The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 11

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found An awkward spectacle their eyes before; Antonia in hysterics, Julia swooned, Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Some half-torn drapery scattered on the ground, Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: Juan the gate gained, turned the key about, And liking not the inside, locked the out.

CLx.x.xVIII.

Here ends this canto.--Need I sing, or say, How Juan, naked, favoured by the night, Who favours what she should not, found his way,[aj]

And reached his home in an unseemly plight?

The pleasant scandal which arose next day, The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, Were in the English newspapers, of course.

CLx.x.xIX.

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, The depositions, and the Cause at full, The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings Of Counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, There's more than one edition, and the readings Are various, but they none of them are dull: The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,[82]

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.[83]

CXC.

But Donna Inez, to divert the train Of one of the most circulating scandals That had for centuries been known in Spain, At least since the retirement of the Vandals, First vowed (and never had she vowed in vain) To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And then, by the advice of some old ladies, She sent her son to be s.h.i.+pped off from Cadiz.

CXCI.

She had resolved that he should travel through All European climes, by land or sea, To mend his former morals, and get new, Especially in France and Italy-- (At least this is the thing most people do.) Julia was sent into a convent--she Grieved--but, perhaps, her feelings may be better[ak]

Shown in the following copy of her Letter:--

CXCII.

"They tell me 't is decided you depart: 'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain; I have no further claim on your young heart, Mine is the victim, and would be again: To love too much has been the only art I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears; My eyeb.a.l.l.s burn and throb, but have no tears.

CXCIII.

"I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, Heaven, Mankind's, my own esteem, And yet can not regret what it hath cost, So dear is still the memory of that dream; Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast, None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-- I've nothing to reproach, or to request.

CXCIV.

"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,[al]

'T is a Woman's whole existence; Man may range The Court, Camp, Church, the Vessel, and the Mart; Sword, Gown, Gain, Glory, offer in exchange Pride, Fame, Ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these can not estrange; Men have all these resources, We but one,[84]

To love again, and be again undone."[am]

CXCV.

"You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,[an]

Beloved and loving many; all is o'er For me on earth, except some years to hide My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core: These I could bear, but cannot cast aside The pa.s.sion which still rages as before,-- And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No, That word is idle now--but let it go.[ao]

CXCVI.

"My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; But still I think I can collect my mind;[ap]

My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, As roll the waves before the settled wind; My heart is feminine, nor can forget-- To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, As vibrates my fond heart to my fixed soul.[aq]

CXCVII.

"I have no more to say, but linger still, And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, And yet I may as well the task fulfil, My misery can scarce be more complete; I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you!"

CXCVIII.

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new;[ar]

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, It trembled as magnetic needles do, And yet she did not let one tear escape her; The seal a sun-flower; _"Elle vous suit partout,"_[85]

The motto cut upon a white cornelian; The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

CXCIX.

This was Don Juan's earliest sc.r.a.pe; but whether I shall proceed with his adventures is Dependent on the public altogether; We'll see, however, what they say to this: Their favour in an author's cap's a feather, And no great mischief's done by their caprice; And if their approbation we experience, Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence.

CC.

My poem's epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books; each book containing, With Love, and War, a heavy gale at sea, A list of s.h.i.+ps, and captains, and kings reigning, New characters; the episodes are three:[as]

A panoramic view of h.e.l.l's in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic's no misnomer.

CCI.

All these things will be specified in time, With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, The _Vade Mec.u.m_ of the true sublime, Which makes so many poets, and some fools: Prose poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of rhyme, Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; I've got new mythological machinery, And very handsome supernatural scenery.

CCII.

There's only one slight difference between Me and my epic brethren gone before, And here the advantage is my own, I ween (Not that I have not several merits more, But this will more peculiarly be seen); They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, Whereas this story's actually true.

CCIII.

If any person doubt it, I appeal To History, Tradition, and to Facts, To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, To plays in five, and operas in three acts;[at]

All these confirm my statement a good deal, But that which more completely faith exacts Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, _Saw_ Juan's last elopement with the Devil.

CCIV.

If ever I should condescend to prose, I'll write poetical commandments, which Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those That went before; in these I shall enrich My text with many things that no one knows, And carry precept to the highest pitch: I'll call the work "Longinus o'er a Bottle,[au]

Or, Every Poet his _own_ Aristotle."

CCV.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk,[86] the third so quaint and mouthy: With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy: Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit--flirtation with the muse of Moore.

CCVI.

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, His Pegasus, nor anything that's his; Thou shalt not bear false witness like "the Blues"-- (There's _one_, at least, is very fond of this); Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose: This is true criticism, and you may kiss-- Exactly as you please, or not,--the rod; But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G--d!

CCVII.

If any person should presume to a.s.sert This story is not moral, first, I pray, That they will not cry out before they're hurt, Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say (But, doubtless, n.o.body will be so pert) That this is not a moral tale, though gay: Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show The very place where wicked people go.

CCVIII.

If, after all, there should be some so blind To their own good this warning to despise, Led by some tortuosity of mind, Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, And cry that they "the moral cannot find,"

I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; Should captains the remark, or critics, make, They also lie too--under a mistake.