Enough.- The faithful and the fairy pair, Who never found a single hour too slow, What was it made them thus exempt from care?
Young innate feelings all have felt below, Which perish in the rest, but in them were Inherent- what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic.
This is in others a factitious state, An opium dream of too much youth and reading, But was in them their nature or their fate:
No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding;
So that there was no reason for their loves More than for those of nightingales or doves.
They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, For it had made them what they were: the power Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, When happiness had been their only dower, And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties;
Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought The past still welcome as the present thought.
I know not why, but in that hour to-night, Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, When one is shook in sound, and one in sight;
And thus some boding flash'd through either frame, And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye.
That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate And follow far the disappearing sun, As if their last day! of a happy date With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone;
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate-He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance inquired of hers for some excuse For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.
She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:
Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, And master'd by her wisdom or her pride;
When Juan spoke, too- it might be in sport-Of this their mutual feeling, she replied-'If it should be so,- but- it cannot be-Or I at least shall not survive to see.'
Juan would question further, but she press'd His lip to hers, and silenced him with this, And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, Defying augury with that fond kiss;
And no doubt of all methods 't is the best:
Some people prefer wine- 't is not amiss;
I have tried both; so those who would a part take May choose between the headache and the heartache.
One of the two, according to your choice, Woman or wine, you 'll have to undergo;
Both maladies are taxes on our joys:
But which to choose, I really hardly know;
And if I had to give a casting voice, For both sides I could many reasons show, And then decide, without great wrong to either, It were much better to have both than neither.
Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, All that the best can mingle and express When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, And love too much, and yet can not love less;
But almost sanctify the sweet excess By the immortal wish and power to bless.
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, Why did they not then die?- they had lived too long Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;
Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong;
The world was not for them, nor the world's art For beings passionate as Sappho's song;
Love was born with them, in them, so intense, It was their very spirit- not a sense.
They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:
How lonely every freeborn creature broods!
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair;
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.
Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, Haidee and Juan their siesta took, A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, For ever and anon a something shook Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep;
And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, The mystical usurper of the mind-O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind;
Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.
She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir She could not from the spot, and the loud roar Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high-Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.
Anon- she was released, and then she stray'd O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And stumbled almost every step she made;
And something roll'd before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid:
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.
The dream changed:- in a cave she stood, its walls Were hung with marble icicles, the work Of ages on its water-fretted halls, Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell,- she thought.
And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!), Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.
