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.
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:
And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise.
Oh, Love! of whom great Caesar 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.
Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men:
Caesar 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), '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 Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon Does these things for us, and whenever newly Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?
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 inquire 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 heartache, 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 scorch'd, 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, Life 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 'central,'
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 Haidee to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read.
