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CXCII.

Alas! they were so young, so beautiful,
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour
Was that in which the heart is always full,
And, having o'er itself no further power,
Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul,

But pays of moments in an endless shower
Of Hell-fire-all prepared for people giving
Pleasure or pain to one another living.

CXCIII.

Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were
So loving and so lovely, till then never,
Excepting our first parents, such a pair

Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever;
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair,
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river,
And hell and purgatory-but forgot

Just in the very crisis she should not.

CXCIV.

They look upon each other, and their eyes

Gleam in the moonlight, and her white arm clasps Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, He hers, until they end in broken gasps; And thus they form a group that's quite antique, Half naked, loving, natural and Greek.

CXCV.

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd,
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms,

She slept not, but all tenderly though fast,
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms;
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast,

And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants
With all it granted, and with all it grants.

CXCVI.

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An infant when it gazes on a light,

A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the host in sight,

An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,
A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.

CXCVII.

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved,
All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless and unmoved,
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving:
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and prov'd,

Hush'd into death beyond the watcher's diving;
There lies the thing we love, with all its errors,
And all its charms, like death without its terrors.

CXCVIII:

The lady watch'd her lover-and that hour

Of love's, and night's, and ocean's solitude,
O'erflow'd her soul with their united power;
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude
She and her wave-worn love had made their bower,
Where nought upon their passion could intrude,
And all the stars that crowded the blue space
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.

CXCIX.

Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

CC.

They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to women; one sole bond
Awaits them; treachery is all their trust;

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust

Buys them in marriage-and what rests beyond ? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.

CCI.

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,
Some mind their household, others dissipation,
Some run away, and but exchange their cares,
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;
Few changes e'er can better their affairs,
Theirs being an unnatural situation,
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:
Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

CCII.

Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this; Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss

Of his gazel-eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his

Who was her chosen; what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing-She had nought to fear, Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here.

CCIII.

And, oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!
How much it costs us! yet each rising throb

Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,

That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob

Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat

Fine truths: even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good-I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em.

K

CCIV.

And now 'twas done on the lone shore were plighted Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:

Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallow'd and united,

Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed; And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise.

CCV.

Oh, Love! of whom great Cæsar was the suitor;
Titus, the master; Antony, the slave;
Horace, Catullus, scholars; Ovid, tutor;

Sappho, the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave
All those may leap who rather would be neuter-
(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)
Oh, Love thou art the very god of evil,
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.

CCV1.

Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: Cæsar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,

Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen: Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, Such worthies Time will never see again;

Yet to these four, in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.

CCVII.

Thou makest philosophers: there's Epicurus
And Aristippus, a material crew;
Who to immoral courses would allure us,

By theories quite practicable too:

If only from the devil they would insure us,

How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new) "Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.

CCVIII.

But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia?
And should he have forgotten her so soon?
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a
Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a
Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon,

Else how the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

CCIX.

I hate inconstancy-I loathe, detest,

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast
No permanent foundation can be laid;
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,
And yet last night, being at a masquerade,
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan,
Which gave me some sensations like a villain.

COX.

But soon Philosophy came to my aid,

And whisper'd, "Think of every sacred tie!"

"I will, my dear Philosophy!" I said,

"But then her teeth, and then, Oh Heaven! her eye!

"I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid,

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Or neither out of curiosity."

"Stop!" cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian,
(Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian.)

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CCXI.

Stop!" so I stopp'd.-But to return: that which
Men call'd inconstancy, is nothing more

Than admiration due where Nature's rich
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er
Some favour'd object; and as in the niche
A lovely statue we almost adore,
This sort of admiration of the real,
Is but a heightening of the "beau ideal "

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