第39章

For if my pure libations exceed three, I feel my heart become so sympathetic, That I must have recourse to black Bohea:

'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill!

Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill?

I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack (In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, Wakes me next morning with its synonym.

I leave Don Juan for the present, safe-Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded;

Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded?

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, And then give way, subdued because surrounded;

Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.

There the large olive rains its amber store In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er;

But there, too, many a poison-tree has root, And midnight listens to the lion's roar, And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan;

And as the soil is, so the heart of man.

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth Her human day is kindled; full of power For good or evil, burning from its birth, The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And like the soil beneath it will bring forth:

Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower;

But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder they display Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, Had held till now her soft and milky way;

But overwrought with passion and despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down;

His blood was running on the very floor Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,-Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd.

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill-With nothing livid, still her lips were red;

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;

No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead;

Corruption came not in each mind to kill All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul-She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.

The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, A strange sensation which she must partake Perforce, since whatsoever met her view Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause.

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, On many a token without knowing what;

She saw them watch her without asking why, And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;

Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away;

She recognized no being, and no spot, However dear or cherish'd in their day;

They changed from room to room- but all forgot-Gentle, but without memory she lay;

At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning.

And then a slave bethought her of a harp;

The harper came, and tuned his instrument;

At the first notes, irregular and sharp, On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent;

And he begun a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace, vain relief!- thought came too quick, And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, And flew at all she met, as on her foes;

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Although her paroxysm drew towards its dose;-Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave, Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace;

Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence Avail'd for either; neither change of place, Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep- the power seem'd gone for ever.

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last, Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show A parting pang, the spirit from her past: