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CLIII. And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling A most prodigious appetite; the steam

Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 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; 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;

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,
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.

CLVI.

For we all know that English people are

Fed upon beef-I won't say much of beer,
Because 't is liquor only, and being far
From this my subject, has no business here;
We know, too, they are very fond of war,

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 saw
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, like

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 :
But Zoe, being older than Haidée,

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,

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

When at Seville in 1809, Lord Byron lodged in the house of two unmarried ladies; and in his diary he describes himself as having made earnest love to the younger of them, with the help of a dictionary. "For some time," he says, "I went on prosperously, both as a linguist and a lover, till at length, the lady took a fancy to a ring which I wore, and set her heart on my giving it to her, as a pledge of my sincerity.

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She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 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, 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.

CLXI.

And then fair Haidée 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 eking

Her speech out to her protégé 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,
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 exprest

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:
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 Haidée's glance than any graven letter.

CLXIV.

'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 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 wrong

They smile still more, and then there intervene 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,
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.

CLXVI.

As for the ladies, I have nought to say,

A wanderer from the British world of fashion,t Where I, like other "dogs, have had my day,"

Like other men, too, may have had my passion

This, however, could not be;-any thing but the ring, I declared, was at her service, and much more than its value,but the ring itself I had made a vow never to give away.”

"In 1813, I formed, in the fashionable world of London, an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of something. I had been the lion of 1812."-Byron Diary, 1821.

But that, like other things, has pass'd away,

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; but 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, Just in the way we very often see.

CLXVIII.

And every day by daybreak-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;
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 color freshlier came,
And every day help'd on his convalescence;
'T was 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 lessons 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,

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.

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-

And repetition 's tiresome and unwise,— Well-Juan, after bathing in the sea, Came always back to coffee and Haidée.

CLXXII.

Both were so young, and one so innocent,

That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd To her, as 't were, 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 win
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:

To live with him for ever were too much;

CLXXIV.

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidée
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,
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 other
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.

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,

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,
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 make 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 champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain,

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

CLXXIX.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,
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!
But to return,-Get very drunk; and when
You wake with headache, you shall see what then

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;
For not the best 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.
CLXXXI.

But then the thought of parting made her The coast-I think it was the coast that I

quake;

He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast

Like a rich wreck-her first love, and her last.

Was just describing-Yes, it was the coastLay at this period quiet as the sky,

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost,

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DON JUAN.

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LIX.

LII.-LIVI

He also stuff'd his money where he could
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;
But Juan, trusting they might still get through.
And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

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The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
Of the continuance of the gale: to run
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,
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,

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.

LXIV.

'Tis very certain the desire of life

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:
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity.
LXV.

"T is said that persons living on annuities

Are longer lived than others,-God knows why,
Unless to plague the grantors,-yet so true it is,
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.

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,
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; 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 laboring people think beyond all question Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

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, Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue i 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

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, 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,
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.

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)
As a great favor one of the fore-paws,
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
Devour'd it, longing for the other too.

LXXII.

The seventh day, and no wind-the burning sun Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; 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 arise (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; And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,

"T was 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 fellows' food. LXXIV.

But ere they came to this, they that day shared
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 must shock the Muse-
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, Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or plann'd it,

'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuterAnd the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.

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,

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; 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 billowThe 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 could Feel now his appetite increased much more; 'T was not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master.

LXXIX.

"T was better that he did not; for, in fact, 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, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,

And, with hyæna-laughter, died despairing.

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, 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.

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