Don Juan. Baron George Gordon Byron Byron

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 Haidee.

       Both were so young, and one so innocent,

       That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd

       To her, as 'twere, 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.

       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 forever were too much;

       But then the thought of parting made her quake;

       He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast

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

       And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee

       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.

       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.

       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.

       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.

       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.

       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.

       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 bless'd 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.

       The coast—I think it was the coast that

       Was just describing—Yes, it was the coast—

       Lay at this period quiet as the sky,

       The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost,

       And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry,

       And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost

       By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret

       Against the boundary it scarcely wet.

       And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone,

       As I have said, upon an expedition;

       And mother, brother, guardian, she had none,

       Save Zoe, who, although with due precision

       She waited on her lady with the sun,

       Thought daily service was her only mission,

       Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses,

       And asking now and then for cast-off dresses.

       It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded

       Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,

       Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded,

       Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,

       With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded

       On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill

       Upon the other, and the rosy sky,

       With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

       And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand,

       Over the shining pebbles and the shells,

       Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand,

       And in the worn and wild receptacles

       Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd,

       In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells,

       They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm,

       Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.

       They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow

       Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;

       They gazed upon the glittering sea below,