The Works of Lord Byron

LXIII.

DON JUAN.

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-
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.

These oriental writings on the wall,

Quite common in those countries, are a kind
Of monitors, adapted to recall,

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.

LXX.

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's:

She wore two jelicks-one was of pale yellow;
Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise-
"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.
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,
And clinging as if loth to lose its hold,
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin
That e'er by precious metal was held in."

LXXII.

Around, as princess of her father's land,
A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd,3
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;
About the prettiest ankle in the world.
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd

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;
And still they seem resentfully to feel

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun
To offer his young pinion as her fan.
Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began

LXXIV.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,
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;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.

LXXV.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tirged,
(It is the country's custom,) but in vain ;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed.
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,
Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
And in their native beauty stood avenged:
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
They could not look more rosy than before.

624

LXXVII.

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,
But a white baracan, and so transparent,
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 Haidee's hair in't,
Surmounted as its clasp-a glowing crescent,
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.
LXXVIII.

And now they were diverted by their suite,
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuch's, and a poet,
Which made their new establishment complete;
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it;
His verses rarely wanted their due feet-

And for his theme-he seldom sung below it,
He being paid to satirize or flatter,

As the psalm says, "inditing a good matter."

LXXXIV.

He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks,
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;
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,"
Or "Calira," according to the fashion all;
His muse made increment of any thing,

From the high lyrical to the low rational:
If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

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
Would be old Goethe's-(see what says de Stael;
like In Italy, he'd ape the "Trecentisti ;"

In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ya

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,—

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

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 Bless'd."

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,

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!
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

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

"Pedlars," and "boats," and "wagons!" Oh! ye Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? [shades That trash of such sort not alone evades

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hissThe "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell" 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;

The lady and her lover, left alone,

The rosy flood of twilight 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!

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, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer.

CIII.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!

Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 'tis too like.

CIV.

Some kind 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;

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 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood, Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 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 echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along; 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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The Works of Lord Byron: Embracing His Suppressed Poems, and a Sketch of His ...