Part 24

I leave Don Juan for the present, safe— Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half Of those with which his Haidee’s bosom bounded? She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, And then give way, subdued because surrounded; Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.

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; 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.

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: Beauty and love were Haidee’s mother’s dower; But her large dark eye show’d deep Passion’s force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.

Her daughter, temper’d with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 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, Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.

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; Thus much she view’d an instant and no more,— Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire’s arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell’d.

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips’ pure dyes 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, But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.

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; 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.

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, And ever-dying Gladiator’s air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Rather the dead, for life seem’d something new, 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 Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause.

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; 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.

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 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; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, wax’d full of fearful meaning.

And then a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came, and tuned his instrument; At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 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.

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 To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rush’d forth from her o’erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace, vain relief!—thought came too quick, And whirl’d her brain to madness; she arose 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 dose;— Hers was a phrensy which disdain’d to rave, Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.

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; 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.

Twelve days and nights she wither’d thus; at last, 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, Glazed o’er her eyes—the beautiful, the black— O! to possess such lustre—and then lack!

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; But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein Blossom and bough lie wither’d with one blight; In vain the dews of Heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.

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 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.

That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants pass’d away; 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, Mourns o’er the beauty of the Cyclades.

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: 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.

But let me change this theme which grows too sad, 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, We’ll put about, and try another tack With Juan, left half-kill’d some stanzas back.

Wounded and fetter’d, ‘cabin’d, cribb’d, confined,’ Some days and nights elapsed before that he Could altogether call the past to mind; 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 Sigaeum.

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 The tumulus—of whom? Heaven knows! ’t may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus— All heroes, who if living still would slay us.

High barrows, without marble or a name, A vast, untill’d, and mountain-skirted plain, 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 case; but where I sought for Ilion’s walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls;

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 Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; A turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there—but the devil a Phrygian.

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 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 No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation.

He saw some fellow captives, who appear’d To be Italians, as they were in fact; From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 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.

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, And bore him with some gaiety and grace, Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, Than did the prima donna and the tenor.