XCI. They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, Waiting for his sublimity's firmanThe most imperative of sovereign spells, Which every body does without who can,More to secure them in their naval cells,

Lady to lady, well as man to man, Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple For the slave-market of Constantinople.

XCII.

It seems when this allotment was made out,
There chanced to be an odd male and odd female,
Who (after some discussion and some doubt

If the soprano might be doom'd to be male,
They placed him o'er the women as a scout)

Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male Was Juan, who-an awkward thing at his agePair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage.

XCIII.

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd

The tenor; these two hated with a hate Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, Instead of bearing up without debate,

That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, <«< Arcades ambo,» id est-blackguards both.

XCIV.

Juan's companion was a Romagnole,

But bred within the March of old Ancona, With eyes that look'd into the very soul

(And other chief points of a « bella donna»), Bright-and as black and burning as a coal;

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a Great wish to please-a most attractive dower, Especially when added to the power.

XCV.

But all that power was wasted upon him,

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command; Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand Touch'd his, nor that-nor any handsome limb (And she had some not easy to withstand) Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little.

XCVI.

No matter; we should ne'er too much inquire,

But facts are facts,-no knight could be more true,

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire;

We will omit the proofs, save one or two.

'T is said no one in hand «< can hold a fire
By thought of frosty Caucasus,» but few

I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal
Was more triumphant, and not much less real.

XCVII.

Here I might enter on a chaste description,

Having withstood temptation in my youth, But hear that several people take exception

At the first two books having too much truth; Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon,

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is To pass, than those two cantos into families.

XCVIII.

'Tis all the same to me, I'm fond of yielding, And therefore leave them to the purer page Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding,

Who say strange things for so correct an age. I once had great alacrity in wielding

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage,

And recollect the time when all this cant
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't.
XCIX.

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble;
But at this hour I wish to part in peace,
Leaving such to the literary rabble,

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease
While the right hand which wrote it still is able,
Or of some centuries to take a lease,

The grass upon my grave will grow as long,
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.

C.

Of poets who come down to us through distance
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame,
Life seems the smallest portion of existence;
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name,
'T is as a snowball which derives assistance
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same,
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow,-
But after all 't is nothing but cold snow.

CI.

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, And love of glory 's but an airy lust,

Too often in its fury overcoming all

Who would, as 't were, identify their dust

From out the wide destruction which, entombing all,
Leaves nothing till the coming of the just-

Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.

CII.

The very generations of the dead

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an age is fled,

And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read?

Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, And lose their own in universal death.

CIII.

I canter by the spot each afternoon

Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, Who lived too long for men, but died too soon For human vanity, the young De Foix!

A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn,

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 5

CIV.

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid;
A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid
To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column.
The time must come when both, alike decay'd,

The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume,
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth,
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth.

CV.

With human blood that column was cemented,
With human filth that column is defiled,
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented,
To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd.
Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented

Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.

CVI.

Yet there will still be bards; though fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke

Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; As on the beach the waves at last are broke,

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, Dash into poetry, which is but passion, Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. CVII.

If in the course of such a life as was

At once adventurous and contemplative, Men who partake all passions as they pass, Acquire the deep and bitter power to give Their images again, as in a glass,

And in such colours that they seem to live; You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.

CVIII.

Oh! ye, who make the fortunes of all books!
Benign ceruleans of the second sex!
Who advertise new poems by your looks,
Your « imprimatur» will ye not annex?
What, must I go to the oblivious cooks,-
Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks?
Ah! must I then the only minstrel be
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea?
CIX.

What, can I prove «a lion» then no more?

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, To bear the compliments of many a bore,

And sigh I can't get out,» like Yorick's starling. Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling), That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.

CX.

Oh! « darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,»>

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, And I, ye learned ladies, say of you;

They say your stockings are so (leaven knows why, I have examined few pair of that hue); Blue as the garters which serenely lie Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn The festal midnight and the levee morn.

CXI.

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures : But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, You read my stanzas, and I read your features: And-but no matter, all those things are over. Still I have no dislike to learned natures,

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover: I know one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but-quite a fool.

CXII.

Humboldt, «< the first of travellers,» but not The last, if late accounts be accurate, Invented, by some name I have forgot,

As well as the sublime discovery's date, An airy instrument, with which he sought To ascertain the atmospheric state, By measuring « the intensity of blue:» Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!

СХІІІ.

But to the narrative.-The vessel bound
With slaves to sell off in the capital,
After the usual process, might be found
At anchor under the seraglio wall:
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound,
Were landed in the market, one and all,

And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians,
Bought up for different purposes and passions.

CXIV.

Some went off dearly: fifteen hundred dollars
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given,
Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours

Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven:
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven;
But when the offer went beyond, they knew
'T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew.
CXV.

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price
Which the West-Indian market scarce would bring;
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice
What 't was ere abolition; and the thing
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice

Is always much more splendid than a king :
The virtues, even the most exalted, charity,
Are saving-vice spares nothing for a rarity.
CXVI.

But for the destiny of this young troop,

How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, How some to burdens were obliged to stoop,

And others rose to the command of crews
As renegadoes; while in hapless group,

Hoping no very old vizier might chuse,
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em,
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim.

VII.

CANTO V.

I.

WHEN amatory poets sing their loves

In liquid lines mellifluously bland,

And praise their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, They little think what mischief is in hand;

The greater their success the worse it proves,

As Ovid's verse may make you understand; Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.

II.

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain-simple-short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,

And with all passions in their turn attack'd.
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.
III.

The European with the Asian shore

Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream,' Here and there studded with a seventy-four; Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;

The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;

The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,

Far less describe, present the very view

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.

IV.

I have a passion for the name of « Mary,»
For once it was a magic sound to me,
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad-and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.

V.

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades,

"T is a grand sight, from off « the Giant's Grave,»>2
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

VI.

'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parce then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinning

In all who o'er the great deep take their ways: They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't; Because if drown'd, they can't-if spared, they won't.

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,
'And age, and sex, were in the market ranged;
Each bevy with the merchant in his station:
Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed.
All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation,

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged;
The negroes more philosophy display'd,—
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd.

VIII.

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full,

As most at his age are, of hope, and health; Yet I must own he look'd a little dull,

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth : Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull

His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth,
A mistress, and such comfortable quarters,
To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,

IX.

Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless,
Upon the whole his carriage was serene :
His figure, and the splendour of his dress,
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen,
Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess

He was above the vulgar by his mien;
And then, though pale, he was so very handsome;
And then they calculated on his ransom.

X.

Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted

With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted:

Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.

It chanced, amongst the other people lotted,

A man of thirty, rather stout and hale,

With resolution in his dark grey eye,
Next Juan stood, till some might chuse to buy.
XI.

He had an English look; that is, was square
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy,
Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study,
An open brow a little mark'd with care:

One arm had on a bandage rather bloody;

And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator.

<< But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,
Although a female moderately fickle,
Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife)
For any length of days in such a pickle.
To strive too with our fate were such a strife
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle :
Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.»>
XVIII.

« Tis not,» said Juan, « for my present doom
I mourn, but for the past;-I loved a maid: >>
He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;

A single tear upon his eyelash staid
A moment, and then dropp'd; «but to resume,
'Tis not my present lot, as I have said,
Which I deplore so much; for I have borne
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,
XIX.

«On the rough deep. But this last blow-» and here He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face.

"

XXI.

«You take things coolly, sir,» said Juan. «Why,»
Replied the other, « what can a man do?
There still are many rainbows in your sky,

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new,
Commence with feelings warm and prospects high;
But time strips our illusions of their hue,
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake.
XXII.

«<'T is true, it gets another bright and fresh,
Or fresher, brighter, but, the year gone through,
This skin must go the way too of all flesh,

Or sometimes only wear a week or two.
Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;
Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days,
Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.»>
XXIII.

«All this is very fine, and may be true,»>

Said Juan; « but I really don't see how
It betters present times with me or you.»>

« No!» quoth the other; « yet you will allow
By setting things in their right point of view,
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now,
We know what slavery is, and our disasters
May teach us better to behave when masters.>>
XXIV.

« Would we were masters now, if but to try
Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,>>
Said Juan-swallowing a heart-burning sigh :
«Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!>>
«Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,»

Rejoin'd the other, « when our bad luck mends here; Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us!

XXV.

<< But after all, what is our present state? 'Tis bad, and may be better-all men's lot. Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, To their own whims and passions, and what not; Society itself, which should create

Kindness, destroys what little we had got: To feel for none is the true social art

Of the world's stoics-men without a heart.>>

XXVI.

Just now a black old neutral personage

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, And capabilities, as to discover

If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover,
Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

XXVII.

As is a slave by his intended bidder.

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider

Their passions, and are dextrous; some by features

Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,

Some by a place-as tend their years or natures: The most by ready cash-but all have prices,

XXVIII.

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care,
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid
First but for one, and after for the pair;

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too—so they did!
As though they were in a mere christian fair,
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
So that their bargain sounded like a battle
For this superior yoke of human cattle.
XXIX.

At last they settled into simple grumbling,

And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,

Until the sum was accurately scann'd,

And then the merchant, giving change and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

XXX.

I wonder if his appetite was good;

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

XXXI.

Voltaire says « No;» he tells you that Candide
Found life most tolerable after meals:
He 's wrong-unless man was a pig, indeed,
Repletion rather adds to what he feels;
Unless he's drunk, and then no doubt he's freed

From his own brain's oppression while it reels.
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather
Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father);

XXXII.

I think with Alexander, that the act
Of eating, with another act or two,
Makes us feel our mortality in fact

Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout,

And fish and soup, by some side dishes back'd,
Can give us either pain or pleasure, who
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use
Depends so much upon the gastric juice?
XXXIII.

h.xxi. The other evening ('t was on Friday last)—

This is a fact, and no poetic fable

Just as my great coat was about me cast,

My hat and gloves still lying on the table,

I heard a shot-'t was eight o'clock scarce past-
And running out as fast as I was able,

3

I found the military commandant
Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant.

XXXIV.

Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad,
They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there
To perish on the pavement: so I had

Him borne into the house and up the stair,
And stripp'd, and look'd to--But why should I add
More circumstances? vain was every care;
The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 4

<< Can this be death? then what is life or death? 'Speak!' but he spoke not: 'wake!' but still he slept: But yesterday and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith,

'Go, and he goeth; 'come,' and forth he stepp'd.
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb-
And now nought left him but the muffled drum,»
XXXVII.

And they who waited once and worshipp'd-they
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed,
To gaze once more on the commanding clay
Which for the last though not the first time bled:
And such an end! that he who many a day

Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,
The foremost in the charge or in the sally,
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley.

XXXVIII.

The scars of his old wounds were near his new,
Those honourable scars which brought him fame;
And horrid was the contrast to the view-

But let me quit the theme, as such things claim
Perhaps even more attention than is due
From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)
Το
try
if I could wrench aught out of death
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;
XXXIX.

But it was all a mystery. Here we are,

And there we go:-but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far!

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed?

Can every element our elements mar?

And air-earth-water-fire, live-and we dead? We, whose minds comprehend all things? No moreBut let us to the story as before.

XL.

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence As fast as oars could pull and water float. They look'd like persons being led to sentence, Wondering what next, till the caique was brought Up in a little creek below a wall O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall.

XLI.

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket
Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and
He led them onward, first through a low thicket
Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either hand:
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it—
For night was closing ere they came to land.
The eunuch made a sign to those on board,
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word.