Part 22

But I’m digressing; what on earth has Nero, Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 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 To dub the last of honours in degrees).

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 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 poietikes.

CANTO THE FOURTH.

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; 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.

But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the devil, That neither of their intellects are vast: While youth’s hot wishes in our red veins revel, We know not this—the blood flows on too fast; But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wish’d that others held the same opinion; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy ‘falls into the yellow Leaf,’ and Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o’er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, ’Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe’s spring, Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep: Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don’t pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann’d, Unless it were to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary.

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

How I have treated it, I do not know; Perhaps no better than they have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show Not what they saw, but what they wish’d to see: But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, And tells me to resume my story here.

Young Juan and his lady-love were left To their own hearts’ most sweet society; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh’d to behold them of their hours bereft, Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing.

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, 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 A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them—they had too little day.

They were alone once more; for them to be Thus was another Eden; they were never Weary, unless when separate: the tree 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,— Would wither less than these two torn apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart—

The heart—which may be broken: happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall: they can ne’er behold The long year link’d with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told; While life’s strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die.

‘Whom the gods love die young,’ was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more— The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer’s shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Haidee 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: 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.

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 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; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne’er heard,—

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 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.

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 By the mere senses; and that which destroys Most love, possession, unto them appear’d A thing which each endearment more endear’d.

O beautiful! and rare as beautiful But theirs was love in which the mind delights 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, Whose husband only knows her not a wh—re.

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? Young innate feelings all have felt below, Which perish in the rest, but in them were Inherent—what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic.

This is in others a factitious state, 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 Haidee’s knowledge was by no means great, And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding; So that there was no reason for their loves More than for those of nightingales or doves.

They gazed upon the sunset; ’tis an hour Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, For it had made them what they were: the power Of love had first o’erwhelm’d them from such skies, When happiness had been their only dower, And twilight saw them link’d in passion’s ties; Charm’d with each other, all things charm’d that brought The past still welcome as the present thought.

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; And thus some boding flash’d through either frame, And call’d from Juan’s breast a faint low sigh, While one new tear arose in Haidee’s eye.

That large black prophet eye seem’d to dilate And follow far the disappearing sun, As if their last day! of a happy date With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone; Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate— He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance inquired of hers for some excuse For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.

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; 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.’

Juan would question further, but she press’d 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; I have tried both; so those who would a part take May choose between the headache and the heartache.

One of the two, according to your choice, Woman or wine, you’ll have to undergo; Both maladies are taxes on our joys: But which to choose, I really hardly know; And if I had to give a casting voice, For both sides I could many reasons show, And then decide, without great wrong to either, It were much better to have both than neither.