Selected Works of George Gordon, Lord Byron

     CLVII
'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
  The little I have said may serve to show
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,
  'T will one day ask you why you used me so?
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!--
Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkercief?'

     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, appears
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;
  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,
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;
  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.

     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,
  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.

     CLXII
At first he tried to hammer an excuse,
  To which the sole reply was tears and sobs,
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,
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,
Or madam dies.'--Alfonso mutter'd, 'Damn 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,'
  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 wore
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,
  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.

     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 may
  His suffocation by that pretty pair;
'T were 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,
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,
  At least 't was 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,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.

     CLXVIII
Of his position I can give no notion:
  'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
  Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,
  And that the medicine answer'd very well;
Perhaps 't was in a different way applied,
For David lived, but Juan nearly died.

     CLXIX
What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back
  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:
Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,
But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek.

     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,
  And half forgot their danger and despair:
Antonia's patience now was at a stand--
  'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,'
She whisper'd, in great wrath--'I must deposit
This pretty gentleman within the closet:

     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?
  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)--
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 keep
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;
However, present remedy was none,
  And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd:
Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,
She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.

     CLXXIV
Alfonso paused a minute--then begun
  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:
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,
  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;
'T is to retort with firmness, and when he
Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.

     CLXXVI
Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,--
  Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known,
But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds--
  But that can't be, as has been often shown,
A lady with apologies abounds;--
  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,--
Mention'd his jealousy but never who
  Had been the happy lover, he concluded,
Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true,
  His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded;
To speak of Inez now were, one may say,
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way.

     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)--
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 I
  Have always done so; 't is 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 loose
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,
  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.

     CLXXXI
A pair of shoes!--what then? not much, if they
  Are such as fit with ladies' 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!
  My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze--
Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
And then flew out into another passion.

     CLXXXII
He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
  And Julia instant to the closet flew.
'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--
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 't is the usual price,
  A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:
Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice,
  And might have done so by the garden-gate,
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;
  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;
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;
  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!

     CLXXXVI
Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
  And Juan throttled him to get away,
And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;
  At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,
  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;
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,
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?
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,
  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;
The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.

     CXC
But Donna Inez, to divert the train
  Of one of the most circulating scandals
That had for centuries been known in Spain,
  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.

     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).
  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 't is decided; you depart:
  'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain;
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, 't is not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

     CXCIII
'I loved, I love you, for this 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;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is 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.

     CXCIV
'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
  'T is 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 cannot estrange;
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 hide
  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.

     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 heart is feminine, nor can forget--
  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,
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,
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'

     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,
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 whether
  I shall proceed with his adventures is
Dependent 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;
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,
  A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
New characters; the episodes are three:
  A panoramic view of hell 's in training,
After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer.

     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,
  Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
I 've got new mythological machinery,
And very handsome supernatural scenery.

     CCII
There 's only one slight difference between
  Me and my epic brethren gone before,
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 't is quite a bore
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
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;
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,
  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:
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,
  The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:
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.

     CCVI
Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,
  His Pegasus, nor anything 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:
  This is true criticism, and you may kiss--
Exactly as you please, or not,--the rod;

     CCVII
If any person should presume to assert
  This story is not moral, first, I pray,
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 show
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,
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,
  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:
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
I 've bribed my grandmother's review--the British.

     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;
  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.

     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,
  Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

     CCXII
'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa
  Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so
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 thing
In my hot youth--when George the Third was King.

     CCXIII
But now at thirty years my hair is grey
  (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, I
Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was 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.

     CCXIV
No more--no more--Oh! never more on me
  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?
Alas! 't was 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,
  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.

     CCXVI
My days of love are over; me no more
  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,
  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;
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--
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

     CCXVIII
What is the end of Fame? 't is 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;
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 King
  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:
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,
  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--'t would pass--
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'

     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-b'ye!'
We meet again, if we should understand
  Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample--
'T were well if others follow'd my example.

     CCXXII
'Go, little book, from this my solitude!
  I cast thee on the waters--o thy ways!
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:
For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.