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And now 't was 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:(0) And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise.(?)


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)(3)Oh, Love! thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.

(1) [MS. — “In their sweet feelings holily united,'

By Solitude (soft parson) they were wed.”] (2) [Don Juan is dashed on the shore of the Cyclades, where he is found by a beautiful and innocent girl, the daughter of an old Greek pirate, - with whom, as might be supposed, the same game of guilt and abandonment is played over again. There is, however, a very superior kind of poetry in the conception of this amour; - the desolate isle - the utter loneliness of the maiden, who is as ignorant as she is innocent the helpless condition of the youth - every thing conspires to render it a true romance. How easy for Lord Byron to have kept it free from any stain of pollution! What cruel barbarity, in creating so much of beauty only to mar and ruin it! This is really the very suicide of genius. BLACKWOOD.] (3) [MS. - Or, “ Leucadia's { celine

still overlooks the wave."]


Thou mak'st 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.


Thou mak'st 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), 6 Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. (')


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, 't is her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ?

(1) [See note introductory to the tragedy of “Sardanapalus," ante, Vol. XIII. p. 64.]


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.


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 enquire if she be wife or maid,

Or neither - out of curiosity." “ Stop!” cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian ;)


Stop!” so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which

Men call 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 adoration of the real
Is but a heightening of the “beau ideal."


'T is the perception of the beautiful,

A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful,

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull;

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is form’d of fiery dust.


Yet ’t is a painful feeling, and unwilling,

For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 'T would save us many a heartach, many a shilling,

(For we must get them any how, or grieve,) Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver !


The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,

But changes night and day, too, like the sky; Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,

And darkness and destruction as on high : But when it hath been scorchd, and pierced, and riven,

Its storms expire in water drops; the eye Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn d to tears, Which make the English climate of our years.

The liver is the lazaret of bile,

But very rarely executes its function,
For the first passion stays there such a while,

That all the rest creep in and form a junction, Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd “ cen. tral.” ()

In the mean time, without proceeding more

In this anatomy, I've finish'd now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,

That being about the number I'll allow Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ;

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidée to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read. (2)

(1) [The Canto concludes with some ironical eulogies on constancy, its rarity, and its value, winding up with some caustic sarcasms; from the whole tenor of which, we are led to conclude that Lord Byron has no higher an opinion of men, nor of women, than that profane wit, who said, that when there were but two brothers on the earth, one of them killed the other; and that when Eve had only Adam

“ Elle aima mieux pour s'en faire conter,
Prester l'oreille aux fleurettes du diable,

Que d'estre femme et ne pas coqueter.” — - COLTON.] (2) [“You say that one-half is very good : you are wrong; for, it it were, it would be the finest poem in existence. Where is the poetry of which one-half is good ? Is it the Æneid ? is it Milton's ? is it Dryden's ? is it any one's except Pope's and Goldsmith's, of which all is good ? and yet these two last are the poets your pond poets would explode. But if one-half of these two Cantos be good in your opinion, what the devil would you have more? No-no; no poetry is generally good — only by fits and starts - and you are lucky to get a sparkle here and there. You might as well want a midnight all stars, as rhyme all perfect." -Lord B. to Mr. Murray.]

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