic tribe that overran much of the Mediterranean world in the fifth century ce. l. 1582  Elle . . . partout: ‘She follows you everywhere’ (Fr.). B owned a seal with this motto. l. 1603  vade mecum: literally, ‘go with me’ (Lat.), a guidebook of useful knowledge; Aristotle, see note to l. 959 above. l. 1631  Longinus: ancient Greek rhetorician (c.213–273 ce) and author of On the Sublime. See note to ll. 329–33 above. ll. 1633–48  Sts. 205–6: In these stanzas, B pits contemporary poets against Milton, Dryden, and Pope. l. 1638  Hippocrene: legendary spring on Mt Helicon, sacred to the muses; drouthy: dry. l. 1643  the Blues: Bluestockings, a nickname for intellectual women, including B’s wife, Annabella. l. 1672  British: The conservative British Review attacked the immorality of Don Juan, and denied this imputation of bribery, which was B’s joke. l. 1681  new alliance: allusion to the Holy Alliance of Russia, Prussia, and Austria, formed in 1815; with a pun on ‘wholly’. ll. 1689–90  Non . . . Planco: ‘I would not have born such things in my hot youth, when Plancus was Consul’ (Lat.), Horace, Odes, 3.14. B translates the lines at the end of the stanza. l. 1693  Brenta: river near Venice, where B was living and writing the poem.

1068

notes to pages 461–471

l. 1696  George III: George III was still technically the king, but his son had ruled as Regent since 1811. l. 1699  peruke: decorative wig. l. 1733  brazen head: alluding to a scene from Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay by Robert Greene (1558–1592). l. 1734  chymic: alchemical, magical. l. 1746  Cheops: Khufu, Egyptian pharaoh (twenty-­sixth century bce) who built the Great Pyramid of Giza. l. 1756  flesh . . . grass: Isaiah 40:6 and 1 Peter 1:24. ll. 1769–72  Go, little . . . days: quote from Robert Southey’s ‘L’Envoy’ to The Lay of the Laureate (1816).

Byron’s Notes to Canto I l. 33n1  Vixere . . . Agamemnona: B references Horace, Odes, 4.9.25. l. 136n2  Macassar: The reference is to Macassar hair oil, a beauty product. ll. 333–4n3 Longinus: ‘She [Sappho] intends to display not one passion, but a whole congress of them’. B is quoting On the Sublime. l. 351n4  such an edition: The reference is to Vincent Collesso’s edition (1701), which B owned. l. 701n5  Campbell’s Gertrude of Wyoming: Thomas Campbell (1777–1884) published the poem in 1809; the quotation is at 3.1–4. ll. 1183–4n6  Count O’Reilly: Alexander O’Reilly (1722–1794) was a mili­tary leader and governor for Spain. l. 1721n7  Me nec . . . floribus: quoting Horace, Odes 4.1.29–32: ‘Now neither woman nor boy, nor silly hopes of mutual intimacy, nor drinking, nor binding my brow with flowers can please me any longer’.

Canto II l. 36  Peru . . . rebel: The Peruvian War of Independence stretched from the Spanish reconquest in 1811 to the defeat of the Spanish armies in 1824 and the final surrender in 1826. l. 56  Fazzioli: headscarves worn by Venetian women of the lower orders. See BLJ, 6:17. l. 64  dove: Genesis 8:8–12, where the return of a dove carrying an olive leaf signals the flood’s end to Noah. ll. 79–80  the great . . . generation: This couplet was added in the proof stage after a marginal quarrel with Hobhouse over a different rhyme involving urine. ll. 121–2  So . . . Sion: Babel, Babylon; Sion, Jerusalem. See Psalm 137 and B’s, ‘By the Rivers of Babylon . . .’ in HM. l. 131  Sweets to the sweet: See Shakespeare, Hamlet, V.i. l. 141  Guadalquivir: river running through Seville. l. 172  quinsy: tonsillitis. l. 186  Leghorn: British name for Italian port city Livorno.



notes to pages 471–498

1069

l. 194  licentiate: holder of a professional qualification or university degree. l. 229  tars: sailors. ll. 250–3  mast . . . bowsprit: On a sailing ship, the foremast sits in front of the mainmast, and the miz[z]en behind; the bowsprit is a spar extending from the vessel’s front or bow. l. 296  Sancho Panca: Sancho Panza, Don Quixote’s faithful sidekick. l. 312  Gulf of Lyons: the Gulf of Lion, a large bay in the western Mediterranean. l. 360  lee: the leeward side of a ship is more protected from the wind, but lower to the water and thus able to be pushed under by a strong wind. l. 368  cutter: small boat designed for speed, typically with a single mast. l. 376  puncheon: cask. l. 377  yawl . . . pinnace: yawl, two-­masted sailboat; pinnace, small boat with sails or oars. ll. 388–91  Of one . . . Fear: In a letter to Murray (8 November 1819) B revised these lines to read: ‘Of one whose hate is masked but to assail; / Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown/ And grimly darled o’er their faces pale, / And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had Fear’. l. 448  aqua-­vita: liquor. l. 502  tertian: malarial fever that recurs every second day. l. 510  shears of Atropos: the oldest of the Three Fates in Greek myth­ology, known for cutting the thread of life. l. 528  Argo: ship Jason used to seek the Golden Fleece. ll. 647–8  small . . . ladies: e.g., syphilis. l. 655  two boobies . . . noddy: booby and noddy are both seabirds. l. 658 Ugolino: In Dante’s Inferno, Cantos 32–3, Ugolino (1220–1289) is seen gnawing the head of another sinner, Archbishop Ruggieri (1271–1295). l. 672  Truth is—­in a well: saying attributed to Greek philosopher Democritus. l. 736  muffle: boxing glove. l. 745  bird: Cf. Coleridge’s albatross in ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. ll. 799–800  Mount Ætna . . . islands: Mount Etna is an active volcano in Sicily; the next three are all Greek islands. l. 803  Charon: ferryman of Hades in Greek myth. ll. 839–40  As . . . did: On 3 May 1810, B swam across the Hellespont, which connects the Aegean Sea to the Sea of Marmora (separating Europe from Asia) in Turkey. See ‘Written After Swimming from Sestos to Abydos’ (p. 130). l. 890  methought: likely a typo, corrected to ‘he thought’ in 1832. l. 959  basquina . . . mantilla: a type of folded skirt and light headscarf used in Spain. See Goya’s painting, Young Lady Wearing a Mantilla and Basquina (c.1800/1805). l. 984  Achilles . . . comers: Iliad, book 9. l. 1000  piastres: a coin of large denomination in Spain and low de­nom­in­ation in Ottoman Turkey. ll. 1001–2  fisher . . . Apostle: Matthew 4:18–19. l. 1037  νοῦς: mind; understanding (Gk. pronunciation: ‘noos’). l. 1048  St. Paul . . . given: 1 Corinthians 13:1–13. l. 1057  pelisse: ankle-­length woman’s coat, often fur-­lined.

1070

notes to pages 499–518

l. 1096  grand-­dad’s Narrative: A Narrative of the Honourable John Byron . . . ­containing an account of the great distresses suffered by himself and his companions . . . from the year 1740, till . . . 1746 (1768). l. 1132  Aurora: Roman goddess of dawn. l. 1160  Scio: Italian name for Greek island Chios. l. 1199  Ionian: The Ionian islands were colonized by the Greeks off the Western coast of Asia Minor, present-­day Turkey. ll. 1234–40  Minotaur . . . battle: In Greek mythology, Queen Pasiphae, wife of Crete’s king Minos, falls for a bull. Their offspring, the Minotaur, is half-­man, half-­bull. l. 1288  Romaic: vernacular language of modern Greece. ll. 1317–18  Barrow . . . Blair: Isaac Barrow (1630–1677), Robert South ­(1634–1716), John Tillotson (1630–1694), all English preachers and churchmen; Hugh Blair (1718–1800), Scottish minister and author of Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres (1783). l. 1323  dogs . . . day: Shakespeare, Hamlet, V.i. ll. 1351–2 Ceres . . . Venus: the gods of grain (Ceres), wine (Bacchus), and love (Venus) in Roman mythology; a rough translation of Terence, The Eunuch, l. 748: ‘Sine Cerere et Libero frigit Venus’ (Lat.). Cf. DJ XVI, st. 86. l. 1360  Neptune . . . Jove: mythological gods reigning over sea, earth, and the heavens. ll. 1390–2 merchantmen . . . Scio: a reference to piracy. Io, beloved of Zeus, was according to Persian myth carried off by Phoenician sailors. Ragusa, Italian name for present-­day Dubrovnic. l. 1440  hock: sweet Rhine wine. l. 1542  Stygian river: Styx, river at border of the underworld. l. 1608 novel: Lady Caroline Lamb’s Glenarvon (1816), a roman à clef with a Byronic protagonist. l. 1624 Castlereagh: Robert Stewart, 2nd Marquess of Londonderry, known as Viscount Castlereagh (1769–1822), Foreign Secretary and eventual leader of the House of Commons. ll. 1633–40 Oh . . . devil: This catalogue of classical love refers to Caesar as the suitor of young Cleopatra, Titus as mastering his love for Berenice, the wife of Herod, and Antony as the slave to Cleopatra. The four poets from Horace to Sappho are all known for love lyrics. Sappho reportedly killed herself for love on the island of Leucadia. In the next stanza, the wives of all four from Caesar to Belisarius were thought unfaithful. ll. 1649–50 Epicurus . . . Aristippus: Both Epicurus (third century bce) and Aristippus (fourth century bce) held pleasure and material existence as the focus of a good life. l. 1656  Sardanapalus: king of Assyria in the ninth century bce, was a notorious voluptuary and the subject of an 1821 drama by B. l. 1662  Palpitation: B wrote to Murray to correct this to ‘Strong palpitation’, which better fits the metre, and the word was restored in editions of 1820 and 1822, though the 1832 Murray edition again omits ‘Strong’. l. 1713  lazaret: lazaretto, literally a quarantine building (It.).



notes to pages 520–525

1071

LETTER TO JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE AND DOUGLAS KINNAIRD, 19 JANUARY 1819 John Cam Hobhouse (1786–1869), since their meeting at Cambridge in 1807, B’s lifelong friend with whom he travelled during most of his Eastern tour from 1809 to 1811; Douglas Kinnaird (1788–1830) also met B at Cambridge, but the friendship blossomed later. After B left England in 1816, Kinnaird became his banker. p. 520  Castlereagh . . . Entendre: in the ‘Dedication’ to Don Juan I–II, B abuses the British foreign minister and makes bawdy fun of Robert Southey (see pp. 1010–14). p. 520  De Breme: Ludovico Di Breme (1780–1820), Italian journalist. p. 520  Count R[izzo]: Count Francesco Rizzo-­Patarol, a Venetian aristocrat and man of letters who loved gossip and intrigue, one source for the character of the Count in Beppo. p. 520  Monti: Vincenzo Monti (1754–1828), Italian poet and man of letters. p. 520 Countess Benzone’s: Marina Querini Benzon (1757–1839), who hosted a fashionable salon, or conversazione, at her palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice, a five-­minute walk from B’s residence. p. 521  cum multis aliis: ‘and many others’ (Lat.) p. 521  Ladro . . . porco fottuto: ‘thief ’, ‘fucking pig’ (It.) p. 521  for . . . Night cometh: John 9:4. p. 521  Fornaretta: B’s nickname (along with ‘Fornarina’, meaning ‘little oven’) for Margarita Cogni, a baker’s wife and mistress to B in Venice in 1818. p. 521  P.S.  . . . Concubinage: written on a separate sheet, this postscript possibly belongs to a different letter of the same period.

LETTER TO AUGUSTA LEIGH, 17 MAY 1819 Augusta Leigh (1783–1851) was B’s half-­sister, the daughter of the poet’s father by his first marriage. She and B had developed a sexual relationship during his years of fame in Regency London. p. 522 Francesca . . . Paolo: The story of Francesca’s adulterous affair with her brother-­in-­law Paolo is told in Dante’s Inferno, Canto V.

LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, 7 JUNE 1819 p. 524  Martini . . . quiete: ‘Martini Luigi begs for peace’; ‘Lucrezia Picini begs for eternal rest’. p. 525  pickling . . . Blunderbuss Hall: Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The Rivals (1775), V.iii. p. 525  Against black pagans: Shakespeare, Richard II, IV.i. p. 525  Allegra: Clara Allegra Byron (1817–1822), B’s daughter by Claire Claremont who was being cared for by Richard Hoppner, the British Consul in Venice, and his wife.

1072

notes to pages 525–533

p. 525  moral Clytemnestra: one of B’s nasty sobriquets for Lady Byron. As depicted in Aeschylus’s Oresteia trilogy, Clytemnestra was the wife of Agamemnon who murdered him upon his return from the Trojan war. Elektra and Orestes were their two children. p. 525 Romilly: Sir Samuel Romilly (1757–1818), British lawyer and politician engaged by Lady Byron’s family in their divorce proceedings. Romilly committed suicide by cutting his own throat two days after the death of his wife.

LETTER TO DOUGLAS KINNAIRD, 26 OCTOBER 1819 p. 527  Garretting: a room granted as a privilege to Members of Parliament. p. 528  M.S.: a reference to B’s Memoirs, the manuscript of which Moore brought back to England and sold to John Murray. After B’s death and over the objections of Moore, the Memoirs were burned at the instigation of Hobhouse, Murray, and others concerned for Byron’s reputation. p. 528  Christmas pye: royalties; B’s share of the pie. p. 528  Galignani’s messenger: an English-­language newspaper published in Paris.

LETTER TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 26 APRIL 1821 p. 529 child . . . temporary: a reference to B’s daughter (by Claire Claremont), Allegra, whom he had taken from the Hoppners and placed in an Italian convent on 1 March 1821. She would die there of illness just over a year later. p. 529  Keats: John Keats (1795–1821) had died of tuberculosis, not as a result of bad reviews, in Rome on 23 February. p. 529  Expect . . . thee: Johnson, ‘The Vanity of Human Wishes’ (1749): ‘Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, / Nor think the doom of man revers’d for thee’ (ll. 155–6). p. 529  Pope: Keats, ‘Sleep and Poetry’ (1817), ll. 181–206.

DON JUAN III–IV–V (1821) B began writing the third canto of Don Juan in Venice on 17 September 1819. As he added and revised through January 1820, he decided to split it into two, telling Murray that Cantos I and II were too long and he wished he had done the same with them (BLJ, 7:42). Murray sent proofs to B in Ravenna in April 1820, although both were uncertain about the quality of this sequel. In his narration of Juan’s idyllic and ultimately tragic love affair with Haidée, B was afraid that he had written something ‘damned modest’ and ‘dull’—which is to say, sentimental—­in reaction to the harsh criticisms the first two cantos had received (BLJ, 7:35; see Letter to Douglas Kinnaird, 26 October 1819, in this edition). Only after he had written Canto V, from 10 October to 26 December 1820, did things begin to move forward; but even then it wasn’t until



notes to pages 533–538

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8 August 1821 that Murray published Don Juan. Cantos III, IV, and V (John Murray, 1821). The book first appeared as a demy octavo (1500 copies) at nine shillings sixpence, and Murray later released it in smaller and cheaper formats (a crown and post octavo). As with Cantos I–II, neither B’s nor Murray’s name appeared on the title page. The epigraph from Horace was retained: ‘Difficile est proprie communia dicere’. ‘’Tis no slight task to write on common things’ (Lat.), Horace, Ars Poetica 128 (B’s translation, CPW, 1:296). B may have also intended an epigraph from Berni’s Orlando Inamorato (CPW, 5:159). Despite the misgivings of both author and publisher, these cantos had immediate critical and popular success, and were widely reviewed and pirated by other publishers. A reviewer in Blackwood’s, the magazine that had attacked the first instalment, said these cantos were ‘not quote so naughty as their predecessors’ (August 1821, p. 107) and generally praised their imaginative power (while calling the stanzas ‘slovenly’). Percy Shelley wrote soon after reading the fifth canto that ‘nothing has ever been written like it in English . . . every word of it is pregnant with immortality’. Cantos III–V of Don Juan emerged as B became more deeply involved with Italian society, culture, and politics, due in part to the progress of his relationship with Theresa Guiccioli. These cantos convey little of that directly, though they do reflect B’s increasingly anthropological view of human society and its moral codes. Borrowing from old Greek and Eastern romances, B conveys his hero from the opulent island home of Lambro to the slave market of Constantinople, to the palace and harem of the Turkish sultana Gulbeyaz. As he does so, he essentially rewrites the material of his brooding and melancholy Oriental tales from 1812 to 1815 in a largely comic register; although the death of Haidée is rendered with real pathos. B stepped away from Don Juan between July 1821 and the beginning of 1822, promising Theresa Guiccioli that he would discontinue the poem. According to B, her request arose ‘from the wish of all women to exalt the sentiment of the passions—& to keep up the illusion which is their empire.—Now D.J. strips off this illusion’ (BLJ, 8:148). These were the last cantos that B would publish with John Murray before their decisive break in 1822.

Canto III ll. 17–24  In her first . . . encumber: This stanza and the next draw upon the Réflexions ou Maximes Morales (1665) of La Rochefoucauld (1613–1680), nos. 73 and 471. l. 53  so nominated in the bond: Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, IV.i. ll. 63–4  Laura . . . life: Laura was the object of many love poems by Petrarch (1304– 1374). l. 88  mathematics: a joke on marriage at the expense of B’s wife, whom he called his mathematical Medea (BLJ, 11:197), and a reference to nu­mero­logic­al readings of Dante. l. 96 ’Tis dangerous . . . unlawful: Paolo and Francesca fall in love reading about Lancelot and Guinevere; cf. Dante’s Inferno, Canto 5 and Leigh Hunt’s The Story of Rimini (1816). l. 121  Cape Matapan: southernmost point of mainland Greece. l. 128  Dey: governor. ll. 157–8  hove . . . careen: turned on its side for cleaning.

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notes to pages 538–556

l. 184  Argus: faithful dog in Homer’s Odyssey. l. 190  cavalier servente: Italian phrase for lover of a married woman. l. 198  Hymen: god of marriage in Greek myth, symbolized by a bridal torch. ll. 231–2  Pyrrhic . . . partial: Pyrrhichios, warlike ancient Greek dance named after Pyrrhus, King of Epirus. l. 338  Bacchant: relating to Bacchus, ancient Roman god of wine. l. 376  Guelf: medieval Italian faction linked to the dukes of Bavaria who supported the Pope and not the Holy Roman Emperor. ll. 435–6  Golden Fleece . . . days: Searching for the Golden Fleece, Jason and the Argonauts sailed to Colchis. l. 455  milk of human kindness: Shakespeare, Macbeth, I.v. l. 472  stone: gallstone or kidney stone. ll. 516–20  Memphian . . . pleasure: related to Memphis, city in ancient Egypt; on the prophecy of destruction at King Belshazzar’s feast, see Daniel 5 and Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast (1635). l. 558  jelick: Turkish bodice or vest. l. 559  baracan: thick woollen garment. l. 583  Zephyr: a soft west wind. l. 589  Psyche: bride of Cupid in classical myth. l. 608  To gild . . . lily: Shakespeare, King John, IV.ii. l. 618  a poet: The poet described in sts. 78–86 is a composite portrait of Robert Southey (1774–1843; the poet laureate whom B loathed) and B himself. l. 624  inditing a good matter: Psalm 45:1. l. 632  Crashaw: Richard Crashaw (1613–1649), English metaphysical poet. l. 642  Vates irritabilis: irritable genius; Horace, Epistles, 2.2.102–5. l. 649  trimmer: one who equivocates between two sides in politics. l. 676  Ca ira: Ça ira was the patriotic hymn of the French Revolution. l. 680  Pindar: ancient Greek lyric poet active in fifth-century bce. l. 686 de Staël: Madame de Staël (1766–1817), prominent French author who praised Johann Wolfgang von Goethe as ‘representing the entire literature of Germany’ in De l’Allemagne (1810). l. 687  Trecentisti: fourteenth-­century Italian writers, such as Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. l. 690  Sappho: seventh-­century bce Greek female love poet. l. 692 Delos . . . Phœbus: Delos, island in the Cyclades raised from the sea by Poseidon and the birthplace of Apollo. l. 695  Scian . . . Teian muse: Homer, epitome of epic/heroic verse, was born at Chios (It.: Scio) and Anacreon, epitome of love poetry, at Teos. ll. 701–2  Marathon: in 490 bce site of Greek victory over the Persians, a precursor to their ultimate defeat at Salamis in 480 bce. l. 730  Thermopylæ: famous battle in 480 bce, where 300 Spartans died fighting a much larger Persian force. l. 738  Samian: from Samos, ruled by tyrant Polycrates and home of Anacreon. ll. 743–4  Pyrrhic dance . . . phalanx: the Pyrrichios is a Greek dance, and the Pyrrhic phalanx is a tightly massed military formation; cf. l. 231.



notes to pages 556–561

1075

l. 747  Cadmus: Phoenician prince said to have given the Greeks their alphabet. ll. 755–7  Chersonese . . . Miltiades: Miltiades, tyrant of Greek colony Chersonesus, who led the Greeks at Marathon. ll. 762–6  Suli’s rock . . . own: B understood the Suliotes, who governed the Albanian towns of Souli and Parga, as descendants of Hercules (‘Heracleidan’) and the Doric Spartans. l. 779  Sunium: Cape Sunion (also Cape Colonna), southernmost tip of the Attic peninsula. l. 787  Orpheus: poet and musician of Greek legend. l. 792  hands of dyers: Shakespeare, Sonnet 111. l. 813  Hoyle: Edmund Hoyle, A Short Treatise on Whist (1742). l. 816  Coxe: William Coxe, Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough (1818–1819). ll. 817–24  Milton . . . left his house: The stanza reports episodes from Johnson’s Life of Milton (1779). l. 822  the Nine: the Muses. ll. 826–9 Shakspeare’s . . . Cromwell’s pranks: the dishonourable deeds of famous men as reported by their biographers, including Dr James Currie, editor of Robert Burns’s works in four volumes (1800). ll. 833–40  Southey . . . Bath: B points out the early radicalism of the now-­conservative Lake School poets, mocking Southey and Coleridge’s marriage to sisters Sarah and Edith Fricker (mistakenly identified as milliners), their planned utopian community (‘Pantisocracy’), and Wordsworth’s early poetry before his government sinecure. l. 842  Botany Bay: Australian penal colony. l. 847  Excursion: a long narrative poem by Wordsworth (1814); cf. ‘Dedication to Don Juan [I–II]’, st. 4 (pp. 1010–11). l. 852  Joanna Southcote’s Shiloh: Southcott (1750–1814), fanatical religious prophetess who, at sixty-­four, claimed she was pregnant with the new messiah, Shiloh of Genesis. This may have been due to internal swelling (‘dropsies’). l. 865  longueurs: literally lengths (Fr.), but either a misprint or a pun on langeurs, tediousness. l. 871  épopée: epic (Fr.). l. 873  Horace: Ars Poetica, l. 359. l. 876  Waggoners: Wordsworth’s ‘The Waggoner’ (1819). l. 879  little boat: from Wordsworth’s ‘Peter Bell’ (1819). l. 883  Charles’s Wain: Ursa Major (the Great Bear), or the Big Dipper, was known in medieval times as Charles’s Wain, after Charlemagne. l. 884  Medea . . . dragon: in Euripides’s Medea (431 bce), the heroine escapes on a chariot drawn by dragons. ll. 889–96  Pedlars . . . Achitophel: The mocking of Wordsworth concludes here with an unfavourable comparison to John Dryden (1631–1700), author of Absalom and Achitophel (1681). Jack Cade led a popular revolt against Henry VI in 1450. l. 932  Adrian: Adriatic ocean. l. 933 last Cesarean: Roman emperor Honorius (‘the last Caesarian’) died in Ravenna in 423 ce.

1076

notes to pages 561–577

ll. 934–5  Boccaccio . . . Dryden: On Day 5 of the Decameron (c.1353), Boccaccio sets his tale, ‘Nastagio degli Onesti’, in Ravenna. Dryden adapted it as ‘Theodore and Honoria’ (1700). ll. 941–4  spectre huntsman . . . lover: In Boccaccio’s tale, a hellish vision of a woman pursued and slain by the hounds of her rejected suitor convinces a lady to accept Nastagio as a husband. l. 945  Hesperus: evening Star. l. 961  Nero: infamous Roman Emperor Nero committed suicide in 68 ce. ll. 974–5  wooden spoons . . . Cantabs: ‘Wooden spoons’ is a student name for those with lowest passing marks in mathematics at Cambridge University (Cantabs). l. 984  ποιητικης: Aristotle’s Poetics, section 24.

Byron’s Notes to Canto III l. 360n1  Rispone allor’  . . . gli crede: ‘Then Marguette replied, “Briefly, I don’t believe in either black or blue, but in a boiled or roasted capon, and sometimes in butter; in beer, and in new wine when I can get it—­more dry than sweet; above all, I have faith in good wine and believe that he who believes in it also shall be saved” ’ (Luigi Pulci, Morgante Maggiore (1483), XVIII, st. 151). l. 945n5  Εσπερε . . . παιδα: St. 107 is B’s translation of this fragment by Sappho. l. 953n6  Era gia l’ora . . . che si muore: ‘It was the hour that turns the hearts of sailors homeward, making them tenderly recall the day they said goodbye to dear friends—­ the poignant hour for the embarking traveller, when he hears a far-­off bell that seems to mourn the dying day’ (Dante, Purgatorio, Canto VIII). The first line of Thomas Gray’s ‘Elegy’ (1751) is ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day’. l. 965n7  Suetonius (c.66–c.122 ce), Lives of the Caesars, sec. 57.

Canto IV ll. 21–2  falls . . . Leaf: Shakespeare, Macbeth, V.iii. l. 29  Lethe: river of forgetfulness. l. 31  Styx: In Greek myth, the earth and the underworld are separated by the river Styx, in which the nymph Thetis dipped her infant son Achilles, making him invulnerable. l. 43  Pulci: Luigi Pulci (1432–1484), whose mock-­heroic work Morgante Maggiore (1483) provided B with a model for Don Juan. l. 135  Hymen’s torch: Hymen, god of marriage in Greek myth, symbolized by a bridal torch. l. 328  more Irish: more accustomed and less sensitive; a derogatory usage. l. 376  Frank: synonym for European. l. 398  galliots: small fishing vessels. l. 411  Cassandra: mythological Greek prophetess cursed to speak truth that no one believed. l. 414  Bohea: slang for tea. l. 418  Naïad . . . Phlegethontic: Naïad, a mythological nymph presiding over fountains and fresh water; Phlegethon was the river of fire in Hades.



notes to pages 577–592

1077

l. 421  rack: (1) punch made with arrack and (2) instrument of physical torture. l. 431  Fez: north African city in present-­day Morocco. l. 456  Simoom: hot and destructive desert wind. ll. 484–6  Venus . . . Gladiator: three famous classical statues: the Venus de Medici (now in Florence); the Laocoön; and the Dying Gaul (both now in Rome). See CHP IV, st. 140. l. 593  cabin’d, cribb’d, confined: Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.iv. ll. 598–600  Ilion . . . Cape Sigæum: Ilion, pre-­classical city of Troy, thought to be on the shore of the Hellespont, the waterway running from the Aegean to the Sea of Marmara, with Cape Sigaeum at its southern approach. l. 604  Bryant: Jacob Bryant (1715–1804), whose Dissertation concerning the war of Troy (1796) denied Homer’s historical veracity. l. 607  Patroclus . . . Protesilaus: heroic warriors in Homer’s Iliad. l. 619  Paris: Paris’s elopement with Helen, Queen of Sparta, started the Trojan War. l. 624  Phrygian: from Phrygia, the countryside around Troy. l. 641  buffo: the comic bass singer in an opera troupe. l. 652  Corpo . . . Mario: an Italian oath, ‘By the body of Cauis Marius’. l. 654  scudo of salario: without a penny for payment. ll. 669–70: zecchini . . . paul: zecchino, a gold Italian coin; paul, a coin of lesser value. l. 673  figuranti: ballet dancers. l. 682  Musico: castrato soprano, a male whose testicles have been removed before puberty in order to achieve a classical singing voice, and hence of the ‘third sex’ (l. 688). l. 722  firmān: permission to travel in Ottoman empire. l. 736  Bacchante: attractive female follower of Bacchus, Greek god of wine. l. 744  Arcades . . . est: ‘both from Arcady, that is’, a reference to Virgil’s seventh Eclogue and homosexuality. ll. 745–6  Romagnole . . . Ancona: from Romagna, the area around Ravenna, where Ancona is a seaport. ll. 765–6  can . . . Caucasus: Shakespeare, Richard II, I.iii. ll. 775–6  Through needles’  . . . pass: Matthew 19:24. l. 779  Smollett . . . Fielding: earlier writers of bawdy literary works. l. 832  Pelides: Achilles. l. 858  ceruleans of the second sex: bluestockings, a mocking term for women of letters. ll. 861–2  cooks . . . wrecks: a reference to wrapping pies, or Cornish pas­ties, with remaindered books and failed poems (‘Parnassian wrecks’). l. 864  Castalian tea: Castaly is the spring of the Muses on Mount Parnassus. l. 866  foolscap, hot-­press: papermaking terms, referring to the size and finish of the sheets. l. 868  Yorick’s starling: from Lawrence Sterne, A Sentimental Journey (1768). ll. 869–72  Wordy . . . coterie: Wordsworth complained in his Essay, Supplementary to the Preface (1815) that popularity, especially as voiced by a small but loud group of critics, was a false measure of greatness. ll. 873–4  darkly . . . sky: Robert Southey, Madoc of Wales (1805), I, st. V. l. 889  Humboldt: Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859), German traveller and naturalist.

1078

notes to pages 592–602

ll. 893–5  instrument . . . blue: the cyanometer, invented by H.-B. de Saussure in 1789 and used extensively by Humboldt in his explorations of South America. l. 915  Wilberforce: William Wilberforce (1759–1833), prominent anti-­slavery activist. l. 936  Ossian . . . Duan: Ossian, narrator of James MacPherson’s (1739–1796) pair of epic poems, falsely claimed to be translations from original Gaelic; Duan, Ossianic word for song interrupted by episodes.

Byron’s Notes to Canto IV l. 89n1  Herodotus, the Solon episode, Histories, book 1. l. 465n2  mourut . . . poitrine: ‘suddenly bled to death from a burst vein in his chest’ (Fr.). J.  C.  L.  de Sismondi (1773–1842), A History of the Italian Republics (1807– 1818); Pierre A. N. Bruno, Count Daru (1767–1829), History of the Republic of Venice, 7 vols. (1819). l. 824n5 Gaston de Foix (1489–1512), precocious French military commander known as ‘The Thunderbolt of Italy’. He died at age twenty-­one fighting the Holy League in the Battle of Ravenna.

Canto V ll. 6–7 Ovid’s . . . Petrarch’s: love poets whom B facetiously blames for seducing readers. l. 19  a seventy-­four: large naval warship with seventy-­four guns. l. 20  Sophia’s cupola: the Hagia Sophia, originally a Byzantine Greek Orthodox basilica, converted to the principal mosque of Constantinople (now Istanbul) by the Turks. l. 24  Mary Montagu: Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762), author of popular Letters, written while she lived in Turkey from 1716 to 1718. l. 25  Mary: referring to B’s childhood loves, Mary Chaworth (1785–1832) and, to a lesser extent, Mary Duff (1788–1858). ll. 33–4  the Euxine . . . Symplegades: The Euxine is the Black Sea, connected by the Bosphorus Strait to the Sea of Marmara. The Symplegades are islands, called the ‘wandering rocks’ in Classical myth. l. 43  Parcæ: the Fates or Destinies in Classical myth. ll. 119–20 Suwarrow’s . . . Widin: Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov (1729–1800), Russian military commander who led the siege of Ismail against the Turks in 1790 (see DJ VII–VIII). Widin, a Bulgarian town that Suvarov failed to capture in 1789. l. 175  lime-­twigs: branches covered in a sticky substance to catch birds. l. 207  blackleg: a gambler on horse races. l. 216  crowns to kicks: a double pun; crowns are five-­shilling coins and kicks are sixpences. l. 229  sequins . . . paras: Turkish coins; a sequin was a gold ducat, worth much more than a para. l. 241 Voltaire . . . Candide: Voltaire (1644–1788), French satirist whose Candide (1759) mocks an optimistic view of human life. B’s reference here is to chapter 2 of the spurious ‘second part’ of Candide by Du Laurens.



notes to pages 602–618

1079

ll. 247–8  Philip’s son . . . Ammon’s: Alexander the Great (356–323 bce) was the son of Philip of Macedon. Ammon was the high god of ancient Egypt. Alexander at times suggested he was the son of Zeus-­Ammon. ll. 285–6: centurion . . . come: Matthew 8:5–13. l. 318  caique: fishing boat, light skiff. l. 336  one poet: B refers to himself and his works with Turkish settings, including CHP I–II, Corsair, and Giaour. l. 348  Saint Bartholomew: first-­century Christian martyr who was skinned alive. l. 352  Esau . . . beef-­steak: Genesis 25:29–34. l. 471  tower of Babel: Genesis 11:1–9. ll. 473–80  Babel . . . Semiramis: various Babylonian legendary figures: Nimrod was a king and hunter; Nebuchadnezzar was a king who sent Daniel to the lion’s den (Daniel 6:16–22) and whose hubris was punished with madness that made him eat grass (Daniel 4:33); Pyramus and Thisbe were tragic lovers (Ovid, Metamorphoses, 4.5–8); and Semiramis was a powerful queen. ll. 481–8  B cut st. 61 (at Hobhouse’s request) from the early editions, although it appears in a few copies of the first edition: That injured Queen, by Chroniclers so coarse   Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) Of an improper friendship for her horse   (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy): This monstrous tale had probably its source   (For such exaggerations here and there I see) In printing ‘Courser’ by mistake for ‘Courier’: I wish the case could come before a jury here. Both Semiramis (in Pliny, Natural History, 8.64) and Catherine the Great were accused of bestiality with a horse. The stanza also glances at Queen Caroline, wife of George IV, who in 1820 had been tried for adultery with her chamberlain, formerly a courier. l. 493  Claudius Rich: British antiquarian (1787–1820) who wrote a first and second Memoir on the Ruins of Babylon (1815, 1818). l. 503 Et sepulchri . . . domos: ‘And forgetful of the tomb, build a palace’ (Lat.). Horace warns against the folly of luxurious buildings (Odes II, 18.15–22). l. 539  candiote: from the island of Crete (Candia). l. 688 Constantine: Constantine XI, the last Byzantine emperor, was killed as Constantinople fell to the Turks in 1453. l. 708  Rogers: Samuel Rogers (1763–1855), poet and friend of B. l. 711 cravat: literally, a necktie, meaning here a garrote to strangle en­emies and rivals. l. 735 Stitch’d up in sacks: See B’s note 43 to Giaour, with reference to the Bosphorous Strait and the Sea of Marmora near the Black Sea. l. 763  Paphian: related to Aphrodite, goddess of love. See CHP II, st. 7. l. 781  Mary’s Queen of Scots: Mary Stuart (1542–1587), imprisoned and beheaded by Queen Elizabeth, her half-­sister.

1080

notes to pages 618–635

l. 784  Ninon de l’Enclos: Anne de l’Enclos (1620–1705), celebrated French courtesan and author, known for her beauty and wit. l. 790  Diana: Roman goddess of the hunt, usually attended by virgin nymphs. l. 800  Nil Admirari: ‘wonder at nothing’ (Lat.), a Horatian motto for happiness (Epistles, 1.6). l. 804  Creech: Thomas Creech (1659–1701), translator of Horace’s works. l. 806  Pope: Alexander Pope (1688–1744) produced Imitations of Horace (1733–1738), which B quotes here. l. 820  bow-­string: a tool for strangulation. l. 958  Samaritans: Luke 10:29–37. l. 1011  distaff . . . woof: tools for weaving, associated with women. l. 1042–3  spouse . . . Phedra: all failed seductresses. For Potiphar’s wife, see Genesis 39:7–20. Lady Booby is a would-­be lover of the hero of Henry Fielding’s Joseph Andrews (1742). Phaedra’s love for her stepson is spurned, with tragic consequences, in Euripides’s Hippolytus. l. 1084 Hotspur: Henry Percy, the quick-­tempered claimant to the throne in Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, I.iii. l. 1087  kill, kill, kill: Shakespeare, King Lear, IV.v. l. 1129  Bob Acres: in Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s play The Rivals (1775), a cowardly character, whose courage oozes away in perspiration. l. 1141  Castlereagh: Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh (1769–1822), Foreign Secretary and leader of the British House of Commons, whose rhet­oric (‘figures’) B mocked; cf. B’s note 8 and the ‘Dedication’ to DJ (pp. 1010–14). l. 1175  Cantemir . . . Knōllěs: Demetrius Cantemir (in 1734) and Richard Knolles (in 1621) wrote histories of the Turks. l. 1178  Oriental scrupulosity: In Samuel Johnson’s Life of Swift (1781), Swift is described as washing himself with ‘oriental scrupulosity’. l. 1200  Seven Towers: Turkish castle that served as a political prison. l. 1232  fit for heaven: ironically, blessed because their wife has been unfaithful. l. 1253  precocious: misprinted as ‘precarious’ in the early editions. ll. 1257–64  St. 158 was omitted in the first edition but appeared in the fifth. l. 1261  pipe . . . prick’d: when the stopper of a wine bottle is punctured; a double entendre.

Byron’s Notes to Canto V l. 262n3  assassination: See BLJ, 7:247–8. l. 424n5  kittiewiak: type of seagull. ll. 435–6n6  fountain: See CHP II, st. 62. l. 695n7  “Fudge Family,”. . . Castlereagh: See Thomas Moore’s The Fudge Family in Paris (1818), letter 2. Castlereagh was a British statesman whom B mocked both for his views and his oratory. l. 1176n9  Solyman: Suleiman the Magnificent (1520–1566), the longest-­reigning sultan of Turkey.



notes to pages 637–645

1081

DETACHED THOUGHTS (1821–1822) B began a journal headed ‘Detached Thoughts’ while living in Ravenna in October 1821. In November, he moved to Pisa, where he began spending considerable time with Shelley. The journal concludes in May 1822, shortly before Shelley’s death. This period encompasses the completion of B’s tragedy Werner and the resumption of Don Juan with Canto VI in April 1822, days before the death of B’s daughter Allegra. In the journal, B records his thoughts on a range of issues, including slavery and tyranny. Our selection highlights B’s thoughts on poetry and the reflective, melancholy tone of the journal more generally. p. 638  Edie Ochiltree: a travelling beggar in Sir Walter Scott’s The Antiquary (1816). p. 638  He . . . Wednesday: Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, V.i. p. 639  brethren . . . Shell: B’s fellow poets, with reference to Sappho’s tortoise-­shell lyre, a symbol for poetry. p. 639  Scrope Davies: B’s Cambridge friend, an inveterate gambler. p. 640  My passions . . . early: B was repeatedly sexually abused at age nine by his nurse, May Gray. p. 640  Omne . . . patria: ‘The brave man calls every land his country’ (Lat.). See ‘Alpine Journal, 18 September 1816’ (p. 247).

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT (1822) Initially begun in Ravenna in May 1821, and then completed in early October before B left to join the Shelleys in Pisa. There he would commence The Liberal project with Percy Shelley and Leigh Hunt, shortly before Shelley’s death in early July. The manuscript of The Vision of Judgment had first been sent to Murray along with other works from this period including The Irish Avatar and the drama Heaven and Earth, but the conservative Murray—­nervous about the poem’s aggressively anti-­Monarchical stance—­ delayed publication. The poem eventually appeared anonymously and without its prose preface on 15 October 1822 (7000 copies were printed), published by John Hunt as part of the first number of The Liberal (a collaboration between B, Shelley, and the Hunts). Soon thereafter, Hunt re-­issued The Liberal no. 1, still without the prose preface but with a longer list of errata. Finally, after Murray sent Hunt the preface and B’s corrected proofs in December, Hunt published a stated second edition of The Liberal no. 1, there including B’s preface for the first time. Our copy text is the first edition, second issue of The Liberal’s first number, with its listed errata corrections noted and imported into the text. Because B’s preface appeared in  the January 1823 second edition, we present it after the poem, preserving our chronological ordering. The Vision of Judgment makes biting comic attacks on George III, his Tory ministers, and Robert Southey, the poet laureate who had published his own Vision of Judgment as an adulatory eulogy for George III and who had previously challenged B to attack him in rhyme. Vision takes full advantage of the satirical force of ottava

1082

notes to pages 645–651

rima, a form in which B had worked so felicitously in Beppo and Don Juan. As a topical satire, the poem is rich with reference to biographical, historical, political, and literary details, all of which draw upon Southey’s precursor poem and, as befits its theme of heavenly judgment, B’s own reading of the Bible and Milton’s Paradise Lost. Murray was right to judge the poem objectionable: The Liberal’s publisher, John Hunt (who would soon take over publication of Don Juan), was prosecuted, found guilty, and fined for blasphemy and for defaming George III and George IV. p. 645  Quevedo Redivivus: ‘Quevedo Resurrected’; Francesco Gomez de Quevedo y Villegas (1580–1645) was a Spanish satirist, author of Sueños (Visions); his ‘Of the Last Judgment’ (1607) attacked vice and corruption in the reign of Philip III (1598–1621). p. 645  Wat Tyler: drama celebrating the Peasants’ Revolt (1381) by Robert Southey (1774–1843), poet laureate and B’s target in Vision. Written when Southey was a young radical (1794) but not published until a pirate edition in 1817, the play was a source of embarrassment to Southey, a Tory conservative. p. 645 Daniel . . . word: Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, IV.i combines two ­separate lines. l. 5  Gallic . . . “eighty-­eight”: 1788 was the final year of pre-­Revolutionary France’s ‘Gallic era’, or ancien regime. l. 35  conquerors’ cars: victory processions, especially those celebrating Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. l. 47  Satan: this is the only such spelling; subsequent references use ‘Sathan’. l. 48  both generals: suggesting that Napoleon and Wellington belong to Satan in death, as ‘reversion’ returns an estate to its owner after a grant of use. ll. 54–5  With . . . beast: Revelation 13:1. ll. 57–61  freedom’s . . . lawn: 1820, the year revolutionary movements manifest in Greece, Italy, Portugal, and Spain; also death of George III, known as ‘farmer George’ for his praise of rural virtue, whose illness made him blind and deranged. l. 62  weaker king: The original edition reads ‘worse king’ but the change is called for by the errata list appearing beneath the volume’s table of contents. See also notes to ll. 96, 397, and 470. l. 85  balsams: embalming fluids. l. 92 German will: George II hid the will of George I and thus avoided its ­implementation. l. 96  constancy . . . woman: George IV was notoriously unfaithful to his unattractive wife, Queen Caroline. As originally printed, ‘a bad, ugly woman’, changed based on the errata list. See note to l. 62. ll. 141–4  but . . . head: Louis XVI, guillotined in 1793. l. 150  ears off: John 18:10. l. 157  Bartholomew: apostle, martyred by flaying. l. 186  Spirit: Satan. l. 199  ichor: ethereal fluid running in the veins of gods. l. 207  manes: departed spirits (Lat.). ll. 214–16  Aurora . . . Sound: northern lights, reported by explorer William Edward Perry (1790–1855) during voyage to Melville’s Sound, a Greenland inlet.



notes to pages 652–662

1083

l. 224  Southcote: Joanna Southcott (1750–1814), religious fanatic and author of prophetic verse claiming supernatural gifts. l. 225  Michael: greatest of the archangels and vanquisher of Satan’s rebellion. l. 256  “Champ Clos”: field by law reserved for combat. ll. 258–60  Job . . . God: Job 1:1–6; Genesis 6:2. ll. 274–6  gate . . . despatched: Gates were a traditional site of trials in ancient near eastern cities. l. 287  Castilian: from the old Spanish kingdom of Castile. l. 321  quit-­rent: nominal rent paid for services. l. 340 minion: John Stuart, Earl of Bute (1713–1792), George III’s first prime ­minister. l. 350  Cæsar’s school: the emperors of Rome. l. 364  Apicius: legendary Roman gourmet, first century ad. l. 365  anchorite: religious hermit who ate only simple food. ll. 383–4 Catholic . . . nation: George III opposed Catholic Emancipation bills, which would have allowed Catholics (the first, or ‘primitive’, Christians) to hold office and partake in full citizenship generally, in 1795, 1801, and 1807. l. 391  Guelf: the Hanoverians were descendants of the medieval Guelphs. l. 393  Cerberus: three-­headed dog and guard of the mythological Underworld. l. 394  sinecure: paid job requiring no work. l. 395  Bedlam: London asylum. l. 397  do well to avenge: originally printed, ‘dwell to avenge’, changed based on the errata list. See note to l. 62. ll. 415–16  Milton . . . inventions: invention of firearms by rebel angels in Paradise Lost, book 6. ll. 426–8  gilt . . . masonry: The Lord Chamberlain wore a gold key as an insignia of office; the Freemasons were an arcane secret society. l. 458  cloud of witnesses: Hebrews 12:1. l. 464  hell broke loose: Paradise Lost 4.918. ll. 465–71  John Bull . . . Jonathan: John Bull, generic Briton; Paddy, generic Irishman; Jonathan, generic American. l. 470  midst the roar: originally printed, ‘midst the war’, changed based on the errata list. See note to l. 62. l. 475  Otaheite Isle: Otaheite’s Isle, Tahiti. Salisbury Plain: area around Stonehenge in England. ll. 513–14  late . . . Southey: in Southey’s Vision of Judgment, the devil is ­‘multifaced’. l. 520 Wilkes: John Wilkes (1727–1797), British journalist and MP known as ‘the Friend of Liberty’, who turned against the Whigs in his last years (hence ‘half a courtier’ in stanza 72). l. 533  freeholders: those owning property and therefore entitled to vote. l. 564  Bute and Grafton: Earl of Bute (1713–1792) and Duke of Grafton (1735–1811), enemies of Wilkes and ministers of George III. l. 568  habeas corpus: literally, you shall have the body (Lat.), requires a person charged with a crime to be brought to a speedy trial. It was suspended during part of George III’s reign.

1084

notes to pages 663–669

l. 573  Charon’s ferry: Charon brought bodies of deceased across river Styx into Hades, mythological. l. 580  Belial: Belial, devil in Milton’s Paradise Lost. ll. 581–4  Fox . . . bills: Charles James Fox (1749–1806), prominent Whig politician and enemy of the conservative William Pitt the Younger (1759–1806), Prime Minister 1783–1801 and 1804–1806, sponsor of ‘gagging acts’ that restricted freedom of speech and press. l. 585  Junius: pseudonym for author of public attacks on George III, whose identity was a source of great speculation. Like Wilkes, Junius represents B’s emphasis on a free press. l. 611  nabob: Englishman whose fortune was made in India. wight: person (archaic). l. 624  iron mask: mysterious nobleman incarcerated by Louis XIV for forty years until his death in 1703. ll. 626–7  Three . . . Malaprop: Thomas Brinsley Sheridan’s The Rivals (1775), Act IV; Mrs Malaprop consistently misuses words. ll. 631–2  Burke . . . Francis: Edmund Burke (1729–1797), Whig MP who became conservative theorist of French Revolution; John Horne Tooke (1736–1812), radical politician; Sir Philip Francis (1740–1818), Whig pol­it­ician; all were believed authors of the Junius Letters, which were likely penned by Francis. l. 647  Niger’s mouth: West African river whose mouth was undiscovered in B’s time. l. 667  Nominis Umbra: title page to Junius’s Letters (1769–1770) read ‘Stat nominis umbra’, here stands the shadow of a name (Lat.). ll. 670–1 Washington . . . Franklin: George Washington (1732–1799), Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), and Tooke (see note to ll. 631–2 above) all supported the Americans against George III. l. 679  incubus: demon who torments the sleeping. ll. 681–8 Renegado . . . Bible: renegado, renegade or outlaw, term used to attack Southey in Parliament in 1817. Southey himself is the burden deposited by Asmodeus and the stanza continues to mock the size of Southey’s books. l. 685  Skiddaw: mountain near Southey’s residence in the Lake District. l. 710  Balaam: Numbers 22–3, where the Lord speaks to the priest Balaam through his donkey. l. 721  spavin’d: crippled. l. 728  Non . . . homines: ‘Neither men nor gods [tolerate mediocre poetry]’ Horace, Ars Poetica, ll. 372–3. l. 736  Pye: Henry James Pye (1744–1813), preceded Southey as poet laureate. l. 739  Castlereagh: Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh (1769–1822), along with Southey a constant source of B’s loathing. He was Tory Foreign Secretary and British representative at the Congress of Vienna who died by suicide. See dedication to Don Juan (pp. 1010–14). l. 752  de se: felo de se (Lat.), suicide, literally ‘felon of himself ’. l. 769  regicide: one who kills a king. l. 773  pantisocracy: from the Greek, ‘equal government for all’, an ideal society Southey and Coleridge aspired to establish in Pennsylvania from 1794 to 1796.



notes to pages 669–674

1085

l. 775  antijacobin: literal opponent of French Revolution; more loosely, a political reactionary. This stanza and the following mock Southey’s hypocrisy and self-­ contradiction. l. 785  Wesley’s life: Southey’s Life of John Wesley (1820), founder of Methodism. l. 801  Vision: Southey’s Vision of Judgement (1820). l. 807  Alfonso: Alfonso X, King of Castille (1221–1284). l. 816n2  John Aubrey (1626–1697), Miscellanies (1696) and Walter Scott (1771–1832), The Antiquary (1816). l. 828  Phaeton: mythological son of Apollo, who, given the chariot of the sun for a day, lost control and flew too close then fell, aflame, to his death on earth. l. 840  Wellborn: See Philip Massinger’s A New Way to Pay Old Debts (1626), where Wellborn is a Puritain (‘precisian’) character.

LETTER TO AUGUSTA LEIGH, 12 DECEMBER 1822 p. 672 her . . . natural baby: Lady Byron; the baby is B’s daughter by Claire Claremont, Allegra, who died at age five in Italy on April 1822 and whose body was returned to England for burial. p. 672  Werner: B’s Werner (1822), a drama about a father dismissed by his son, based on Kruitzner, or The German’s Story—­a novella in Harriet Lee’s The Canterbury Tales (1797–1805). Werner was the last work B published with John Murray. p. 672  Countess Guiccioli: Countess Theresa Guiccioli (1798–1873), B’s final sustained attachment from 1819 until his death; she was a member of the aristocratic Gamba family of Ravenna and the wife of Count Alessandro Guiccioli.

‘PREFACE’ TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT (1823) B submitted this preface to John Murray in October of 1821 along with the full text of the poem. After Murray declined to publish the work, neither the preface nor the corrected proofs made it to John Hunt, and the preface was omitted from the poem’s initial publication. It appeared in the second edition of The Liberal in January 1823. p. 674  That fools rush in . . . tread: Pope, Essay on Criticism (1711), l. 625. p. 674  Satanic School: Preface to Southey’s Vision of Judgement labelled B as principal figure of this ‘school’, which also included Shelley. p. 674  talked . . . laughed consumedly: See George Farquhar (1677–1707), The Beaux’ Strategem (1707), Act III. p. 674  refused a remedy: Southey attempted to stop publication of Wat Tyler but the Lord Chancellor deemed it injurious and not subject to legal protection. p. 674  William Smith: MP for Norwich, attacked Southey in Parliamentary debate, March 1817. p. 674 Martin the Regicide: See Southey, ‘Inscription for the Apartment in Chepstow Castle . . .’ (1797). p. 674  Anti-­jacobin: anti-­revolutionary journal that parodied Southey in 1797.

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notes to pages 675–681

p. 675  skimble scamble stuff: Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, III.i. p. 675  Qualis ab incepto: ‘same from the beginning’ (Lat.), Horace, Ars Poetica 1.127. p. 676  Gebir: 1797 oriental epic by Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864). p. 676  Ithyphallics: Bacchic hymns, here meant as obscene, coarse poetry.

LETTER TO JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE, 7 APRIL 1823 p. 677  Blaquiere: Edward Blaquiere (1779–1832), politically liberal naval lieutenant and founding member of the London Philhellenic Committee (‘the Committee in England’), which sought to raise funds in support of the Greek War of Independence from Ottoman rule. p. 677  philosopher at Ephesus . . . Hannibal: Visiting the court of Antiochus, Hannibal attended a lecture by the philosopher Phormio addressing, among many topics, the obligations of a general. Hannibal dismissed the phil­oso­pher’s presumptuousness and claimed to have seen many old madmen but never one madder. See Cicero, De Oratore, II.75–6. p. 677  Monkbarns: Scott’s The Antiquary (1816), ch. 7.

DON JUAN VI–VII–VIII (1823) B began writing Canto VI of Don Juan in January 1822 and seems to have completed it in April, shortly after the death of his daughter, Allegra. He finished Canto VII in June and Canto VIII in July, and was nearly finished with a ninth canto by late August. Indeed, the composition of all of the later cantos occurred rapidly: B had written Canto XVI (the last one he would complete) by May 1823, before this medial volume was issued on 15  July as Don Juan. Cantos VI—­VII—VIII (John Hunt, 1823). John Hunt was publisher of The Liberal and brother of Leigh Hunt. Although John Murray wanted to preserve the relationship, he broke with B late in 1822, primarily over fears regarding the bold offensiveness of Don Juan. The outspoken radical John Hunt had fewer qualms, and even put his own name on the title page (but still not B’s). For Cantos VI–VIII, Hunt simultaneously released 1500 copies in octavo (9s. 6d.), 3000 in duodecimo (6s.), and 16,000 in an octodecimo ‘common edition’ (1s.). This segmenting of the market helped Hunt defeat literary piracy; he would follow these printing and pricing formats for all of the cantos he published. We take as our source text Hunt’s octodecimo edition, which had by far the largest print run, as explained more fully in the Note on the Texts. Canto VI remains in the realm of lightly ironized romance with its harem scenes, but Cantos VII and VIII take Don Juan in a new direction, moving the poem firmly into historical and political territory, and amplifying its epic program. The Russian siege of Ismail took place in November and December of 1790, so Juan’s participation in the war anchors him on a timeline. Around this time, B told his friend Thomas Medwin that he planned that Juan would eventually ‘be guillotined in the French Revolution’ (165). The siege also gives B a field from which to launch biting socio-­ political satires against the tyrannies and hypocrisies of his age, particularly those



notes to pages 681–687

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surrounding Wellington and other British military heroes. And it moves the poem away from domestic and exotic romance towards war, the prime subject of Homer, Virgil, and their ‘epic brethren’. Yet Don Juan uses irony as a harsh solvent to strip away the glorification of war, turning epic earnestness inside out. In a vigorous preface to these cantos, B offers defiance to those who have accused Don Juan of blasphemy and indecency, and attacks Wellington as an ‘overpensioned Homicide’ and a prime instance of ‘the Cant which is the crying sin of this double-­dealing and false-­speaking time of selfish Spoilers’. As he wrote to Moore on 8 August, ‘it is necessary, in the present clash of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away the scabbard. I know it is against fearful odds; but the battle must be fought’ (BLJ, 9:191). Cantos VI–VIII were B’s most ferocious sally yet in this war of ideas. p. 681  the Siege of Ismail: November–December 1790, a key event in the Russo-­ Turkish War (1787–1792) that resulted in Russian slaughter of the Ottomans after a siege of the city on the Black Sea. p. 681  Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie: by Marquis de Castelnau (1820). p. 681  Marquis of Londonderry: Viscount Castlereagh, from 1795 and the frequent subject of B’s attacks. p. 681  Mrs. Malaprop: from Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s The Rivals (1775). p. 682  La pudeur . . . perdu en vertu: ‘Modesty has fled the heart and taken refuge on the lips’ and ‘The more manners are corrupt, the more expressions become measured; we believe that what we have lost in virtue is regained in language’ (Fr.), from Voltaire, Lettre de M. Eratou á M. Clocpitre (1759).

Canto VI l. 1–2  There . . . flood: Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, IV.iii. l. 13  Jacob Behmen: Jakob Böhme (1575–1624), German mystic theologian. l. 24  Manichean: universal religion that breaks everything down to the conflict between the principles of Good and Evil. ll. 29–32  Anthony . . . victories: a reference to the love story of Antony and Cleopatra, blamed here for Octavian’s decisive defeat of Antony in a 31 bce naval battle. ll. 41–2  ’Twas . . . if not now: Mark 12:41–44. ll. 54–6  wise Roman . . . Hortensius: Cato the Younger (95–46 bce) divorced his wife, Marcia, so that Hortensius could marry her, and then took up with her again on the death of Hortensius. ll. 65–6  Cassio . . . appears: Shakespeare, Othello, I.i. l. 96  Bed of Ware: huge twelve-­foot-­square bed, alluded to in Shakespeare, Twelfth Night (III.ii), now in the Victoria and Albert Museum. l. 104  Highland welcome: enthusiastic, see Robert Burns, ‘The Highland Welcome’ (1792) and Walter Scott, Waverley (1814), ch. 20. l. 136  Medio . . . ibis: actually from Ovid, Metamorphoses, book 2, ‘you are safest in the middle way’ (Lat.). ll. 151–2  virtue . . . Propagation: See Thomas Malthus, Essay on the Principle of Population (1798; 1803).

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notes to pages 688–709

l. 178  Athanasius’ curse: The Athanasian creed in the Book of Common Prayer declares that all who do not hold Catholic faith ‘shall perish everlastingly’. ll. 197–8  driven Snow: Cf. Shakespeare, Winter’s Tale, IV.iv. ll. 210–11 that mankind . . . pierce: said by Caligula in Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars, book 4. l. 217  Briareus: one of three hundred-­handed sons of the deities Zeus and Gaia. As the stanza continues, it alludes to travel reports of Patagonian giants and Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726), book 1 (Lilliput). l. 245  Cantemir: Demetrius Cantimir, The History of the Growth and Decay of the Othman Empire (trans. 1734–1745). De Tott: Baron François de Tott, Memoirs . . . State of the Turkish Empire (1786). l. 283  beautiful exceedingly: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘Christabel’ (1816), l. 68. ll. 311–12  Circassia: female Circassians were renowned for their beauty. Padisha: sultan or chief ruler. Pacha: pasha, a high-­ranking official beneath a sultan. l. 330  murder sleep: Shakespeare, Macbeth, II.ii. l. 332  Phidian: Phidias, famous Athenian sculptor (fifth-­century bce). l. 340  taking: state of agitation. l. 382  Guebres . . . Gouls: varieties of ghosts, demons, and enemies from Eastern ­legends and tales, with a glance at B’s The Giaour. l. 437  Lucus . . . Lucendo: an example of absurd derivation. Cf. Quintillian, Institutio Oratoriai, 1.6.34 and Charles Churchill, The Ghost (1762), book 2. l. 441  Corinthian Brass: likely a reference to the gong or cymbal in 1 Corinthians 13:1. l. 529  bull: denying the previous distinction between night and light, hence ‘Irish bull’, a preposterous statement whose absurdity is unrecognized by its author. l. 541  Lot’s . . . salt: She turns to salt after looking back at Sodom (Genesis 19). l. 591  no orator as Brutus is: Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, III.ii. l. 595  wood obscure: the ‘selva oscura’ in the opening lines of Dante’s Inferno quoted in B’s footnote. l. 688 Kaff . . . Kurds: Mount Caucasus, which looks to the south onto Kurdish lands in eastern Turkey and Western Persia. ll. 693–6  nightingale . . . woes: In Persian myth, the nightingale loves a rose from which she received a thorn in the heart; also a reference to the rape of Philomela (Ovid, Metamorphoses, book 6). l. 726  Divan: a royal council in the Ottoman empire and elsewhere in the East. ll. 733–4  Russians . . . victories: successful Russian campaigns of 1789–1790 in the Russo-­Turkish War (1787–1791). l. 737  Alexander: Catherine’s grandson Alexander I (1801–1825). l. 746  Timon: notorious fifth-­century misanthrope. See Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens. l. 764  Queans: prostitutes. l. 845  all amort: as if close to death, cf. Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew, IV.iii.



notes to pages 709–716

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l. 849  Pythoness: reference to the Delphic Oracle’s Pythian priestess. Stanzas 107–8 should be compared to Dido’s anguish in Virgil, Aeneid, book 4. l. 886  Sallust in his Catiline: Catalina (The Conspiracy of Catiline), ch. 15. l. 925  Jack Ketch: seventeenth-­century hangman, now proverbial executioner.

Canto VII ll. 23–7  Dante’s . . . Rousseau: B here refers to Dante Alighieri (1265–1321); the biblical King Solomon (ninth century bce); Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes (1547– 1616); Irish satirist Jonathan Swift (1667–1745); Italian writer Niccolò Machiavelli (1469–1527); French aphorist François de La Rochefoucauld (1613–1680); French writer François Fénelon (1651–1715); German theologian Martin Luther (1483– 1546); ancient Greek philosopher Plato (fourth/fifth century bce); English theologian and Archbishop of Canterbury, John Tillotson (1630–1694); English theologian and founder of Methodism, John Wesley (1703–1791); and Genevan philosopher Jean-­Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), all of whom were associated with a mistrust of human nature. ll. 30–1 Cato . . . Diogenes: Marcus Portius Cato (the Elder, 234–149 bce) and Diogenes the Cynic (c.412–323 bce), famous for their austerity. ll. 33–4  Socrates . . . known: Diogenes Laertius reports in his ‘Life of Socrates’ that the philosopher claimed to know nothing but his own ig­nor­ance (2.32). ll. 37–40  Newton . . . Truth: quote first attributed to Newton in Joseph Spence’s Anecdotes, Observations and Characters, of Books and Men (1820). l. 57  Fierce . . . wars: alluding to Spenser’s Faerie Queene (1590): ‘Fierce warres and faithfull loves’. l. 63 Suvaroff . . . Suwarrow: Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov (1729/30–1800) attacked Ismail in December 1790. For details on the Siege of Ismail here and throughout Cantos VI and VII, B borrows heavily from Gabriel de Castelnau’s Essai sur l’histoire ancienne et moderne de la nouvelle Russie, 3 vols. (Paris, 1820), 2:201–19. l. 72  toises: French unit of measurement equalling two metres. l. 76  scite: ground of establishment; site. l. 82  Vauban: Marquis de Vauban (1633–1707), military engineer for Louis XIV. l. 91  cap-apèe: head to toe (like St George’s armour). l. 92  Case-­mated: Case-­mate is an armoured compartment on a rampart. barbette: a platform for firing over a rampart. l. 96  cavalier: a raised gun emplacement. l. 104  Bis Millah: opening of the Koran, Arabic for ‘in the name of god’. ll. 114–16  Strongenoff . . . Strokonoff . . . Chokenoff: Strokonoff, Count P. A. Stroganov (1772–1817), Russian General; Arseniew, Nikolay Arsenyev (1739–1796), a major general; Tschitsshakoff, P. V. Chichagov (1767–1849), a naval and military commander. Theodore Meknop and Serge Lewow are both mentioned in Castelnau (B’s source; see note to l. 63 above). Some of these names are parodic. l. 126  Londonderry: Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh (1769–1822), Marquess of Londonderry, Foreign Secretary, and leader of the British House of Commons.

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notes to pages 717–728

ll. 129–30  Scherematoff . . . Pouskin: Count Boris Sheremetev (1652–1719), Russian general; Prince Alexander Kurakin (1752–1818); and Count Aleksei Ivanovich Musin-­ Pushkin (1744–1817), Russian statesmen. l. 130  phrase: erroneously printed as ‘praise’ in Hunt’s 1823 edition. l. 133  Mahomet . . . Mufti: Mahomet (Mohammed), the founder of Islam; Mufti is an Islamic religious leader who interprets religious law. l. 146  bard: poet James Thomson (1700–1748). ll. 151–2  in country . . . Halifax: George Coleman’s Love Laughs at Locksmiths (1818); ‘he’ is a captain known for his seductions. ll. 166–7  Shakespear . . . doating: See Falstaff’s speech on honour in 1 Henry IV, V.i. l. 204  Longman . . . Murray: London publishers, the latter B’s own until he changed to John Hunt for DJ VI–VIII, and onwards. l. 243  Delhis: Turkish soldiers. l. 247  Count Damas: Roger de Damas (1765–1823), French mercenary who served in siege of Ismail. ll. 249–55  historian . . . Damas: The historian is Castelnau (see note to l. 63 above); de Ligne, Langeron, and Damas were all Western European mercenaries fighting for the Russians. l. 258  preux Chevaliers: gallant knights; cf. The Song of Roland (eleventh century ce). l. 263  Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne: Charles-­Lamoral Joseph, 7th prince de Ligne (1735–1814), Lettres et Pensées du Maréchal le prince de Ligne (1808). l. 272  Gazette: newspaper giving casualty reports from battles. l. 275  Admiral Ribas: Joseph de Ribas (1751–1800), commander of the Russian flotilla at Ismail. l. 289  Potemkin: Prince Grigory Potemkin (1739–1791), a favourite of Catherine the Great. l. 312  Souvaroff: Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov (1729/30–1800), a cele­brated Russian military hero. l. 321  Let there be light: Genesis 1:3. ll. 345–6  Great joy . . . illumination: the lighting of gas lamps on national occasions. The ‘fool’ here is Robert Southey (1774–1843), whose poem ‘The Death of Wallace’ begins ‘Joy, joy in London now!’ l. 347  John Bull: a typical Englishman. l. 360  Ceres: the goddess of harvest and thus of plenty, here used iron­ic­al­ly to note the British capacity to bless a government that wrongs them. l. 375  fascines: bundle of bound sticks used to cross wet terrain. l. 413  salamander: Salamanders were proverbially thought cold blooded enough to live in fire, hence a term for soldiers exposed to battle. ll. 415–16  ladder . . . Jacob’s: Genesis 28. ll. 439–40  Mars . . . uniform: Mars, God of War; Momus, God of Satire; Harlequin, comic servant in Italian Commedia dell’arte. l. 458  Calmucks: Kalmucks, a Mongol tribe that eventually settled in southwest Russia, around Kalmykia and the Caspian Sea. l. 480  Nikolaiew: regiment of grenadiers reported by Castelnau as serving at Ismail. l. 481  Widin: sometimes Vidin, port city on the southern bank of the Danube in what is now Bulgaria, unsuccessfully laid to siege by Suvorov in 1789.



notes to pages 728–740

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l. 490  hope . . . forlorn: the vanguard sent into battle and most likely to be killed was called ‘The Forlorn Hope’. l. 508  cushion: meaning a pulpit, where the Bible sits on a cushion. l. 615  the boils of Job: See Job 2:16 and 2:19–20 where those coming to comfort Job care not for him but for themselves. l. 619  Ilion: Ilion, archaic name for Troy. l. 621  Priam’s son: Hector, killed by Achilles in Iliad, book 22. l. 651  Leonidas: Spartan general who fought the Persians at Thermopylae (480 bce). l. 653  Cæsar’s Commentaries: Julius Caesar’s histories of Gaul and the Roman civil wars. l. 667  Babylonian harlot: the Church of Rome, see Revelation 17:1–6. l. 680  bob-­major: change rung on eight bells (the longest possible change).

Canto VIII l. 34 Leonidas and Washington: Leonidas (c.540–480 bce) led the Greek army against the Persians under Xerxes at Thermopylae (480 bce). He and George Washington (1732–1799) are remembered as ones who fought for their nations’ f­reedom. l. 50  toises: French units of measurement equalling two metres. ll. 55–6  Etna . . . Titan: Enceladus was the mythical titan imprisoned by Zeus underneath the volcanic Mount Etna in Sicily. l. 68  Arseniew: Nikolay Arsenyev (1739–1796), a major general who fought bravely at Ismail, for which he received Russia’s highest military honours. l. 70n Wordsworth’s Thanksgiving Ode: See William Wordsworth’s ‘Ode. The Morning of the Day Appointed for a General Thanksgiving, January 18, 1816’. l. 70n  Garter King: The Garter King at Arms is responsible for determining issues of heraldry, rank, and succession (‘pedigree’). l. 73  Prince de Ligne: Prince Charles Antoine Joseph Emanuel (1759–1792), eldest son of the 7th Prince de Ligne (DJ VII, l. 263). l. 74  Count Chapeau-­Bras: a chapeau bras is a military hat; B refers here to the 5th Duke of Richelieu (1766–1822), a French loyalist in the Russian imperial army. l. 81  General Markow: Yevgeni Markov (1769–1828), Russian infantry commander. l. 94  the death-­watch: the deathwatch beetle, known for its ticking sound; an omen of death. l. 144n  See The London Gazette Extraordinary of 22 July 1815 for the erroneous spelling of Lieutenant Edward Grose’s name (corrected 3 July). l. 152  bulletin: a news report conveying details of recent battles, like the gazettes (DJ VII, l. 272 and passim). l. 172  Frederick the Great from Molwitz: Frederick II, King of Prussia (1712–1786), who left the Battle of Mollwitz (1741) under the advice of his military commander Schwerin. l. 173  pad: footpad; robber. l. 184n  Major Vallencey and Sir Lawrence Parsons: Charles Vallancey (1721–1812) and Sir Laurence Parsons (1758–1841) were Irish philologists who concluded that the Irish had descended from the Carthaginians (who spoke Punic), and thus had a better

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notes to pages 740–753

pedigree than the English. Hannibal was king of Carthage, and Dido its mythic queen from Virgil’s Aeneid. l. 185  a broth of a boy: passionate and impetuous. l. 208  Pall Mall: fashionable street in London, the location of clubs and ‘gambling hells’. ll. 221–4  Caesar . . . field: Plutarch, Life of Caesar 20.8. ll. 230–1  Homer . . . Ajax: Iliad, 11.558–65. l. 253  Ignis fatuus: will-­o-­the-­wisp (Lat.), an illuminated spirit leading travellers astray. l. 264  Friar Bacon: Referring to Roger Bacon (c.1214–1292), who described gunpowder; it was invented in China around 850. l. 267  General Lascy: Franz Moritz, Graf von Lacy (1725–1801), ageing Austrian field marshal. l. 272  glacis: military fortification. l. 278  to cut and come again: refers to slicing meat and coming back for seconds. l. 288  shadows of death’s valley: Psalm 23. l. 295  Chasseurs: fast-­moving soldiers, evoking huntsmen. ll. 298–300  Spirits . . . Hotspur: Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, III.i. ll. 323–4  bourn . . . Hamlet: Shakespeare, Hamlet, II.i. l. 352  talus: the inclined face of a fortification. l. 363  Cohorn: Menno, Baron von Coehoorn (1641–1704), famed Dutch military engineer. The palisades, or stake-­walls, have not been set up effectively. ll. 383–4 Wellington . . . Prussians: the Duke of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo relied in large part on the efforts of Prussian troops led by Generals ‘Blücher, Bulow, [and] Gneisenau’ named in the next stanza. l. 397  veriest jade . . . wrings: a horse worn raw by its harness will eventually rebel. l. 400  Job: biblical figure of patient suffering. l. 402  David . . . giant: 1 Samuel 17–18. ll. 422–3  Rousseau . . . arms: Jean-­Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), Julie, or the New Heloise (1761), vol. 1, letter LV. l. 447 Bezonian: Bezonian, a corruption of bisognoso, Italian for ‘derelict’; see Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV, V.iv. l. 448  Livonian: Livonia was a Baltic province in the Russian Empire. l. 474  “God . . . town”: William Cowper (1731–1800), The Task, 1.749. l. 477  Rome . . . Nineveh: ancient cities sacked or destroyed by warfare. ll. 481–2  Sylla . . . lucky: Lucius Cornelius Sulla (138–78 bce), Roman general and dictator who gained great power and also managed to retire in peace. l. 484  General Boon . . . Kentucky: Daniel Boone (1735–1820), American frontiersman and folk hero. l. 504  Man of Ross: John Kyrle (1637–1724), philanthropist who transformed the small town of Ross-­on-­Wye; see Pope, Moral Essays, 3.249–97. l. 543  Catherine’s boudoir: Catherine II of Russia (1729–1796) decorated her walls with paintings of battle scenes. l. 553  Koutousow: Prince Mikhail Kutuzov (1745–1813), famed Russian general who repulsed Napoleon’s invasion in 1812. ll. 578–9  Cavalier . . . Hopes: The Cavalier is a raised gun emplacement. The ‘Forlorn Hope’ are the troops who lead a military attack on a defended position.



notes to pages 753–770

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l. 585 Kozaks . . . Cossacques: also Cossacks, members of ethnic communities in Southern Russia known for military prowess. ll. 601–2  tail . . . bishops: a reference to the 1822 scandal surrounding Bishop Percy Jocelyn of Ireland (1764–1843), who was caught having sex with John Moverley, a guardsman, in the back room of a London pub. l. 631  Seraskier: Turkish military commander-­in-­chief. ll. 665–72  A dying Moslem . . . head: B apparently invented this anecdote, with allusions to the Bible (Eve/Satan), Homer (Achilles), and Dante (Bocca and Ugolino in Inferno, Cantos 32 and 33). ll. 699–702  As the year closing . . . bare: an epic simile found also in Homer (Iliad, 6.146–8), Virgil (Aeneid, 6.324–39), Dante (Inferno, 3.112–17), and Milton (Paradise Lost, 1.299–304). l. 776n Russian military order: The Order of St George is the highest Russian ­military decoration, awarded for extreme bravery. l. 824  half-­pay: a typical pension for a retired soldier. l. 838  Priam’s, Peleus’, or Jove’s son: referring to Hector, Achilles, and Hercules. l. 852 Charles at Bender: Charles XII of Sweden (1682–1718), who refused to ­surrender to the Turks and was captured at Bender in Moldova in 1709. l. 887  Houris: maidens who minister to fallen warriors in Islamic Paradise. ll. 959–60  Bey . . . Ribas: a Bey is a Turkish official. Jose de Ribas (1749–1800) led the Russian naval and land forces under Suvarov during the Siege of Ismail. l. 968  tails: A Pacha’s seniority was signified by the number of horse’s tails on his standard. l. 991  Cockneys . . . Muscadins: lower-­class Londoners and well-­off dandies of Paris. l. 1000  Wellesley: the Duke of Wellington (1769–1852), famed military commander. l. 1008  George weighs twenty stone: i.e., 280 pounds. King George IV was notoriously obese. l. 1044  single blessedness: Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I.i. l. 1047  Sabine wedding: referring to the abduction or rape of the Sabine women in Roman myth. l. 1058  Timour . . . Zinghis: Timur or Tamerlane (1336–1405) and Genghis Khan (1162–1227), notorious Mongolian conquerors and slaughterers. l. 1064n  original Russian: Suvarov actually wrote these lines after taking the city of Turtukai from the Ottomans in 1773, not after Ismail. l. 1066  Mené . . . Upharsin: the Writing on the Wall during the Feast of Balshazzar; see Daniel 5:25–8. Cf. DJ III, st. LXV. l. 1072  Nero: notorious Roman emperor (37–68 ce) who, according to Suetonius, read his own verses aloud while watching the city burn. ll. 1102–4  long bow . . . string: ‘to draw the longbow’ means to exaggerate or tell tall tales. B connects that here and in the next stanza to the harp of Apollo (Phoebus), god of poetry, while also recalling Homer, the epic poet as blind harper (cf. Demodokos in Odyssey, 8.62–7). l. 1120  order of St. Vladimir: Russian military decoration, founded by Catherine II in 1783.

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notes to page 773 DON JUAN IX–X–XI (1823)

B wrote Canto IX of Don Juan in August 1822, thinking of it as integral with Cantos VI–VII–VIII which had also been completed (and then published) that summer. B’s rate of productivity at this time was prodigious, even for him: he then composed Cantos X and XI in September and early October, and—­thanks to Mary Shelley’s fair copies—­had sent Kinnaird all three new cantos by the end of October. Ultimately, seven cantos of Don Juan were written in 1822 alone. But proofs for Cantos IX–X–XI did not arrive from publisher John Hunt until late April 1823. B corrected and returned these, instructing Hunt to begin publishing the backlog. Cantos IX–X–XI appeared on 29 August 1823: 1500 copies in octavo, 2500 in duodecimo, and 17,000 in the cheap octodecimo format. The edition retains the Twelfth Night epigraph used for Cantos VI–VII–VIII (p. 681). We take as our source text Hunt’s octodecimo edition, which had by far the largest print run, as explained more fully in the Note on the Text. This instalment of Don Juan begins with an ironic preamble addressed to the military hero Wellington, which was originally written in 1819 and was likely intended to appear at the start of Canto VII or VIII (‘these new Cantos touch on warlike feats’, l. 73). In Canto IX, Juan arrives at the Court of Catherine the Great of Russia early in 1791, with details borrowed from Gabriel de Castelnau’s history of modern Russia, as well as Casti’s Il Poema Tartaro (1796), and William Tooke’s The Life of Catherine II (Dublin, 1800), itself a translation of J. H. Castéra’s Histoire de Catherine II (Paris, 1797). B uses Catherine’s court as a field for satire on court politics and aristocratic mores, particularly (and with more than a hint of misogyny) Catherine’s imputed sexual rapacity. Cantos X and XI take Juan to England, where he will remain for the rest of the epic, left unfinished at B’s death. These cantos are set in London and provide a nostalgic window onto B’s years of fame there, when he ‘was reckoned, a considerable time, / The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme’ (DJ XI, ll. 439–40) and before the separation scandal sent him into self-­exile. As McGann has said, the English cantos generally ‘are his Remembrance of Things Past which he only manages to write through the defensive medium of his social satire and comic badinage’. From this instalment forward, the narrator’s digressions take up larger and larger portions of Don Juan, reflecting the memoir-­like quality of the later cantos.

Canto IX l. 1  Wellington: Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington (1759–1852), commanded Britain’s victory over Napoleon at Waterloo and roused B’s hatred for the reestablishment of European monarchies thereafter. The French pronunciation (vilain ton) would translate as nasty or boorish style. l. 8  Nay: A pun on Napoleon’s Field Marshal, Michel Ney (1769–1815), who led troops at Waterloo. A printer’s devil was an apprentice in a print shop. l. 10 Marinêt’s affair: When Marinêt plotted to assassinate Wellington, Lord Kinnaird warned the general but refused to divulge his source for which he was accused of treason and expelled from Paris (see BLJ, 6:165n).



notes to pages 773–781

1095

l. 12  Westminster’s old abbey: Wellington is buried at St Paul’s not Westminster Abbey. l. 14  tabby: a gossip, glancing at Wellington’s many love affairs. l. 17  pays you: Wellington, made a Duke in 1814, was given an endowment of £500,000, also alluded to in st. 7. l. 24  bards . . . better: there were many poetic tributes to Wellington’s victory, including Southey’s The Poet’s Pilgrimage to Waterloo (1816). l. 25  best of cut-­throats: Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.iv. l. 33  supped full of flattery: Shakespeare, Macbeth, V.v. ll. 41–2  plate . . . Brazils: an enormous silver plate given by Dom Joao of Portugal to Wellington as part of a silver dinner service now at Apsley House, London. l. 51  Cincinnatus: Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, a fifth-­century bce Roman ­general known for his bravery. l. 55  Sabine farm: a Sabine farm was given to the Roman poet Horace by his patron. l. 58  Epaminondas: Epaminondas, a fourth-­century bce Theban general who freed his city from Spartan rule. ll. 62–4  Pitt . . . gratis: William Pitt the Younger (1759–1806), British Tory prime minister known for his repression of political dissent after the French Revolution. l. 73  new Cantos . . . feats: this prefatory address to Wellington seems to have been intended for Cantos VII and VIII, which narrate the Siege of Ismail. l. 105  To be . . . question: Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.i. l. 107  Alexander nor Hephaestion: Alexander the Great and Hephaestion (both circa fourth-­century bce) were lifelong friends and confidants. ll. 113–14  Oh . . . reapers: Horace, Epodes, 3.4. l. 129  Que sçais-­je: ‘what do I know’, added by Montaigne to the 1635 edition of his Essays. l. 138  Pyrrho: Greek philosopher circa fourth-­century bce, known for his scepticism. ll. 145–6  But . . . pray: Shakespeare, Othello, II.iii. ll. 149–50  The Sparrow’s . . . providence: Shakespeare, Hamlet, V.ii. l. 158  Lykanthropy: condition in which one believes one can turn into a werewolf. l. 162  Melancthon: Philip Melancthon (1497–1560), theologian and church reformer known for his forbearance. l. 178 chief City: Saint Petersburg, home of Catherine the Great (1729–1796), whom Voltaire praised extensively in his correspondence (l. 182). l. 210  Ephesian ruins: B visited Ephesus in March 1810. ll. 223–4 Spanish . . . free: nationalist independence movements in Spain and Greece. ll. 231–2  cocks . . . rocks: gamecocks (fighting roosters), with obvious sexual innuendo. l. 242  little charge: Leilia, the orphaned Turkish girl Juan rescued during the Siege of Ismail (DJ VIII). l. 246  paviour: one who lays paving stones, making roads smoother. ll. 254–6  Ceres . . . oats: Ceres was the Roman goddess of agriculture and grain, the price of which fell steadily after Waterloo. l. 260 Nadir Shah: Persian ruler (Shah from 1736 to 1747) who invaded and ­plundered India.

1096

notes to pages 781–791

l. 278  Courtier’s kibes: Shakespeare, Hamlet, V.i. l. 281  Apropos des bottes: idiomatic (Fr.) for saying something unrelated. l. 290  relics . . . world: French naturalist George Cuvier (1769–1832) interpreted the fossils of unknown animals (including mammoths, st. 38) as relics of a vanished former world annihilated by an extinction event. See his Recherches sur les Ossemens Fossiles de Quadrupèdes (1812). l. 304  Mammoths . . . Crocodiles: fossil remnants whose origin and history naturalists like Cuvier were debating. l. 322  The time is out of joint: Shakespeare, Hamlet, I.v. l. 331  baiting: taking refreshment and rest. l. 341  Cairn Gorme: smoky yellowish quartz found in the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland. ll. 353–7  Bandage . . . Bow: all attributes of Cupid, the god of love, who wears a ‘Bandage’ over his eyes signifying blindness. l. 358  Psyche: the goddess of the soul and lover of Cupid. l. 366  singly crowned: Catherine became sole empress in 1762. l. 368  Patagonian: Patagonia, in present day Argentina, was legendary for giants. l. 373  Seraphim: a seraph (pl. seraphim) is an angelic being. l. 376  Lanskoi: Alexander Lanskoï (c.1760–1784), youthful lover of Catherine. l. 387  Londonderry’s Marquess: B’s nemesis, the Marquess of Londonderry, known as Lord Castlereagh (1769–1822). l. 405  Cavalier Servente . . . Pygmalion: In Italy, a cavalier servente is the lover of a married woman; Pygmalion, a mythological sculptor who fell in love with his statue, which was brought to life by the gods. See Ovid, Metamorphoses, book 10. ll. 421–4  Parisian . . . record: The seduction of Helen, wife of Meneleus, by Paris of Troy (Ilion) started the Trojan War (‘damages’), hence the reference to the English divorce court, Doctor’s Commons. l. 433  teterrima . . . belli: Here and in the next stanza, B makes a series of ribald puns on the vagina (cunnus), which, translating Horace’s phrase from the Satires 1, ‘cunnus taeterrima belli causa’ (Lat.), he calls ‘the worst cause of war’. l. 505  What a strange thing is man: Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.ii. Cf. George Herbert’s poem ‘Giddiness’, which begins ‘Oh what a thing is man! how far from power, / From settled peace and rest! / He is some twenty several men at least / Each several hour’. ll. 521–2  the Herald . . . hill: Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.iv. l. 527  Simplon: a high mountain pass in the Alps. l. 533  laudanum . . . black drop: liquid-­based opioids. l. 541  deigns to prove: Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard (1717), l. 87. l. 548  Daniel . . . den: Daniel 6:16–28. ll. 551–2  Sol . . . Thetis: Sol is the Roman sun god; Thetis, a sea nymph, is Achilles’s mother. The ‘Ocean’ here is the ‘Sea’ of st. 56 (i.e. the vagina). Cf. Samuel Butler, Hudibras (1684), 2.2. l. 567  Pallas: Athena, Greek goddess of wisdom, often called ‘grey-­eyed’. l. 572  Messalina: first-­century bce wife of Roman emperor Claudius, known for promiscuity and greed. ll. 583–4  some . . . Universe: Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, book 1.



notes to pages 793–802

1097

l. 639  Clytemnestra: wife of Agamemnon, whom she murders upon his return from Troy. See Aeschylus, the Oresteia trilogy. In letters, B called his wife a ‘moral Clytemnestra’ (BLJ, 5:144, 198). ll. 642–6  Elizabeth . . . death: Queen Elizabeth I (1533–1603) commanded the death of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, in 1601. ll. 670–1  Protasoff . . . l’Éprouveuse: Anna Stepanova Protasova (1745–1826), Lady-­ in-­Waiting to Catherine from 1785, who oversaw the medical testing of her desired lovers. L’Éprouveuse (Fr.: ‘tester’) carries a sexual innuendo. l. 676  Heaven-­kissing hill: Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.iv.

Canto X l. 1 Newton . . . apple: Sir Isaac Newton (1642/43–1726/27) clarified the law of gravity. The story of his using an apple to do so originates with Voltaire. ll. 42–3  Oh . . .be at rest: Psalm 55:6. l. 50  Arno: central Italian river overlooked by B’s residence in Pisa, where he began this canto. l. 86  Jeffrey: Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850), prominent reviewer for the Edinburgh Review, who chided B for being ‘too savage’ on Robert Southey in the February 1822 issue. l. 99n  Baron Bradwardine: See Walter Scott, Waverley (1814), ch. 44. l. 102  Caledon: Caledonia, Roman name for Scotland. l. 113  legal broom: a pun on the lawyer Henry Brougham (1778–1868), loathed by B. l. 125  Auld Lang Syne: ‘Old Long Since’, the title of a famous 1788 Robert Burns poem. ll. 135–6  But . . . head: B was raised in Aberdeen from age three to ten. l. 138  Scotch snood: a hair band worn by unmarried women. l. 139  Dee . . . wall: both the Dee and the Don rivers flow near Aberdeen; the medieval Bridge of Balgownie spans the Don. l. 139n  Brig of Balgounie, black’s your wa . . . shall fa!: The proverb warns that if an only son (such as B) crosses the bridge of Balgownie riding a mare’s only foal, the bridge will collapse. l. 142  Banquo’s offspring: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV.i. l. 147  I railed . . . wit: EBSR, B’s 1809 satire on the Scottish literary establishment. l. 151  scotched . . . killed: Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.ii. l. 152  mountain . . . flood: Walter Scott’s ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel’, 6.2.1–4. l. 176  circulating medium: money, avarice being the vice of old age (cf. DJ I, l. 1728). ll. 194–5  Gracchus . . . laws: Tiberius Gracchus, second-­century bce Roman ­tribune, known for demanding agrarian reform to benefit the poor. ll. 206–8  purple . . . Scarlet: Luke 16:19 and Revelation 17:4–5. l. 211  Dante’s obscure wood: the ‘selva oscura’ of life’s midway point, in the opening lines of Dante’s Inferno. l. 232  post: a bawdy pun. l. 239  pelisse: a fur jacket or coat. l. 251  Greek-­worship: Russian Orthodox Christianity.

1098

notes to pages 803–809

l. 280  sixty . . . fees: an exaggeration of William (‘Billy’ of st. 36) the Conqueror’s invading force in 1066, rewarded with titles and property. l. 282  Erneis . . . Radulphus: B’s half-­imagined ancestors, with a glance at Ralph de Burun (c.1080–c.1107). l. 290  plants called Sensitive: a species of plant (mimosa pudica) that closes or drops its leaves when touched, with sexual overtones. Cf. Percy Shelley’s 1820 poem, ‘The Sensitive Plant’. l. 294  Neva: river flowing through Saint Petersburg. l. 304  blue devils or a dun: depression and the demand for a debt, respectively. l. 314 Potemkin: Grigory Potemkin (1739–1791), Russian military leader and favourite of Catherine the Great. l. 320  fatigue of last campaign: sexual allusion. ll. 322–8  Sodæ-­Sulphat . . . capiendus: a formula of purgatives meant to produce sweats and vomiting; see CPW, 5:744 for a translation. ‘Cupping’ (l. 324) is a form of bloodletting, also thought curative. l. 330  Secundum artem: ‘according to art’ (Lat.). l. 333  hiatus maxime deflendus: ‘a hole much to be deplored’ (Lat.), said of literary works but here indicating a grave. l. 336  Baillie . . . Abernethy: Drs Matthew Baillie (1761–1823) and John Abernathey (1764–1831), both known for plain speech. ll. 359–60  Thetis . . . possidetis: Thetis, a Greek sea nymph and mother of Achilles, used here to refer to the right of the seas by possession (‘uti possidetis’, Lat.), especially after Trafalgar (1805). The stanza as a whole refers to negotiations producing a British-­Russian commercial treaty (1791–1793). l. 373  climacteric: menopause. l. 389  Barouche: horse drawn carriage with collapsible hood. l. 392n  in the year . . . forget which: This was 1787. Iphigenia was the daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. In Euripides’s Iphegenia in Tauris, Artemis saves her from sacrifice and installs her in Tauris, the present-­day Crimea. l. 412  Cuvier: Georges Cuvier (1773–1838), French naturalist and expert on fossils; see DJ IX, sts. 37–8. ll. 423–4  sister . . . missed her: alluding to B’s half-­sister, Augusta Leigh. ll. 426–8  ancient . . . Alkali: adding acid to an alkali produces gas; ancient lovers need younger ones to activate them. l. 460n  Courland: a Polish Baltic province, present-­day western Latvia; Ernest John Biron (1690–1772) was created Duke of Courland by Empress Anne in 1737. l. 461  modern Mars: Napoleon, whose disastrous march on Moscow in 1812 contributed to his eventual loss of power. ll. 465–6  Oh! . . . Guard!: exclamation by Napoleon (a ‘God of Clay’ post-­Waterloo) at the Elysée Bourbon in June 1815 when advised on the need for defence. l. 468  Castlereagh: Viscount Castlereagh, who committed suicide in 1822, was the frequent subject of B’s attacks. l. 471 Kosciusko: Tadeusz Kosciuszko (1746–1817), Polish patriot who resisted Russian invasion in 1792. l. 472  Hecla: a volcano in Iceland.



notes to pages 809–816

1099

ll. 474–6  Konigsberg . . . Kant: Konigsberg, former capital of Prussia and home to Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), key figure in modern critical philosophy. l. 488  half-­seas-­over: intoxicated. ll. 496n  St. Ursula . . . as ever: The bones can still be seen at the Basilica of St Ursula in Cologne, though the number of martyrs is an exaggeration. l. 499  juniper . . . juice: gin, whose distillation was developed in seventeenth-­century Netherlands, and subsequently associated with all manner of vice when popularized in early eighteenth-­century Britain. l. 512  cliffs: chalk cliffs of Dover. ll. 526–8  Seven . . . devil: B writes in 1822, just under seven years after leaving England in 1816; transportation, or criminal deportation, often carried a sentence of seven years. l. 548  running mucks: running amok. l. 567  schnapps . . . Ferflucter: schnapps, German brandy; the other two words are German curses. B claimed ignorance of German but awareness of German curses, learned from ‘postillions and officers in a squabble’. See BLJ, 8:25–6. l. 578  Black Edward’s . . . stone: Canterbury Cathedral holds com­mem­ora­tive plaques for Edward, Black Prince of Wales (1330–1376), father of Richard II and ­military leader who helped win his first major battle at Crécy in 1346 (st. 74); St Thomas à Becket (1119–1170), Archbishop of Canterbury, assassinated by agents of King Henry II (the ‘Churchman’ of st. 74). l. 579  Bedral: sexton of the cathedral. l. 596  Nazarenes: Christians, with reference to the Crusades. l. 600  pearls to swine: Matthew 7:6. l. 615  kick . . . pricks: to hurt oneself in useless resistance. See Acts 9:5 and 26:14. ll. 621–2  Phaeton’s . . . son: Phaethon, son of Helios, lost control of the sun chariot and was killed by Zeus. l. 624  Surgit amari aliquid: ‘something bitter arises’ (Latin); Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, book 4. l. 627 Machiavel: Niccolò Machiavelli (1469–1527), Florentine author of The Prince (1513). B refers to chapter 27. ll. 638–40 Cockney . . . Shooter’s Hill: Cockneys are natives of East London; Shooter’s Hill is in present day Greenwich, one of the highest points in London with an expansive view of the city. l. 643  Devil’s drawing-­room: See Tobias Smollett, Roderick Random (1748), ch. 18. l. 655  huge, dun cupola: St Paul’s cathedral. l. 670  Mrs. Fry: Elizabeth Fry (1780–1845), crusader for reform of Newgate Prison (st. 85). l. 675  C—­lt—­n: Carlton House, Pall Mall, home to the notoriously debauched Prince Regent. l. 685  Sir W—­ll—­m C—­t—s is a bore: William Curtis (1752–1829), Tory Lord Mayor of London and MP, who visited Scotland with George IV in 1822 and wore a kilt (‘Highland dresses’, l. 682). l. 696  Roland . . . battle: Roncesevalles (Roncevaux), where part of Charlemagne’s army under the command of Roland was routed by Basques in 778 bce, the subject of the French romance The Song of Roland (eleventh century bce).

1100

notes to pages 816–823 Canto XI

l. 1  Berkeley: George Berkeley (1685–1753), Anglican bishop and phil­oso­pher, claimed in On the Principles of Human Knowledge (1734) that reality is to be found in the non-­material and spiritual realm and hence that matter does not exist except as a projection of the mind. B’s critique of such Platonic idealism as ‘universal Egotism’ extends through the first five stanzas in which B asserts his sceptical materialism. l. 18  dainty Ariel: Shakespeare, The Tempest, V.i. l. 26  old Text: the Bible. l. 37  phthisical: consumptive, emaciated. l. 49  Acropolis: hill overlooking Athens (‘Attica’) and site of the Parthenon. l. 51  Constantinople: capital of the Byzantine and then the Ottoman empire. l. 52  Tombuctoo: Timbuctoo, key trading centre for the Muslim world. l. 54  Nineveh: capital of the Babylonian empire. l. 57  Shooter’s Hill: in present day Greenwich, one of the highest points in London then a rumoured lair for robbers with an expansive view of the city. l. 81  pads: footpad, an archaic term for a robber who preys on pedestrians. l. 109  Moon’s late minion: in Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, I.ii, Falstaff calls thieves ‘minions of the moon’. ll. 122–3  Hold . . . max: flash slang, trendy in Regency society. In this lexicon, ‘got my gruel’ is to be killed and ‘max’ is gin. See ‘Vocabulary of the Flash Language’ in Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux (1819) and Pierce Egan’s Tom and Jerry (1821). ll. 133–5  kiddy . . . diddled: more flash slang; kiddy, low class thief trying to pass for gentility; varmint, skilled amateur; real swell, well-­dressed person; full flash, putting on a manner and appearance in order to be noticed; diddled, cheated. l. 139  Crowner’s ’quest: coroner’s inquest; see Shakespeare, Hamlet, V.i. ll. 148–52  ken . . . knowing: ken, the Magistrate’s court, where criminal proceedings begin, was in Bow-­street. Moore (1832) provides the following glosses: ken, a house that harbors thieves; spellken, the playhouse; queer a flat, to puzzle or confound a gull, or silly fellow; high toby-­spice, robbery on horseback; flash the muzzle, to swagger openly; lark, fun or sport of any kind; his blowing, a pickpocket’s trull [sex-­worker]; so swell, so gentlemanly; To be nuts upon, is, to be very much pleased or gratified with, any thing: thus, a person who conceived a strong inclination for another of the opposite sex is said to be quite nutty upon him or her.—Slang Dictionary. l. 156  Thamis: the Thames river. l. 159  Kennington . . . tons: Kennington, elegant area in south London; ‘ton’ (or town) puns on the ‘bon ton’, a term for the fashionable world. l. 162  lucus: lucus a non lucendo (Lat.), a grove excluding light and shorthand for absurd derivation. See DJ VI, l. 437. l. 171  purl: a wormwood ale. ll. 188–9  Westminster’s . . . shrine: Westminster Abbey with its shrine, Poet’s Corner. l. 193  Druids: ancient British pagans who worshipped at Stonehenge. l. 195  Bedlam: Bethlehem Royal Hospital, the first mental hospital in London.



notes to pages 823–831

1101

l. 198  Mansion House: Lord Mayor’s official residence. ll. 207–8  lanthorn . . . turn: Aristocrats and clergy were hung from lampposts during the French Revolution. l. 214 Ignis-­fatuus: literally ‘foolish fire’ (Lat.), a reference to light sometimes appearing on marshy ground that deceives travellers but more generally to anything deluding, as B here describes the Enlightenment and Revolution. ll. 217–18 Diogenes . . . man: Greek philosopher (412–323 bce) associated with Cynicism, who is apocryphally reported, lamp in hand, to have searched Athens in vain for an honest man. l. 236  Paphians: prostitutes; from Paphos, birthplace of the goddess of love. l. 239  Malthus: Thomas Robert Malthus (1766–1834), voiced alarm about population growth in Essay on the Principle of Population (1798). l. 270  lucubrations: meditations, late-­night studies. l. 299  Te Deum: early Christian hymn of praise beginning ‘Te Deum laudamus’ (Lat.), or ‘God we praise thee’. l. 303  Green Erin: Ireland, a reference to the warm public welcome extended to George IV on his visit in 1821. l. 309  ivresse: drunkenness, euphoria (Fr.). l. 318  House of Office: punning reference to the archaic term for privy. l. 329  empressement: effusive attention (Fr.). l. 336  Billingsgate: London fish market, a place known for swearing and cursing. l. 337 Attic: standard classical Greek dialect, here associated with aristocratic refinement. ll. 354–5  West . . . thousand: the west was the more fashionable, aristocratic side of London. This select group of ‘twice two thousand’ to which B refers was called the ‘ton’ (French for ‘style’) during the late Regency. l. 366  rib’s . . . side: woman, first created from Adam’s rib (according to the Bible), cramps the style of a straying husband, or ‘Gallant’. l. 373  flaws or starts: Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.iv. l. 393  Blues: literary women, or bluestockings. l. 400  Ilion: Troy, whose location was a fashionable subject of speculation. l. 402  Drawcansir: boastful character in George Villiers’s The Rehersal (1671). l. 407  Hippocrene: spring of the Muses on Mt. Helicon. l. 414  Hercules Furens: drama by Seneca (4 bce–65 ce). l. 416  Common-­place book: a scrapbook of favourite quotations. l. 427  Banquo’s glass: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV.i. l. 438  foolscap: a standard size of paper, roughly 8″ × 13″. ll. 441–8  Moscow . . . Lowe: B here replays his career through Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, loss at Leipzig, and his definitive defeat at Waterloo. Napoleon referred to this after the nearby slope, Mont St-­Jean. La Belle Alliance was the quadruple ­alliance of England, Austria, Prussia, and Russia. When Napoleon was exiled to St Helena, Sir Hudson Lowe was the governor. l. 449  Sir Walter . . . Campbell: Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832), Thomas Moore (1779–1852), and Thomas Campbell (1777–1844) were all poets B favoured. l. 451  Sion’s hill: Mount Zion, location of the temple at Jerusalem.

1102

notes to pages 831–834

ll. 453–6: asterisks were used to replace lines satirizing the Rev. George Croly (1780–1860), a prolific minor author: And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble   Beneath the reverend Cambyses Croly, Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol—“by these Hilts!” Cf. Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV, II.iv. ll. 457–64: This stanza appeared as asterisks in the first edition and was first printed in 1837: Still he excels that artificial hard   Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine Yields him but vinegar for his reward,—   That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine; That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard; 460   That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line:— Cambyses’ roaring Romans beat at least The howling Hebrews of Cybele’s priest.— The ‘Laborer’ is Henry Hart Milman (1791–1868), historian and minor poet thought by B to be the author of a harsh dismissal of Keats in the 1818 Quarterly Review. Dorus was founder of the ancient Greek Dorians; Sporus was a young boy favoured by the Roman emperor Nero; Cambyses refers to the rulers of the Persian Achaemenid dynasty; ‘howling Hebrews’ satirizes Milman’s Fall of Jerusalem (1820); Cybele is an Anatolian mother goddess and later object of Roman cult worship. l. 465  Euphues: B’s nickname for Bryan Waller Proctor (pseud. Barry Cornwall, 1787–1874), author of the ottava rima poem, ‘Diego de Montilla’. l. 471  Bœotian . . . Landor: inhabitant of Boetia, considered boorish; Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864), poet and friend of Southey. ll. 473–80  Keats . . . Article: a reference to Keats’s mythological poem Endymion, savaged by John Wilson Croker in the 1818 Quarterly Review. l. 479n  Divinæ Particulam Auræ: from Horace, Satires 2.2, a fragment of the divine spirit (Lat.). ll. 487–8  thirty Mock tyrants: According to the Historia Augusta, there were over thirty pretenders to the throne during the reign of emperor Gallienus (253–268 ce); see Gibbon, Decline and Fall, vol. 1, ch. 10. l. 490  Prætorian: Gibbon reports that the Praetorian Guard offered the empire by public sale, see Decline and Fall, vol. 1, ch. 5. l. 491  dreadful . . . samphire: Shakespeare, King Lear, IV.vi. l. 495  Janizaries: Janissaries were Turkish soldiers guarding the sultan. l. 516  Centaur ­Nessus: Hercules was killed by a garment soaked in the poisonous blood of the Centaur Nessus. l. 526  bower: See Thomas Moore’s ‘Song’, beginning ‘Where is the nymph’ (1801). l. 536  Or Molu: gilded furniture decorations popular during the Regency.



notes to pages 834–838

1103

l. 548  Jack Horner: in the eighteenth-­century nursery rhyme, ‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner’. l. 560  quadrille: a square dance popular in the Regency. l. 572  bogle: goblin (Scots dialect). l. 573  crupper: strap on the rear of a saddle. l. 590  rack and manger: waste and destruction. l. 594  sou: a French coin of little value. l. 596  Jew: that is, a moneylender. ll. 601–2 Where . . . born?: quoting Edward Young (1683–1765) from his letter, ‘Thoughts for Age’ (1755): ‘Where is that world into which you and I were born? It is under-­g round’. ll. 609–16  Napoleon . . .rents: Aside from Napoleon whose wars and eventual defeat marked the era, the figures in these stanzas, now mostly dead, defined Regency society and would have been encountered by B during his Years of Fame (1812-­16): Viscount Castlereagh (1769–1822), loathed by B, committed suicide in 1822; Henry Grattan (1746–1820), John Philpot Curran (1750–1817), and Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751–1816) were all prominent Whig MPs and statesmen (Sheridan was also an important playwright and theatre figure); the unhappy Queen Caroline (1768–1821) was mother of Princess Charlotte (1796–1817), beloved by reformers, who died in childbirth. Five per Cents were speculative bonds, while the Rents are monies B would have expected from his landholdings. ll. 617–24  Brummel . . . scratching: Beau Brummell (1778–1840) and William Pole Tylney Long Wellesley (1788–1857), were iconic Regency dandies who fell on hard times; Samuel Whitbread (1764–1815) and Samuel Romilly (1757–1818) were key Whig politicians who committed suicide; the two wills of King George III led to a dispute between George IV and his brother, the Duke of York; the remaining references in the stanza are to a Thomas Moore satire (in The Fudge Family in Paris) of George IV, whose visit to Scotland B ridicules. Sawney, a disparaging word for a Scot, while ‘caw me, caw thee’, means scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. ll. 631–2 Grenvilles . . . Whigs: George Grenville (1712–1770) and his son William Wyndham, Baron Grenville (1759–1834) were both reformist Whigs who became Tories. The Whigs remained out of power through the Regency and during George IV’s reign. l. 633 Lady . . . Franceses: Lady Caroline Lamb (1785–1828) and Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster (1793–1837); both had love affairs with B (and others). ll. 658–9 Duke . . . politician: Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington (1769–1852) who entered politics in 1818. l. 661  blue Peter: nautical flag announcing immediate departure. l. 663  King . . . carest: King George IV was hissed during the 1820 divorce trial of Queen Caroline (‘that sad affair’ of st. 84) and admired on his 1821 visit to Ireland. l. 666  Southcote: Joanna Southcott (1750–1850) fanatic religious prophetess. l. 670  Congress: the Congress of Verona (1822), part of the re-­establishment of monarchies in Europe after the defeat of Napoleon. ll. 677–8  people . . . horseback: the Peterloo Massacre (August 1819), when cavalry soldiers charged a popular political gathering, killing approximately a dozen protestors.

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notes to pages 838–847

ll. 678–9  malt . . . potations: the diluting of beer to avoid the malt tax. Cf. Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV, IV.ii. l. 681  Carpe diem: seize the day (Lat.). ll. 684–5  Life’s . . . villains: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV.v and 1 Henry IV, II.iv. l. 693  Atalantis: Delariver Manley’s roman à clef The New Atlantis (1709), a political satire lamenting the exploitation of women.

from JOURNAL IN CEPHALONIA (19 JUNE AND 28 SEPTEMBER 1823) B kept this journal very briefly after arriving in Cephalonia on 3 August. The opening poetic lines were first published in Letters and Journals (1901), 6:238, with the following note: ‘Byron told Dr. Henry Muir, the health officer of Argostoli, that he began to keep a Journal when he first came to Cephalonia, but that he left it off because he could not help abusing the Greeks in it. The fragment of the Journal here printed is that to which he alluded’. This is misleading: B wrote these lines on 19 June 1823, before he left Genoa for Greece, but they do come at the head of the journal. p. 840  Capt. B[laquiere]: Edward Blaquiere (1779–1832), politically liberal naval lieutenant and founding member of the London Philhellenic Committee (‘the Committee in England’), which sought to raise funds in support of the Greek War of Independence from Ottoman rule. p. 841  Mavrocordato: Alexandros Mavrokordatos (1791–1865), Greek statesman and military commander, and friend of Shelley who fought in the Greek War of Independence. p. 841  Colocotroni: Theodoros Kolokotronis (1770–1843), Greek general and eventually commander-­in-­chief of Greek forces in the Greek War of Independence. p. 842  Bozzari: Markos Botsaris (1778–1823): Greek general and national hero who died fighting in the Greek War of Independence.

DON JUAN XII–XIII–XIV (1823) B wrote these cantos of Don Juan from November 1822 through February 1823. As with earlier cantos, Mary Shelley made fair copies of the drafts. B sent the fair copy of Canto XII to Kinnaird on 14 December 1822, and the other two cantos in the first half of March 1823. B corrected at least partial proofs in the late spring and summer, and John Hunt published this instalment on 17 December 1823, printing 1250 copies in octavo, 2500 in duodecimo, and 15,000 in octodecimo (see Leslie Marchand, ‘John Hunt as Byron’s Publisher’, Keats–Shelley Journal 8:2 (Autumn 1959), 131). The edition retains the Twelfth Night epigraph used for Cantos VI–VIII and IX–XI. We take as our source text Hunt’s octodecimo edition, which had by far the largest print run, as explained more fully in the Note on the Texts. In Cantos XII–XVI, Don Juan shifts its English location from London to Norman Abbey, closely modelled on B’s ancestral home, Newstead Abbey, in Nottinghamshire.



notes to pages 847–852

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The scenes here recall his specific memories at Newstead and the other large country estates of the Regency aristocracy, circa 1812–1815. These cantos evoke the world of the eighteenth-­century domestic novel, particularly borrowing from Henry Fielding, Tobias Smollett, and Laurence Sterne. And they draw on the gothic tradition, including most directly Thomas Love Peacock’s Melincourt, reframing in a comic key the conventions of the gothic that also characterized B’s own earlier tales such as Lara. All the while, the poem casts a gimlet eye on the foibles of the English noble classes, though not without overtones of regret for the world that B had left behind.

Canto XII l. 7  foolscap: a standard size of paper, roughly 8″ × 13″. l. 32  bark of vapour: a boat made of air, with reference to the newly invented steamboat (1807); see l. 165. l. 35  patriots: the Descamisados (the shirtless multitudes) of the Spanish Revolution (1820–1823). l. 40  Rothschild . . . Baring: Nathan Mayer Rothschild (1777–1836) and Alexander Baring, 1st Baron Ashburton (1774–1848), both prominent financiers. l. 41  Lafitte: Jacques Lafitte (1767–1844), governor of the Bank of France, who, along with Rothschild, Baring, and other powerful bankers, underwrote French loans during the restoration of the Bourbons. ll. 46–8  Columbia’s . . . Jew: Columbia, the United States of America. After gaining its independence from Spain in 1821, Peru issued stocks and bonds on the London Stock Exchange (’Change), based on their silver mines and promising large profits to investors. ll. 68–9  Ceres . . . Aurora’s lip: Ceres was the Roman goddess of agriculture, a reference here to grain. Aurora was the goddess of the dawn. l. 89  rouleaus: rolls of gold coins. l. 91  Victors: the insignia of ancient kings and generals which adorn old (worn, less valuable, non-­circulating) coins. ll. 97–8  Love . . . bard: Sir Walter Scott, The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) Canto 3, st. 2, ll. 5–7. l. 108  Malthus . . . brides: Thomas Malthus (1766–1834), whose Essay on the Principle of Population (1798) recommends that men without sufficient income delay marriage. See also DJ XV, st. 38. l. 110  Virgin Cynthia: referring to Artemis, Greek goddess of the moon. l. 119  banns: public announcement of a wedding, made in a church. l. 127  Jeffrey: Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850), prominent reviewer and critic; see the Edinburgh Review (February 1822). l. 152n  Mitford’s Greece: William Mitford (1744–1827) wrote a five-­volume History of Greece (1784–1810). ll. 157–60  Malthus . . . writes: See note to DJ XII, l. 108 above; Malthus was married with children. William Wilberforce (1759–1833) was a British political leader who fought against the slave trade. Wellington, in defeating Napoleon, has ‘enslaved the whites’ by enabling the restoration of the European monarchies.

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notes to pages 852–869

l. 170  Philo-­genitiveness: love of procreation or sex. l. 194  Paulo Majora: more elevated topics. ll. 205–6  ass spake to Balaam: Numbers 12:1–34. l. 240  Hallam’s Middle Ages: Henry Hallam, View of the State of Europe in the Middle Ages (1818). l. 245  rout: an evening party at which a young woman might be presented (brought ‘out’) to society. l. 250  out-­at-­elbow: wearing threadbare clothes, impoverished. l. 253  ’tis gold that glisters: Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, II.vii. l. 261  Tantæne!: ‘So ferocious!’ Cf. Virgil, Aeneid, 1.11. l. 293n  This line may puzzle . . .: In 1814, the insane third Lord of Portsmouth (1767–1853) was rushed into marriage with Mary Anne, the daughter of B’s friend, John Hanson. See BB, 1:439–42. ll. 297–8  modern . . . true: Shakespeare, As You Like It, II.vii and Hamlet, II.ii. ll. 335–6 Society for Vice Suppression: the Society for the Suppression of Vice (1802–1885) worked to suppress public immorality in England. l. 344  eschewed: here, a synonym for chewed. l. 366  Smithfield Show: a market for cattle and horses; a meat market. l. 406  Lord Mayor’s barge: ceremonial ship used on state occasions. l. 408  Cytherea: Venus, goddess of love, often depicted travelling on a seashell. l. 454  ticket: a calling card or invitation. l. 460  royal game of Goose: a popular board game of the era. l. 470  Fishers for men: Matthew 4:19, Mark 1:17. l. 474  trepanned: snared or beguiled. l. 499  lee shore: a place to get stranded. l. 502 Werters: In Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s novel The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774), the hero kills himself for love. l. 535  bluer stockings: ‘bluestockings’, a term for intellectual women of B’s era. l. 536  double knockings: signals for secret lovers. l. 558  bos piger: slothful ox; see Horace, Epistles, 1.14.43. l. 571  phthisics: those suffering from tuberculosis. l. 593  barb: horse. l. 617  éclat: here, a scandal. ll. 622–4  Marius . . . Carthage: Gaius Marius (c.157–86 bce), banished from Rome to the ruined city of Carthage in 86 bce. ll. 626–7  Sin . . . forgiven: a conflation of John 8:3–11 and Luke 7:47–8. l. 656  Grey . . . Chatham gone: Juan arrives in London in the 1790s, between the eras of two admired orators: William Pitt (first Earl of Chatham) who died in 1778, and Charles (second Earl Grey), who became foreign secretary in 1806. l. 666  Prince: George, then Prince of Wales, who had become the un­popu­lar Prince Regent and then King George IV during B’s lifetime. ll. 706–8  Public Hedge . . . break: i.e., there is no way to make money in investments, so B proposes to show people how to break from the markets.



notes to pages 870–880

1107

Canto XIII l. 34  placemen: political appointees. l. 50n  Samuel Johnson (1709–1784) praised Dr Bathurst for being ‘a good hater’. l. 56 Mephistopheles: in Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s Faust (1808), the Devil is ­notably detached and cynical. ll. 63–4  Cervantes . . . Quixote: Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616), Spanish author whose masterpiece Don Quixote (1605, 1615) satirizes idealistic heroism and chivalry. l. 89  old Lunes: recurrent fits of madness; Shakespeare, Merry Wives of Windsor, IV.ii. l. 96  Œdipus . . . Sphinx: in Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex (429 bce), Oedipus solves the riddle of the Sphinx to win the throne of Thebes. l. 98  Davus sum: ‘I am Davus!’ (Lat.), the response of a slave who asserts he is ‘not Oedipus’ and thus cannot be expected to solve riddles; Terence, Andria (166 bce), I.ii.23. ll. 131–2  Persians . . . Medes: ‘the law of the Medes and Persians, which altereth not’, Daniel 6:8. l. 133  tertians: recurrent fevers. ll. 137–8 ’Tis not . . . don’t deserve it: reversing a proverbial quote from Joseph Addison’s Cato (1712) 1.2. ll. 187–8  Ins and Outs . . . Freemasonry: Juan is liked by members of political parties both in and out of power and respected as if he has been promoted to high levels of brotherhood in the Freemasons. l. 193  squares: military formations, here a figure for decorum. l. 195  sow . . . wheat with tares: echoing Matthew 13:24–30. l. 201n  With every thing . . . arise: Shakespeare, Cymbeline, II.iii. ll. 209–10  Piccadilly . . . peccadillos: B lived at 13 Piccadilly Square in London in 1815–1816 during the first tumultuous year of his marriage, which ended in separation. l. 218  recherché: eagerly sought-­after (Fr.). ll. 225–6  there’s safety . . . counsellors: Proverbs 11:14, 24:6. l. 273  Nil admirari: ‘wonder at nothing’ (Lat.), a Horatian motto for happiness (Epistles 1.6); cf. DJ V, l. 800. ll. 283–8 Volcano . . . smothers: B uses the volcano metaphor frequently. See, for example, DJ II, st. 186; CHP IV, st. 51; and Giaour, ll. 1099–102. ll. 291–6 Frozen . . . shape: The metaphor is borrowed from Sir Walter Scott’s review of CHP IV in the Quarterly Review (April 1818), 220. ll. 305–12  North-­West Passage . . . lost: Sir William Parry (1790–1835) among other British captains commanded failed expeditions seeking a water route to the Pacific (and India) through the Arctic Ocean. l. 318  Fuimus: ‘we have been’ (Lat.); see Virgil, Aeneid, 2.325. ll. 325–6 Persian . . . Principles: The ancient Persian religion Zoroastrianism is structured upon two opposing Principles: Light/Good (Ormazd) and Darkness/Evil (Ahriman). B’s Cain and Manfred both show its influence. l. 334  Man’s pity’s: printed as ‘man’s pity’ in the Hunt first editions, an error marring the sense of the passage.

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notes to pages 880–888

ll. 347–9  Carlton palace . . . Rotten Row: Carlton House was the home of the Prince Regent (by 1823, George IV); fashionable Soho lies to the northeast. Rotten Row takes its name from the route du roi, a Hyde Park bridlepath between Kensington Palace and St James’s. l. 353n  Arcades Ambo: two of a kind (Lat.), in Virgil, Eclogues, 7.4. See also DJ IV, l. 744. l. 354  Greek Kalends: an epithet for ‘never’, as it was the Romans (and not the Greeks) who called the first day of each month the kalends. l. 369  dickey: exterior seat at the back of the carriage. l. 373  Cosi Viaggino i Ricchi: ‘Thus the rich travel!’ (It.). l. 390  covers: tablecloths or coverings, laden with food and drink. l. 418  Thirty Nine: the Thirty Nine Articles of faith to which Anglican priests subscribe. l. 422  Pope . . . dine: in the Dunciad (1729), Alexander Pope (1688–1744) offers this description of gormandizing while travelling abroad (4.318). l. 432  Gazette: military gazettes that reported casualties; see DJ VIII, sts. 18–19 and passim. l. 433  Norman Abbey: a fictional version of Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire, which B inherited with his title and sold in 1818 to pay his debts. l. 443  Caractacus: ancient British king (c.10–51 ce) who resisted the Romans for nine years until his defeat in 51 ce. l. 476  war . . . Charles: English Civil Wars (1642–1651), in which Charles I was executed and Oliver Cromwell assumed power. The Byrons were raised to the peerage for their service to Charles and the Stuart monarchy (the Cavaliers) during these wars. ll. 507–8  Memnon’s statue . . . hour: an ancient Egyptian monument to Memnon, King of Ethiopia, which was said to emit strange music when struck by sunlight; see Tacitus, Annals, 2.61. l. 543  Sir Peter Lely: Dutch portraitist (1618–1680) who painted for the English court and whose subjects include Eleanor Needham, Lady Byron (1627–1664). l. 552  Star Chamber . . . Habeas Corpus: secret punitive trials versus open fair ones. l. 554  Lead had ta’en the lead: before firearms had made armour less effective. l. 555 Marlborough: John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough (1650–1722), English military commander during the War of Spanish Succession (1701–1708), often painted in an oversized wig, the fashion of the time. l. 557  staves . . . gold: emblems of state officials and the Lord Chamberlain. l. 558  Nimrod: legendary Assyrian hunter; see Genesis 10:8–10. ll. 563–7  Carlo Dolce . . . Spagnoletto: a catalogue of paintings by masters including Carlo Dolci (1618–1686), Titian (1477–1576), Salvator Rosa (1617–1673), Francesco Albani (1578–1660), Joseph Vernet (1712–1789), and Jusepe de Ribera—‘Lo Spagnoletto’ (1591–1652). ll. 569–73  Lorraine . . . Teniers: B continues his catalogue of paintings, evoking works by Claude Lorraine (1600–1682), Rembrandt (1606–1669), Caravaggio (1565–1609), and David Teniers (1610–1690). l. 575n  exquisite in their drinking: Shakespeare, Othello, II.iii. l. 588  Dan Phœbus: Apollo, Greek god of poetry, who may object to B’s auctioneer-­ like description of Norman Abbey.



notes to pages 888–897

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l. 590  Homer’s . . . Ships: See Homer, Iliad, 2.484–762, an extensive description of the Greek ships arrayed against Troy. l. 602  Bacchant coronals: grape-­laden vines to crown a Bacchante, or maiden of Bacchus, god of wine. l. 617  villeggiatura: holiday in the countryside (It.). l. 622 Melton jacket: a wool twill coat made in Melton Mowbray, a town in Leicestershire known as the traditional centre of English fox-­hunting. l. 626  give the sex the pas: ladies first. l. 634  lie: lee or lees; the dregs. ll. 645–6  Aroint Thee . . . Jason: ‘Begone!’ Taken from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, I.iii or King Lear, III.iv. Medea revenges herself on her husband Jason who abandons her in Euripedes’s Medea (431 bce). ll. 647–8  Horace . . . dulci: quoting Horace’s Art of Poetry, 1.343: ‘the one who has combined the useful with the pleasant gets all the votes’ (Lat.). l. 655  Siria: female version of Sirius, the dog-­star (i.e., the bitch-­star). l. 660  Brahmins of the ton: Brahmins are the highest caste of Hindus; the ton is the bon-­ton, the world of fashion and wealth. l. 664  Irish absentees: absentee landlords who own estates in Ireland. l. 665  Parolles: boastful coward from Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well, referring to B’s enemy Henry Brougham (1778–1868), a British lawyer and statesman. For other possible identifications of the following characters with people B knew, see DJV, 4:254–7 and CPW, 5:758. ll. 674–5 Aye . . . Charlemagne’s: Shakespeare, King Lear, IV.vi. Charlemagne is given twelve paladins (‘twelve peers’), including Roland, in medieval romances. l. 683  preux Chevalier de la Ruse: literally, a gallant knight of trickery (Fr.). l. 736  Cato: either Cato the Younger (95–46 bce), Roman statesman and orator who opposed Caesar, or Joseph Addison’s Cato (see note to DJ XIII, ll. 137–8). l. 738  Æolian harp: a stringed instrument played by the wind, like a wind-­chime; Aeolus was the Greek god of the winds. l. 750 Congreve’s fool . . . Moliere’s bête: probably Sir Joseph Wittol in William Congreve’s The Old Bachelor (1693) and Monsieur Jourdain in Moliere’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (1670); bête, fool (Fr.). l. 764  Boaz . . . Ruth: In the Book of Ruth, Boaz, a wealthy landowner, asks his harvesters to leave grain for Ruth, a widow in difficult circumstances. His kindness leads her to offer herself in marriage. ll. 774–5  List . . . Ghost: Shakespeare, Hamlet, I.v, I.iv. l. 776  bon mots: intelligent remarks (Fr.). l. 793  flow’d with milk and honey: Exodus 3.8. l. 817  gêné: constrained (Fr.). ll. 838–9  Ulysses’  . . . Dolon: In Iliad, book 10, Ulysses kills Dolon, a Trojan spy. l. 875  Phidian . . . Attic: relating to Phidias, a fifth-­century bce Athenian (‘Attic’) sculptor. ll. 876–9  Squire Westerns . . . Jones: Squire Western, Sophia, and Tom Jones are all characters in Henry Fielding’s novel Tom Jones (1749), one of B’s favourite novels.

1110

notes to pages 898–908 Canto XIV

ll. 6–8  Saturn . . . bones: Fearing his children would depose him, the Titan Saturn ate all of them except Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto—­all three protected by their mother, the goddess Rhea, who gave Saturn stones to eat in their place. See Hesiod’s Theogony and Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura. l. 56  common . . . places: Cf. epigraph to DJ I–V, from Horace: ‘Difficile est proprie communia dicere’ (Lat.): ‘it is hard to speak of common things’. ll. 57–8  Bacon . . . blows: Francis Bacon (1561–1626), great British humanist and polymath, wrote about wind direction in Sylva Sylvarum; or, a Natural History, no. 20 (1627). l. 65  The . . . behind: echoing the ending of John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667) as Adam and Eve leave Eden, ‘The world was all before them’ (12.646). l. 81  why then publish: See Alexander Pope, Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735), l. 135. l. 92  the Nine: the Muses. l. 111  portmanteaus: large trunks, commonly lined with discarded paper. l. 143  ci-­devant jeunes hommes: once young men (Fr.); older men clinging to youth. l. 147  Monde: world (Fr.), but implying society and the beautiful people, the Beau Monde of l. 154. ll. 161–2  Haud . . . part: slightly altered from Virgil’s Aeneid, 2.91: ‘I speak of things I know’ and ‘trifling matters in which I have played a small part’ (Lat.). l. 167  Vetabo . . . vulgaret: ‘I will forbid him who has revealed the sacred rites of Ceres’ (Lat.), Horace, Odes, 3. l. 170  Freemasons: secret fraternal guild. l. 172  Parry’s . . . Jason’s: refers to the Arctic expedition of Sir William Parry in the early nineteenth century and to Jason’s mythical quest for the Golden Fleece. l. 173  Arcanum: great secret. l. 174  diapasons: bursts of harmony. l. 213  Damasque: damask, a rich, patterned fabric. l. 218  Sirocco: dry Mediterranean wind blowing from the Sahara across the north coast of Africa. l. 248  coxcombry: foppishness, dandyism. 1. 259n  On ‘vaulting Ambition’, see Shakespeare, Macbeth, I.vii. l. 269  Nestor: wise elder warrior in Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. l. 272  whipper-­in: huntsman’s assistant who keeps the pack together. l. 277  Chesterfield: Philip Dorner Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield (1694–1773), British statesman and author. l. 298  Angles: post-­Roman Germanic settlers of England. l. 307  swift Camilla: Alexander Pope, Essay on Criticism (1711); Jerome McGann, in CPW, also points to Virgil, Aeneid, book 7. l. 312  Bolero: Spanish dance. ll. 313–15  Hour . . . Rome: ceiling fresco by Guido Reni (1575–1642) at Palazzo Rospigliosi, Rome, seen by B in 1817. ll. 327–8  tracasserie . . . agacerie: mischief and flirtatiousness (Fr.). l. 331  grand Monde: high society.



notes to pages 909–919

1111

l. 363  Dian . . . Ephesians: goddess of chastity and the hunt (Roman), worshipped at Ephesus. l. 372  Brussels lace: delicate pillow-­lace. l. 377  Job . . .two friends: Job 2:11 notes three friends. l. 399  bonos mores: good manners or morals. l. 440  the Happiest of Men: stock phrase for married men; cf. BLJ, 4:150–1. l. 462  Simooms: hot, dusty desert winds. l. 464  Peer’s “Content”: word for formal assent in House of Lords. l. 473  éclat: scandal (Fr.). l. 493  Doctors’ Commons: civil court commonly associated with divorce. l. 497  Intrigante: intrigante, thriving on intrigue (Fr.). l. 498  méchante: wicked, mischievous (Fr.). l. 506  Werter: hero of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther (1774), who commits suicide over unrequited love. l. 518  Siren: mythological creatures who lure sailors to shipwreck with their music. See Homer, Odyssey, book 12. l. 532  bienséance: politeness (Fr.). l. 537  Privy: toilet humour; a latrine and body of private counsellors. l. 539  Livy: Titus Livius Patavinus (59 bce–17 ce), chronicler of ancient Rome. l. 555  state divan: council of state. l. 558  star and string: medal or decoration like the Order of the Garter. ll. 574–5  Dardan boy . . . Menelaus: Paris, who seduced Menelaus’s wife, Helen, and started the Trojan War. l. 578  Tiresias: mythical double-­sexed prophet. l. 593  Love in Idleness: Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, II.i. l. 600  Voilà la Pervenche: literally, ‘Look, a periwinkle!’ (Fr.), a key episode in Jean-­ Jacques Rousseau, Confessions (1782), 6. ll. 607–8  Argo . . . Medea: Jason’s ship that brought Medea along with the Golden Fleece; cf. note to DJ XIV, l. 172 above. ll. 609–11  Beatus . . . sociis: ‘Happy is the man far from business’, the opening of Horace, Epode, 2. The ‘other maxim’, not Horatian, translates as ‘he is known by his company’, also a legal principle of interpretation based on context. l. 631  Blue devils, and Blue-­stockings: the blues (or depression) and female intellectuals. l. 641  An oyster . . . Love: Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The Critic (1779), III.vii. ll. 649–52  Wilberforce . . . Africa: William Wilberforce (1759–1833), British politician who led opposition to slavery (‘immense Colossus’) throughout his political career, but also dismissed by B, here as a canting do-­gooder. l. 657  Alexander: Emperor Alexander I of Russia (1777–1825). l. 658  Holy Three: the kings of Prussia, England, and Austria. l. 661  Salamander: front-­line soldier exposed to fire in battle. l. 663 King . . . Pavilion: The Royal Pavilion was George IV’s costly, tasteless Brighton palace. ll. 665–8  Bedlam . . . soi-­disant: The Bethlehem Royal hospital, nicknamed Bedlam, housed the mentally ill. l. 668  soi-­disant: so-­called (Fr.).

1112

notes to pages 919–928

ll. 671–2 point . . . Archimedes: third-­century bce mathematician, famous for his explanation of the lever (‘point d’appui’), among others. l. 683  Sysiphus: Sisyphus, a mythical Greek king condemned perpetually to roll a boulder up a hill, only to have it fall near the top. l. 692  Rhone . . . Leman’s: The Rhone river runs through Lake Geneva (Leman); cf. CHP III, sts. 60ff. l. 713 Bonaparte . . . Waterloo: site of Napoleon Bonaparte’s final defeat in June 1815. l. 731  Platonism: non-­sexual love. See DJ I, st. CXVI. l. 756  Solomon . . . Zany: Solomon provoked God’s wrath through his love for foreign women (2 Kings 11). ll. 759–60  wives . . . lives: alluding to Lady Byron. l. 761  female friends: those who stood by B include Augusta Leigh, Lady Melbourne, and Lady Oxford. l. 800 billiards: referring to B’s flirtation with Lady Frances Wedderburn (see Letter of 8 October 1813, pp. 140–2). l. 809  Antres . . . idle: Shakespeare, Othello, I.iii. l. 813  Anthropophagi: cannibals.

DON JUAN XV–XVI (1824) B wrote Canto XV of Don Juan between 8 and 25 March 1823. Mary Shelley made her fair copy by 29 March, at which point B sent it to Kinnaird for publication. John Hunt sent proofs in early May, which B corrected and returned on the 28th of that month. The next day, B began work on Canto XVI, the last one he would complete (for the surviving fragment of a seventeenth canto, see pp. 1017–20). Canto XVI was finished by 6 May, and sent to Kinnaird (presumably in the form of a fair copy by Mary Shelley) sometime before 21 May. Publisher John Hunt was slow to return proofs for this final canto, and B departed for Greece on 16 July 1823 before receiving them. A note at the conclusion of Canto XVI reads, ‘The errors of the press, in this Canto,— if there be any,—are not to be attributed to the Author, as he was deprived of the opportunity of correcting the proof sheets’. Hunt finally published this final instalment of Don Juan on 26 March 1824, mere weeks before B’s final illness and death in Messolonghi on 19 April. As with Cantos XII–XIV, no record survives of the print run, but it was almost certainly similar to that of Hunt’s previous cantos, i.e. 1500 copies in demy octavo, 2500 in duodecimo, and 17,000 in octodecimo. We take as our source text Hunt’s octodecimo edition, which had by far the largest print run, as explained more fully in our prefatory Note on the Texts. For more on these English cantos of Don Juan, see the headnotes to Cantos IX–X–XI and XII–XIII–XIV. l. 9  syncopé: fainting fit. l. 10  singultus: sob. l. 28  blue devils: depression. l. 51  Napoleon: gold coin.



notes to pages 929–943

1113

l. 60  by sap: by undermining, military term from siege and trench warfare. l. 64  Ransom: B’s bankers were Ransom and Morland. l. 87  Alcibiades: Athenian statesman and general (450–404 bce). l. 125  verbum sat: a word to the wise is enough (Lat.). l. 128  Raphael: Italian Renaissance artist (1483–1520). ll. 137–8  Locke . . . Socrates: John Locke (1632–1704), Francis Bacon (1561–1626), and Socrates (c.470–399 bce), all persecuted philosophers. l. 160  Improvisatore: poet who composes extempore, often in public. ll. 161–2 Omnia . . . male: Martial, Epigrams, 10.46, ‘Matho, you always wish to speak finely; speak sometimes merely well; sometimes neutral; sometimes even ill’ (Lat.). l. 180  dogs had had their day: Shakespeare, Hamlet, V.i. l. 190 Priscian: sixth-­century ce Latin grammarian, famous for Institutiones Grammaticae. l. 192  some one: Henry Brougham (1778–1868), attacked B’s Hours of Idleness in the Edinburgh Review. l. 193  laissez aller: let it go (Fr.). l. 196  Longinus: Cassius Longinus (213–273 ce), philosopher who wrote on the sublime. the Stagyrite: Aristotle (384–322 bce), author of the Poetics. ll. 214–15  cutter . . . pink: cutter, small single-­mast ship designed for speed; brigantine, larger, two-­masted ship; pink (pinque), a small, flat-­bottomed ship. l. 245  pelf: property, with dishonest associations. l. 273n Thomas Hulme’s Hints to Emigrants (1817), and the Harmony colony founded by Johann Georg Rapp (1757–1847). l. 290  Malthus: Thomas Malthus (1766–1834), author of An Essay on the Principle of Population (1798). l. 296  Catos: Cato the Elder (234–239 bce) was a famous stoic. l. 312 Holbein: Hans Holbein the Younger (1497–1543), artist and printmaker, famous for woodcut series ‘The Dance of Death’. l. 321  Miss Millpond: caricature of B’s wife, Annabella Millbanke. l. 331  star or bluestring: decorative symbols of aristocratic orders. l. 386  Brutus . . . Tiberius: Tiberius (42 bce–37 ce) banned the busts of Brutus and Cassius at a funeral for Cassius’s wife, Junia. Cf. Tacitus, Annals, 3.76, and CHP IV, st. 59. l. 423  Anthony’s by Caesar: Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.i. l. 430  Ignes Fatui: phosphorescence over marshy ground, also known as will-­’o-­ the-­wisps, literally, ‘foolish fire’ (Lat.), here referring to illusions generally. l. 446  Sibyl: prophetess. l. 467  Scott says . . . Warison: See Walter Scott, Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805), 4.24. l. 469  Saracen: Arab or Muslim. ll. 497–504  soupe . . . pork: The gastronomic details in this stanza and those that follow are taken from Louis Eustache Ude’s The French Cook (1813). l. 500  dindon: turkey (Fr.); Parigeux is a variant spelling of Périgueux. l. 509  bonne vivante: one who enjoys luxury and sociability.

1114

notes to pages 943–953

l. 510  peccant: weak or tending to sinfulness. l. 515  young Ammon: Alexander the Great (356–323 bce). l. 518  Apicius: proverbial Roman gourmand. l. 527  Lucullus’  . . . muffles: a cherry sauce; see B’s note to l. 528. l. 528n  à la Lucullus: Lucullus (118–56 bce), Roman general and le­gend­ary ­gourmand. l. 529  fillets: laurel wreaths worn as headgear, denoting heroism; and cuts of meat. l. 538  Petits puits d’Amour: literally, ‘little wells of love’, a cake (with a sexual d ­ ouble entendre). l. 557  springald: young man (archaic). l. 566  Bubble and squeak: fried potatoes and cabbage, a British working-­class dish (a contrast to the high French cooking of the rest of these stanzas). l. 568  Becasse: woodcock. l. 583  Sunium . . . Diogenes: Sunium, promontory in Greece (Cape Sounioun); Hymettus, mountain range near Athens; Diogenes (412–323 bce), Cynic philosopher. l. 610  preux Chevalier: valiant knight. l. 666  Nem . . . con.: nemine contradicenti, unanimously, nobody contradicting (Lat.). l. 667  crim. con.: criminal conversation, e.g., adultery (Lat.). l. 675  Minerva . . . Graces: Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom; Graces, Greek goddesses of beauty. l. 683  Sage . . . Attic: Socrates was from Athens. l. 688n  Subauditur “Non”: ‘sine qua non’ (Lat.), indispensable. ll. 689–90  Lord . . . Littleton: Sir Edward Coke (1552–1634), author of Institutes of the Laws of England (1628–1644), in part commentary on Sir Thomas Littleton’s ‘Tenures’. l. 727  Trojan . . . Tyrian: Virgil, Aeneid, 1.574. l. 732  Eldon: John Scott, Earl of Eldon (1751–1838, Lord Chancellor 1801–1827) presided over an 1822 sanity hearing for Lord Portsmouth. l. 747  fool . . . bent: Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.ii. l. 766  Shadows . . . Richard: Shakespeare, Richard III, V.iii. ll. 787–8  How little . . . we may be: Shakespeare, Hamlet, IV.v.

Canto XVI ll. 2–3  draw the bow . . . Cyrus: Cyrus the Great founded the First Persian empire in the sixth-century bce. See Herodotus’s Histories, 1.136. l. 5  Bows . . . two strings: having more than one option. l. 8  draw the long bow: exaggerating, telling tall tales. l. 10  For . . . cause: Shakespeare, Hamlet, II.ii. l. 24  De rebus . . . aliis: ‘about everything, and some extra things’ (Lat.), voluminous and miscellaneous. l. 34  Turpin’s . . . Chronicle: medieval historians and fabulists. Tilpin (fl. 750), supposed author of the Historia Caroli Magni (about Charlemagne and Roland) and Geoffrey of Monmouth (c.1095–1155), author of the History of the Kings of Britain (relaying legends of King Lear and King Arthur).



notes to pages 953–966

1115

ll. 37–40 Saint Augustine . . . quia impossibile: It was Tertulian (160–230 ce), not Augustine (354–430 ad), who said he believed in Christianity because it was impossible. ll. 49–52  Johnson . . . appears: Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas (1759), ch. 31: ‘There is no people, rude or learned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related and believed’. l. 79n  Tyrian purple: referring to ancient dyes made from sea snails (Tyrian) or insect scales (cochineal, kermes), expensive and used for the robes of Phoenician and Roman emperors. ll. 82–3  robe . . . Nessus: Hercules was poisoned by wearing a shirt soaked in the poisonous blood of the centaur Nessus. l. 82  robe de chambre: dressing gown (Fr.). l. 85  Titus . . . day: quoting the Roman Emperor Titus (39–81 ce), when he realized a day had passed, and he had not granted a favour to anyone (Suetonius, Life of Titus, 8.1). l. 121  toilet: toilette, or dressing table. l. 166  sisters weïrd: the three witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth and in Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (1587). ll. 202–3  blue . . . vapour: Candles were said to burn blue in the presence of ghosts; see Shakespeare, Richard III, V.iii. l. 208  eulogy of “Patent Blacking”: advertisement for shoe polish. In 1821, B was falsely credited with writing one (BLJ, 8:150). l. 211  Horne Tooke: John Horne Tooke (1736–1812), English political writer who opposed the policies of both George III and the Whig statesman Charles James Fox. l. 231  Gordian knot: legendary impossibly tangled knot, severed by Alexander the Great. l. 304  ’Twas . . . Grey: a song of the 1790s, composed by William Reeve, with reference to Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew, V.i. ll. 329–30 King Henry’s . . . lay: King Henry VIII authorized the dis­sol­ution of English monasteries between 1536 and 1541. ll. 365–6  Grammercy . . . sain: great mercy; bless. ll. 388–91 Cynic. . . Bee: Diogenes the Cynic (c.404–323 bce) trampled on the couch of Plato (the ‘Attic Bee’), who scorned him along the lines B reports. ll. 403–7  Mamma Mia’s . . . chamas’s: common opera libretto phrases: ‘My mother’, ‘My love’, My fast-­beating heart’, ‘Leave me’, ‘Farewell’, and ‘You call me’. B had translated the Portuguese lyric ‘Tu mi chamas’ in 1812. l. 408n  Rossini . . . Wakefield: B was a fan of the opera of Italian composer Gioachino Rossini (1792–1868). In Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), the quoted observation is offered as a quick way to sound like an expert. l. 409  Babylon’s bravuras: songs from operas like Rossini’s Semiramide (which premiered in Venice in February 1823) about Semiramis, Queen of Babylon. ll. 410–11  Green Erin . . . Lochaber: Erin, Ireland; Lochaber, Scottish Highlands, with reference to the folk ballads of Thomas Moore and Allan Ramsay. l. 413  calentures: fevers that induce visions of the sea turning into green fields. Cf. B’s Two Foscari, III.i.172–6. l. 417 Blue: bluestocking, a nickname for literary females, whom B typ­ic­al­ly mocked.

1116

notes to pages 966–973

l. 423 Pope: Alexander Pope (1688–1744), neoclassical poet whom B greatly admired. l. 434  Hebe: Greek goddess of youth and cupbearer to the gods. l. 442  Bath Guide: The New Bath Guide (1766), by Christopher Anstey, a popular burlesque verse novel. l. 443  Hayley’s Triumphs: The Triumphs of Temper (1781), by William Hayley, a Spenserian allegory about the development a young woman’s good temper. l. 448  Bouts rimés: a poetic parlour-­game, in which verses are written collaboratively. l. 464  Gynocrasy: gynocracy, government by women. l. 490  Titian: Tiziano Vecelli (c.1490–1576), master of Renaissance painting of the Venetian school. l. 494  Civil List: the income of the monarch of Great Britain, administered by Parliament. l. 503  Capo d’opera: chief work; masterpiece. l. 520n  Ausu Romano, ære Veneto: The inscription can be translated, ‘Built with Roman daring and Venetian money’. Erroneously printed ‘ære beneto’ in the first edition. B predicts a second Napoleon, a ‘hope for the next world’, who will triumph over the restored monarchs of Europe (the ‘Imbeciles’). l. 523  tenures burgage: the rental of property held by the king. l. 526n  Though ye . . . churches: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV.i. l. 528  Sabine showman: gentleman farmer, with reference to Horace. Cf. DJ IX, l. 55. ll. 531–2  close cap . . . scarlet cloak: emblematic clothing meant to shame a pregnant unmarried woman, as in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter (1850). l. 533  sad mishap: B impregnated one of his housemaids at Newstead Abbey in 1808 (BLJ, 1:189). ll. 537–8  reel . . . out: a popular puzzle, in which a winding reel was folded into or built within a glass bottle; see Walter Scott’s Waverley (1814), ch. 45, and Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), ch. 16. l. 541  consistory: court of the Church of England. l. 561  espiegle: spirited; mischievous. l. 570  ladies gent: gentlewomen. ll. 579–80  beer . . . ale: Scout the constable thinks the girl’s case is, like ‘small’ or watered-­down beer, unworthy of his notice; he prefers weightier issues (‘double ale’). l. 607  other Interest: the opposing political party, either Whig or Tory; B implies they are basically the same, inspired only by ‘self interest’. As a wealthy landowner, Lord Henry is hoping to win a seat in the House of Commons in the county election. ll. 623–4  To hold . . . demolished: he maintains positions that he admits are faulty or corrupt, but argues that reform would destroy the whole system. l. 625  free to confess: a rhetorical phrase often deployed in Parliamentary speeches of B’s era. ll. 639–40  Geordi-­an knot . . . Kings: a pun on the name of King George III, with reference to the legendary Gordian Knot, severed by Alexander the Great. ll. 641–2 come . . . utmost: Shakespeare, Macbeth, III.i, perhaps punning on the English reformer Francis Place (1771–1854).



notes to pages 973–983

1117

l. 651  Shore: Elizabeth ‘Jane’ Shore (c.1445–c.1527), mistress of King Edward IV of England and thus a ‘professional’ in the arts of love. B ori­gin­al­ly wrote ‘w[ho]re’ in the manuscript. l. 682  lurch: hold back and let others do the work. l. 683 Septembrizers: alluding to the 1792 September Massacres of the French Revolution. Partridge hunting season begins in September. l. 688  catches: popular melodies, sung in the round, more secular than sacred. l. 695  Peter Pith: Sydney Smith (1771–1845), Whig Anglican cleric and writer that B had met at Holland House. ll. 703–4  devil . . . vicarage: referring to a gargoyle on St Hugh’s Chapel of Lincoln Cathedral. Smith’s vicarage was actually in Yorkshire. l. 707  aguish: sickly, feverish. ll. 713–16  between. . . . state: quoting a popular song, ‘The Beggar and the Queen’ (c.1750), with reference to Queen Caroline, who had been estranged from, and publicly charged with adultery by, her husband George IV. l. 729  en avant: forward! (Fr.) ll. 732–4  Bacchus . . . Venus: the gods of wine (Bacchus), grain (Ceres), and love (Venus) in Roman mythology; alluding to Terence, The Eunuch, l.748: ‘Sine Cerere et Libero frigit Venus’ (‘without food and wine, love grows cold’). Cf. DJ II, st. 169. l. 745  banns: announcements of an impending marriage, made three times in successive weeks before the wedding. l. 806  sixth year: Lord Henry’s term in Parliament is coming to an end. l. 820n  losing the past: printed as ‘losing the part’ in the 18mo edition; corrected here according to the octavo printing. ll. 830–2 Exchequer . . . figures: Chancellor of the Exchequer, finance minister of Britain and the head of Her Majesty’s Treasury. Edward Cocker’s Arithmatick (1677) was a popular book of mathematics. l. 838  Sinking Fund: a failed scheme to eliminate the National Debt, established in 1717 and abandoned in the 1820s. l. 864n  Curiosa felicitas: Petronius, Satyricon, 118. l. 876  Addison’s . . . damn: See Alexander Pope, Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735), which condemns Addison for his tendency to ‘Damn with faint praise’. l. 913  Αι . . . Κυθερειαν: ‘Ai, ai, tan Kytherian!’ (‘Woe, woe, for Cytheria! [Aphrodite]’), from Bion’s Lament for Adonis (c.100 bce). l. 917  Anacreon: Greek love poet (570–480 bce) whom B admired. l. 920 Alma Venus Genetrix: condensing the opening lines of On the Nature of Things by Lucretius (99–55 bce), the phrase here means ‘Venus, nurturing mother!’ l. 931 sans culotte: without trousers, alluding to the sans-­culottes of the French Revolution. l. 937  vain [he] listened: printed without the ‘he’ in the first edition. l. 950  deep sleep fell on men: Job 4:12–17. l. 953n  Schroepfer . . . wolt mich: Referring to Johann Georg Schröpfer (c.1738–1774), a German occultist and necromancer. The German phrase is a garbled version of the ghost’s question, ‘Karl, was wolte du mit mich?’ (‘Karl, what do you want of me?’).

1118

notes to pages 983–991

ll. 970–1  Lasciate . . . entrate: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’ (It.); the words written over the gates of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, written in Terza Rima (his ‘rhima’ of l. 972). l. 997  carte and tierce: hand positions for thrusting and parrying in fencing.

POSTHUMOUSLY PUBLISHED POEMS

To the Po.— June 1819 Written 2 June 1819 and first published in the Morning Chronicle (London) on 4 June 1824. Printed in slightly altered form in Thomas Medwin’s Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron, published in October 1824. B wrote this poem ‘in red-­ hot Earnest’ (BLJ, 7:115) on the road from Venice to Ravenna, the natal city of his new mistress, the nineteen-­year-­old married Countess Theresa Guiccioli, who would become his ‘last attachment’. He was following the course of the Po river, a branch of which flows from Ferrara towards the Ravenna delta. B’s poem recalls the Paolo and Francesca episode from Dante’s Inferno, Canto 5: ‘The Land where I was born sits by the seas, /  Upon that shore to which the Po descends’ (B’s translation). Like Theresa, Francesca was an adulterous lover and a native of Ravenna. B later revised the poem, but the Morning Chronicle version (presented here) was closest to his original draft. However, in neither of his manuscripts does B divide the poem into quatrains. l. 44  black wind: likely a printer’s error; B’s draft has ‘bleak wind’. ll. 49–52  let me perish . . . moved: In a fair-­copy manuscript, B revised these lines to read: ‘I have struggled long  / To love again no more as once I loved.  / Oh! Time! why leave this earliest Passion strong, / To tear a heart which pants to be unmoved?’

Stanzas [‘Remember thee—­r emember thee!’] Written in June 1814, first published in The Attic Miscellany (a short-­lived London periodical) in early October 1824, and reprinted extensively after its appearance in Medwin’s Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron later that month. The poem was addressed to Lady Caroline Lamb, a married woman with whom B had been conducting a passionate love affair. The Attic Miscellany introduces the poem with B’s explanatory narrative, slightly edited in Medwin and thereafter. p. 991  waltz: B hated waltzing, a fashionable new dance of the era, and had at one time forbidden Caroline to waltz. In 1812, he wrote and published a 257-­line satiric poem mocking its indecency (The Waltz, An Apostrophic Hymn). On 5 July 1813, B and Caroline were both at a party at Lady Heathcote’s, and Caroline danced waltzes with other men. p. 991  comi-­tragic scene . . . tumbler: as Caroline later told the story:



notes to pages 991–995

1119

I clasped a knife, not intending anything. “Do, my dear,” [Byron] said. “But . . . mind which way you strike with your knife—­be it at your own heart, not mine—­you have struck there already.” “Byron,” I said, and ran away with the knife. I never stabbed myself . . . people pulled to get it away from me; I was terrified; my hand got cut, & the blood came over my gown. I know not what happened after. (BB, 1:399–400) The event became a public scandal. p. 991 she promised . . . call me out: B told Thomas Medwin that Caroline had promised Henry Grattan, Jr (an Irish politician about B’s age) her ‘favours’ if he would challenge B to a duel, but Grattan demurred. p. 991  “Vathek” . . . “Remember me!”: Vathek (1786) is a gothic novel by William Beckford (1760–1844), who had gone into self-­exile after his homosexuality was made public. Caroline may have intended her inscription as a warning to B. l. 8 false . . . fiend: In Medwin and a number of nineteenth-­century reprintings, ‘false’ and ‘fiend’ are replaced by asterisks.

Messolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824 Written 22 January 1824, B’s thirty-­sixth birthday, in Messolonghi, Greece. First published in the Morning Chronicle (29 October 1824), under the heading, ‘Lord Byron’s Latest Verses’, with the particular readings present here and ‘Messolunghi’ spelled thus. B had travelled to Messolonghi to assist in the Greek War of Independence. He died of fever (and his doctors’ treatments) three months after writing this poem, which reflects B’s unrequited attraction to his young Greek page, Loukas Chalandritsanos. There is some uncertainty about B’s intended title to this poem: the Messolonghi dateline, ‘On this day. . .’, or both together. l. 5  yellow leaf: Shakespeare, Macbeth, V.iii. ll. 23–4  Spartan . . . free: B added a note to this line in manuscript: ‘The slain were borne on their shields—­witness the Spartan’s mother’s speech to her son, delivered with his buckler—“Either with this or on this.” ’

When I Left thy Shores, O Naxos! Written 14 October 1814 at a dinner party, hosted by Douglas Kinnaird, at which the famous celebrity actor Edmund Kean was present. The ‘Lady playing’ was Maria Keppel, an actress and singer, mistress of Kinnaird. First published as sheet music by A. R. Poole of Philadelphia, circa 1825.

I speak not—­I trace not . Written May 1814 and apparently addressed to B’s half-­sister, Augusta Leigh, in the midst of their clandestine sexual affair. First published in Fugitive Pieces and Reminiscences of Lord Byron, ed. Isaac Nathan (London, 1829), 64–5.

1120

notes to pages 996–1003

from Thomas Moore, The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with Notices of his Life (1830) Extract from an Unpublished Poem [‘Could I remount the river of my years’] Written July 1816 at Villa Diodati. First published in LJ, 2:36–7. McGann notes various departures from the draft manuscript, suggesting either that Moore was working from another copy or that he edited the draft (CPW, 4:29–30). The poem’s metaphysical speculations reveal the influence of Percy Shelley, a frequent visitor to Diodati at this time.

To Augusta [‘My sister! my sweet sister! if a name’] Written August 1816 at Villa Diodati as a series of reflections on his personality and his feelings for his half-­sister, Augusta Leigh. B sent the poem to Murray, but Augusta objected to its publication. This was B’s first extended use of the ottava rima form. First published in LJ, 2:38–41. Later known as ‘Epistle to Augusta’. l. 15n  Admiral Byron: Admiral John Byron (1723–1786) was the poet’s grandfather: his Narrative (1768) of shipwreck during George Anson’s voyage around the world (1740–1744) was a bestseller. “But . . . lost”: Shakespeare, Macbeth, I.iii. l. 73  dear lake: the lake at Newstead, ancestral seat of the Byrons.

Francesca of Rimini Sent to Murray from Ravenna, 20 March 1820. First published in LJ, 2:309–11. In the letter, B writes: Enclosed you will find, line for line, in third rhyme (terza rima), of which your British blackguard reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You know she was born here, and married, and slain, from Cary, Boyd, and such people. I have done it into cramp English . . . to try the possibility. B translates the famous story of the adulterous lovers Paolo and Francesca from Dante’s Inferno, 5.97–142. It was linked, in B’s imagination, to his affairs with Theresa Guiccioli and Augusta Leigh, and recalls the mutual seduction of Juan and Julia in DJ I. Moore takes his variant readings from several manuscript versions. l. 1  land . . . seas: Ravenna, Francesca’s natal city. l. 11  Caina: the ninth circle of Dante’s Inferno (named after the fratricide Cain from the Bible), where murderous traitors to relatives are punished. Paolo and Francesca were discovered and killed by Paolo’s brother, her husband. l. 15  bard: the Roman epic poet Virgil, Dante’s guide in the Inferno (‘thy teacher’, l. 27).



notes to pages 1003–1010

1121

l. 30  {do even / relate}: of this crux, B wrote, ‘In some of the editions, it is “diro,” in others “faro”; —an essential difference between “saying” and “doing,” which I know not how to decide. Ask Foscolo. The d—­d editions drive me mad’.

[‘When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home’] Included in a letter to Thomas Moore, sent from Ravenna, 5 November 1820. First published in LJ, 2:377. B was involved with the Italian freedom-­ fighters, the Carbonari, at this time. Speaking of himself, he wrote to Moore, ‘If “honour should come unlooked for” to any of your acquaintance, make a Melody of it, that his ghost, like poor Yorick’s, may have the satisfaction of being plaintively pitied. . . . In case you should not think him worth it, here is a Chant for you instead’ (BLJ, 7:218–19).

[‘Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story’] Sent with a letter to Thomas Moore from Pisa, 12 December 1821. First published in LJ, 2:566–7, with this note, ‘I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the road from Florence to Pisa’.

[‘Could Love for ever’] Written 1 December 1819, when Teresa Guiccioli had left Venice for Ravenna with her husband and B was unhappily contemplating a return to England. First published as part of the ‘Journal of Conversations of Lord Byron by the Countess of Blessington, IV’ in the New Monthly Magazine 35 (October 1832), 310–12, following some of B’s remarks on marriage: If people like each other so well (said he) as not to be able to live asunder, this is the only tie that can ensure happiness—­all others entail misery.  . . . Women become exigeante always in proportion to their consciousness of a decrease in the attentions they desire; and this very exigeance accelerates the flight of the blind god [Eros], whose approaches, the Greek proverb says, are always made walking, but whose retreat is flying. I once wrote some lines expressive of my feelings on this subject, and you shall have them. The poem is modelled after a popular song by John Philpot Curran, ‘The Deserter’s Lamentation’. l. 30  Without . . . spring: The New Monthly Magazine notes an alternate reading in the manuscript: ‘or Shorn of the plumage which sped his spring’.

Dedication to Don Juan [I–II] Written between 3 July and 1 November 1818 to accompany the first two cantos of Don Juan. When B received proofs at Venice on 15 May 1819, he cancelled the

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dedication, noting, ‘As the Poem is to be published anonymously omit the dedication—­ I won’t attack the dog in the dark—­such things are for Scoundrels and renegadoes like himself ’. It was first published in The Works of Lord Byron, vol. 15 (John Murray, 1833), with a note that ‘for several years the verses have been selling in the streets as a broadside’ (101). Rather than follow the 1833 text, we have in this instance followed CPW. The dedication conducts a running satire on Southey, his fellow Lake School Poets, and the corruption of the Tory government they had come to support. It also delivers a savage attack on the Foreign Secretary Castlereagh, whom B hated (see note to l. 88 below). ll. 1–6  Bob Southey! . . . place?: Robert Southey (1774–1843) was the Poet Laureate of England and B’s nemesis. Like the other Lake School poets Wordsworth and Coleridge (‘Lakers’), Southey had begun as a radical poet but had become a conservative Tory, earning a ‘place’ in the favour of the Prince Regent, George IV. Southey had also enraged B by circulating rumours of a ‘league of incest’ at the Villa Diodati. l. 8  pie: quoting the eighteenth-­century nursery rhyme, ‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’, and also alluding to Henry James Pye (1745–1813), Poet Laureate until his death in 1813, when Southey was appointed his successor. ll. 13–16 Coleridge . . . Explanation: Samuel Taylor Coleridge had recently published his brilliant but sprawling philosophical and autobiographical Biographia Literaria (1817). l. 24  adry, Bob!: ‘dry bob’ is slang for an act of copulation without male orgasm. l. 25  Wordsworth . . . “Excursion”: Wordsworth’s long poem The Excursion (1814), published (like Don Juan) in large ‘quarto’ format (l. 26), was not well received. l. 30  dogstar: Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky, part of the Canis Major constellation. Its appearance was associated with hot weather and madness. l. 35 Keswick: Southey and Coleridge had both lived in Keswick in the Lake District, close to Wordsworth’s home in Grasmere. l. 46  Wordsworth . . . Excise: In 1813, Wordsworth had obtained a government appointment as Distributor of Stamps (a kind of tax collector) for his county, thanks to the influence of Lord Lonsdale (1757–1844). In a manuscript note, B wrote: Wordsworth’s place may be in the Customs—­it is, I think, in that or the Excise—­ besides another at Lord Lonsdale’s table, where this poetical charlatan and political parasite licks up the crumbs with a hardened alacrity; the converted Jacobin having long subsided into the clownish sycophant of the worst prejudices of the aristocracy. l. 49  bays: laurel wreaths, here a symbol of poetic achievement. l. 55  Scott . . . Crabbe: Walter Scott, Samuel Rogers, Thomas Campbell, Thomas Moore, and George Crabbe: contemporary poets whom B admired (see BLJ, 3:220). l. 66  reversion: honour given at a later time; see Alexander Pope, ‘Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady’ (1717): ‘Is there no bright reversion in the sky, / For those who greatly think, or bravely die?’ (8–9). l. 70  Titan: the Greek sun god Helios, whose chariot rises from the sea. l. 74  Milton . . . Time: John Milton (1608–1674) opposed the monarchy even after the Restoration of Charles II (the ‘son’ of l. 79). See Paradise Lost, 7.24–7.



notes to pages 1012–1015

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l. 82  Samuel: 1 Samuel 28:15–20. ll. 85–6  helpless eyes . . . poor: Milton was blind in his old age. B writes in a manuscript note, ‘ “Pale, but not cadaverous.” Milton’s two elder daughters are said to have robbed him of his books, besides cheating and plaguing him in the economy of his house, &c. Hayley compares him to Lear.—See Part III. Life of Milton, by W. Hayley’. The opening quotation is from Samuel Johnson’s life of Milton in Lives of the Poets (1779–1781). l. 88 Castlereagh: Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh (1769–1822), Foreign Secretary and leader of the British House of Commons. Anglo-­Irish himself, he had actively suppressed the Irish Rebellion of 1798, during which rebels and civilians were massacred (‘Erin’s gore’ of l. 90). Along with many of his liberal countrymen, B saw him as a cruel bureaucratic tyrant and the enemy of reform. l. 102  Ixion . . . toil: In Greek legend, Ixion, the wicked king of the Lapiths, was bound to an ever-­spinning wheel by Zeus as punishment; here, a figure for Castlereagh’s dull and grinding speeches. l. 109  Congress: The Congress of Vienna (1814–1815), which restored the monarchies of Europe (thus mending the ‘old chains’ of l. 111) after the end of the Napoleonic wars. l. 117  Eutropius: cruel advisor and power-­broker in the court of Roman emperor Arcadius. Eutropius (d. 399) was a eunuch and, according to the poet Claudian, a pimp and catamite. B casts several slurs at Castlereagh’s sexuality in sts. 11–15. Castlereagh committed suicide in 1822, believing he was being persecuted for his homosexual preferences. l. 124  lie: Castlereagh was utterly unsympathetic to the cause of Italian nationalism and supported Austrian rule over the city-­states. l. 132  “buff and blue”: the traditional colours of the Whig party. l. 136  ultra-­Julian?: the Roman emperor Julian the Apostate (331–363 ce) renounced Christianity and attempted to return the state to Hellenistic polytheism.

Verses by Lord Byron [‘I watched thee when the foe was at our side’] Written between 21 February and 9 April 1824. First published in Murray’s Magazine 1 (February 1887), 145–6, along with ‘Last Words on Greece’ (CPW, 7:83). Despite Hobhouse’s note, the poem was clearly written for Loukas Chalandritsanos, the fifteen-­year-­old Greek for whom B felt an unrequited attraction. This and ‘Last Words’ (also for Loukas) were B’s final poems: he died 19 April. ll. 5–8 I watched thee . . . bier: When B sailed with his entourage (including Loukas) from Cephalonia to Messolonghi in late December 1823, they were pursued by Turkish frigates and almost sank during a thunderstorm (see BLJ, 11:85–8). l. 13 earthquake: An earthquake struck Messolonghi on 21 February 1824 (BLJ, 11:119). l. 17  convulsive throes: B had some type of seizure, a ‘strong shock of a Convulsive description’ on 15 February 1824 (BLJ, 11:113).

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notes to pages 1017–1019 Don Juan . Canto XVII fragment

Written May 1823 and left unfinished when B departed for Greece in July. First published in E. H. Coleridge, Works (1903). As Coleridge made several errors when copying the manuscript, we present the corrected version from CPW. l. 21  Mule!: B added a note: ‘The Italians at least in some parts of Italy call bastards and foundlings—“I Muli”—the Mules—­why—­I cannot see—­unless they mean to infer that the offspring of Matrimony are Asses’. l. 28  Chancery . . . Star-­Chamber: English courts that managed the affairs of wards of the state. l. 30  Dame Partlett: traditional name for a hen. l. 48 Luther: Martin Luther (1483–1546), founding figure of the Protestant Reformation. l. 49  Sacraments . . . two: Of the seven Catholic sacraments, the Protestant Church only recognizes two, baptism and communion. l. 56  Malgré: in spite of (Fr.). Sir Matthew Hale: presiding English judge at a notorious 1662 witchcraft trial, which condemned two women to execution. l. 57 Galileo: Galileo Galilei (1564–1642), famed astronomer im­ prisoned for announcing that the earth revolved around the sun. l. 65 Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates: philosophers who were persecuted for their ­doctrines. l. 72  Post Obit: a debt payable after someone’s death. l. 79  totus, teres: whole, smooth (Lat.), from Horace, Satires, 2.7.86. l. 83  Idem semper: ‘always the same’ (Lat.). l. 86 Hercules furens: ‘Mad Hercules’ (Lat.), a play by Seneca (4 bce–65 ce), Roman Stoic philosopher and dramatist.

INDEX OF TITLES [“Adieu, adieu! my native shore”]  50 A Love Song. To ******* [‘Remind me not, remind me not’]  33 Alpine Journal  247 An Ode to the Framers of the Frame Bill  40 Beppo, A Venetian Story 323 [‘Beware! beware! of the Black Friar’]  962 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, A Romaunt (1812) 43 Canto I  45 Canto II  76 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage III (1816)  205 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage IV (1818)  351 Churchill’s Grave, A Fact Literally Rendered 260 [‘Could Love for ever’]  1007 Darkness 258 Dedication to Don Juan [Cantos I–II]  1010 Detached Thoughts 637 Don Juan. Canto XVII fragment  1017 Don Juan (1819)  407 Canto I  409 Canto II  465 Don Juan III–IV–V (1821)  531 Canto III  533 Canto IV  564 Canto V  594 Don Juan VI–VII–VIII (1823)  679 Canto VI  683 Canto VII  713 Canto VIII  734 Don Juan IX–X–XI (1823)  771 Canto IX  773 Canto X  794 Canto XI  816 Don Juan XII–XIII–XIV (1823)  845 Canto XII  847 Canto XIII  869 Canto XIV  898 Don Juan XV–XVI (1824) 925 Canto XV  927 Canto XVI  952

Epitaph on a Beloved Friend  5 Extract from an Unpublished Poem [‘Could I remount the river of my years’] 996 Fare Thee Well!  203 Francesca of Rimini  1003 Inscription on the Monument of a Favourite Dog 31 I Speak Not—­I Trace Not  995 Journal in Cephalonia  840 Lachin Y. Gair 15 Letter to Annabella Milbanke, 6 September 1813, London  138 Letter to Augusta Leigh 8 September 1816, Villa Diodati  269 17 May 1819, Venice  522 12 December 1822, Genoa  672 Letter to Douglas Kinnaird, 26 October 1819, Venice  527 Letter to Elizabeth Bridget Pigot, 2 August 1807, London  20 Letter to John Cam Hobhouse, 7 April 1823, Genoa 677 Letter to John Cam Hobhouse and Douglas Kinnaird, 19 January 1819, Venice 520 Letter to John Murray 15 September 1817, Venice  317 8 January 1818, Venice [‘My dear Mr. Murray’]  319 7 June 1819, Bologna  524 Letter to Lady Byron, 8 February 1816, Piccadilly Terrace, London  198 Letter to Lady Caroline Lamb, 29 April 1813, London 137 Letter to Lady Melbourne, 8 October 1813, Aston Hall, Yorkshire  140 Letter to Mrs. Catherine Gordon Byron, 28 June 1810, Constantinople  37 Letter to Percy Bysshe Shelley, 26 April 1821, Ravenna 529

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Letter to Thomas Moore 28 January 1817, Venice  312 28 February 1817, Venice [‘So, we’ll go no more a roving’]  315 Manfred, A Dramatic Poem 271 Messolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824 [‘On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year’] 992 My Soul is Dark  195 Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 186 [‘Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story’] 1006 On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill. 1806  8 On Leaving N—­st—­d  3 ‘Preface’ to The Vision of Judgment 674 Prometheus 267 She Walks in Beauty  195 Song. Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. Athens, 1810. [‘Maid of Athens, ere we part’] 131 Song [‘When I rov’d, a young Highlander, o’er the dark heath’]  25 Stanzas for Music [‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters’]  202 Stanzas to Jessy [‘There is a mystic thread of life’] 19 Stanzas to ****** on Leaving England  35 Stanzas to——— [‘Though the day of my destiny’s over’]  257 Stanzas [‘Bright be the place of thy soul!’] 201 Stanzas [‘Chill and mirk is the nightly blast’] 127 Stanzas [‘I would I were a careless child’]  26 Stanzas [‘Remember thee—­remember thee!’] 991 Sun of the Sleepless!  196

[‘Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy ’larum afar’] 97 [‘The castled crag of Drachenfels’]  221 The Cornelian  11 The Destruction of Semnacherib  196 The Dream  261 The Giaour 143 [‘The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!’] 554 The Vision of Judgment 643 To Augusta [‘My sister! my sweet sister! if a name’] 998 To Ianthe  45 To Inez  72 To Maria——  4 To Mary  6 To Mary, on Receiving her Picture  10 To the Po.——June 1819  989 To the Same [‘And wilt thou weep when I am low?’] 34 To Thyrza [‘One struggle more, and I am free’] 134 To Thyrza [‘Without a stone to mark the spot’] 133 To—— [‘Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine’] 16 To *************** [‘Well! thou art happy, and I feel’]  32 Verses by Lord Byron [‘I watched thee when the foe was at our side’]  1015 [‘When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home’] 1005 When I Left thy Shores, O Naxos! 994 [‘When to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice’] 8 [‘When we two parted’]  201 Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos. May 9, 1810.  130 Written beneath a Picture  132 Written in an Album  127

INDEX OF FIRST LINES “Adieu, adieu! my native shore”  50 Ah!——What should follow slips from my reflection 927 And wilt thou weep when I am low?  34 As o’er the cold sepulchral stone  127 Away, ye gay landscapes! ye gardens of roses! 15 Beware! beware! of the Black Friar  962 Bob Southey! You’re a poet—­Poetlaureate 1010 Bright be the place of thy soul!  201 Chill and mirk is the nightly blast  127 Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!—but thou, alas! 76 Could I remount the river of my years  996 Could Love for ever  1007 Dear object of defeated care!  132 Fare thee well! and if for ever  203 Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping 533 I had a dream, which was not all a dream  258 If from great Nature’s or our own abyss  898 If in the month of dark December  130 I now mean to be serious;—it is time  869 I speak not—­I trace not—­I breathe not thy name 995 Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!  207 I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 260 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs  356 I want a hero: an uncommon want  409 I watched thee when the foe was at our side 1015 I would I were a careless child  26 Maid of Athens, ere we part  131 My sister! my sweet sister! if a name  998 My soul is dark—­Oh! quickly string  195

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow  72 No breath of air to break the wave  146 No specious splendor of this stone  11 Nothing so difficult as a beginning  564 Not in those climes where I have late been straying 45 Of all the barbarous Middle Ages, that  847 Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! 734 Oh Boy! forever lov’d, for ever dear  5 Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine  16 Oh Love! O Glory! what are ye? who fly  713 Oh well done Lord E——n! and better done R——r! 40 Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations 465 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story 1006 Oh, thou! in Hellas deem’d of heavenly birth 46 Oh, Wellington! (or “Vilainton”—for Fame) 773 One struggle more, and I am free  134 Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world 261 Rack’d by the flames of jealous rage  6 Remember thee—­remember thee!  991 Remind me not, remind me not  33 River, that rollest by the ancient walls  989 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate  645 She walks in beauty, like the night  195 Since now the hour is come at last  4 So, we’ll go no more a roving  315 Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!  196 Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy ’larum afar  97 The antique Persians taught three useful things 952 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 196 The castled crag of Drachenfels  221

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The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!  554 The lamp must be replenish’d, but even then 273 “The land where I was born sits by the seas” 1003 There be none of Beauty’s daughters  202 There is a mystic thread of life  19 “There is a tide in the affairs of men”  683 The world is full of orphans: firstly, those  1017 This faint resemblance of thy charms  10 Though the day of my destiny’s over  257 Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle  3 ’Tis done—­and shivering in the gale  35 ’Tis done—­but yesterday a King!  186 ’Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 325 ’Tis time this heart should be unmoved  992 Titan! to whose immortal eyes  267

Well! thou art happy, and I feel  32 When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home 1005 When amatory poets sing their loves  594 When Bishop Berkeley said “there was no matter” 816 When I left thy shores, O Naxos  994 When I rov’d, a young Highlander, o’er the dark heath  25 When Newton saw an apple fall, he found  794 When some proud son of man returns to earth 31 When to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice  8 When we two parted  201 Without a stone to mark the spot  133 Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection 8