HAIDEE AND Juan. [From Don Juan. Canto IV.] Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. But time, which brings all beings to their level, As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wish'd that others held the same opinion: They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion; Now my sere fancy ‘falls into the yellow Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. Some have accused me of a strange design I don't pretend that I quite understand To the kind reader of our sober clime This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell'd in the fancies of the time, True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic, But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet. How I have treated it, I do not know; Perhaps no better than they have treated me, Who have imputed such designs as show Not what they saw, but what they wished to see; But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, And tells me to resume my story here. Young Juan and his lady-love were left To their own hearts' most sweet society; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one harm or hope had taken wing. Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, They were all summer; lightning might assail They were alone once more; for them to be Cut from its forest root of years- the river The heart-which may be broken: happy they! Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold And all which must be borne, and never told; While life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die. "Whom the gods love die young' was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more— The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save. Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead. The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn ; Each was the other's mirror, and but read Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection. The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, The least glance better understood than words, As but to lovers a true sense affords; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard. All these were theirs, for they were children still, And children still they should have ever been; But like two beings born from out a rill, A nymph and her beloved, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found By the mere senses; and that which destroys INVOCATION TO THE SPIRIT OF ACHILLES. [From The Deformed Transformed.] Beautiful shadow Of Thetis's boy! Who sleeps in the meadow Whose grass grows o'er Troy: From the red earth, like Adam, Thy likeness I shape, As the being who made him, Whose actions I ape. Thou clay, be all glowing, And drank the best dew! Let his limbs be the lightest Which clay can compound, And his aspect the brightest On earth to be found! Elements, near me, Be mingled and stirr'd, Know me, and hear me, And leap to my word! Sunbeams, awaken This earth's animation! Tis done! He hath taken His stand in creation! |