La proposition dun don Juan (Azur) (French Edition)

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Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, Are things immortal to immortal man, As purple to the Babylonian harlot: At least he feels it, and some say he sees, Because he runs before it like a pig; Or, if that simple sentence should displease, Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, A schooner, or — but it is time to ease This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, Like a bob-major from a village steeple.

Here pause we for the present — as even then That awful pause, dividing life from death, Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! A moment — and all will be life again! O blood and thunder! These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, Too gentle reader! Call them Mars, Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men To wield them in their terrible array.

The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. And such they are — and such they will be found: Not so Leonidas and Washington, Whose every battle-field is holy ground, Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; Count Chapeau—Bras, too, had a ball between His cap and head, which proves the head to be Aristocratic as was ever seen, Because it then received no injury More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean No harm unto a right legitimate head: Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.

A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, And heroes are but made for bards to sing, Which is still better; thus in verse to wage Your wars eternally, besides enjoying Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. And this was admirable; for so hot The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.

Of officers a third fell on the spot, A thing which victory by no means boded To gentlemen engaged in the assault: Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. But here I leave the general concern, To track our hero on his path of fame: He must his laurels separately earn; For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, Though all deserving equally to turn A couplet, or an elegy to claim, Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, And what is worse still, a much longer story: I knew a man whose loss Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

Indeed he could not. But what if he had? There have been and are heroes who begun With something not much better, or as bad: But always without malice: Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, And could be very busy without bustle;.

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so Upon reflection, knowing that behind He would find others who would fain be rid so Of idle apprehensions, which like wind Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, But when they light upon immediate death, Retire a little, merely to take breath. But Johnson only ran off, to return With many other warriors, as we said, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.

His soul like galvanism upon the dead Acted upon the living as on wire, And led them back into the heaviest fire. The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks: So that on either side some nine or ten Paces were left, whereon you could contrive To march; a great convenience to our men, At least to all those who were left alive, Who thus could form a line and fight again; And that which farther aided them to strive Was, that they could kick down the palisades, Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.

Among the first — I will not say the first, For such precedence upon such occasions Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst Out between friends as well as allied nations: The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings So much into the raw as quite to wrong her Beyond the rules of posting — and the mob At last fall sick of imitating Job.

The thirst Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, Pervaded him — although a generous creature, As warm in heart as feminine in feature. But here he was! The present case in point I Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;. He was not all alone: Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; Corruption could not make their hearts her soil; The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, With the free foresters divide no spoil; Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes Of this unsighing people of the woods.

So much for Nature: When matters must be carried by the touch Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. The regimental surgeon could not cure His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed More than the head of the inveterate foe, Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.

Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child With flashing eyes and weapons: And such is victory, and such is man! At least nine tenths of what we call so; — God May have another name for half we scan As human beings, or his ways are odd. But to our subject: Neither — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, Who fought with his five children in the van. To take him was the point. But he would not be taken, and replied To all the propositions of surrender By mowing Christians down on every side, As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.

His five brave boys no less the foe defied; Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. That drinks and still is dry. Your houris also have a natural pleasure In lopping off your lately married men, Before the bridal hours have danced their measure And the sad, second moon grows dim again, Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure To wish him back a bachelor now and then. And thus your houri it may be disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.

But with a heavenly rapture on his face. He did not heed Their pause nor signs: But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, Where the chief pacha calmly held his post: His stubborn valour was no future shield. Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. But let me put an end unto my theme: There was an end of Ismail — hapless town!

The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown: Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less Might here and there occur some violation In the other line; — but not to such excess As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm: Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.

I have kept my word — at least so far As the first Canto promised. Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,. With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. What farther hath befallen or may befall The hero of this grand poetic riddle, I by and by may tell you, if at all: Though Britain owes and pays you too so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor I wish your bards would sing it rather better.

Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late. Some hunger, too, they say the people feels: The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, With modern history has but small connection: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, You need not take them under your direction; And half a million for your Sabine farm Is rather dear! Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses: Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now — what is your fame?

Shall the Muse tune it ye? You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath! Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are! And yet was what you are: And thus Death laughs — it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like hours?

Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, He who sleeps best may be the most content. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath. That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? O, ye immortal gods! O, thou too, mortal man! Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

Because They hate me, not I them. And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. I know not who may conquer: It is not that I adulate the people: Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple, And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, As is the Christian dogma rather rough, I do not know; — I wish men to be free As much from mobs as kings — from you as me.

The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties: My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty Than if I sought to sail before the wind. He who has nought to gain can have small art: Raise but an arm! The web of these tarantulas each day Increases, till you shall make common cause: None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, As yet are strongly stinging to be free. She fell with Buonaparte — What strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! O, ye great authors! But let it go: Like to the notions we now entertain Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! How the new worldlings of the then new East Will wonder where such animals could sup! For they themselves will be but of the least: But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows;.

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight. Whence is our exit and our entrance — well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain: Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that — Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. Great joy was hers, or rather joys: The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth — while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.

What a strange thing is man? What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! Whether wed Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her Mind like the wind: Just now yours were cut out in different sections: And when you add to this, her womanhood In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, Or better, as the best examples say: And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the main spring of the universe.

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, For such all women are at first no doubt. How beautiful that moment! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears! All the ambassadors of all the powers Enquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours? Which is full soon — though life is but a span.

Already they beheld the silver showers Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, Upon his cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants. Catherine was generous — all such ladies are: Also the softer silks were heard to rustle Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, Especially when such lead to high places. Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, A general object of attention, made His answers with a very graceful bow, As if born for the ministerial trade.

With her then, as in humble duty bound, Juan retired — and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: And wherefore this exordium?

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume For I have more than one Muse at a push To follow him beyond the drawing-room: But soon they grow again and leave their nest. Such difference doth a few months make. But Juan was not meant to die so soon. Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears. However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself; — if not, I must.

I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. This were the worst desertion: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please. The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife.

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below , Are over: About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.

This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas! Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,. He wrote to Spain: O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print. Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek For causes young or old: Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: But here is one prescription out of many: This is the way physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: But still his state was delicate: The climate was too cold, they said, for him, Meridian-born, to bloom in.

This opinion Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, Who did not like at first to lose her minion: Your queens Are generally prosperous in reigning; Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. But time, the comforter, will come at last; And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed, Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber: A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, All private favourites of Don Juan; — for Let deeper sages the true cause determine He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, Live animals: The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. She also had no passion for confession; Perhaps she had nothing to confess: He naturally loved what he protected: Let this not seem an anti-climax: From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, Has lately been the great Professor Kant.

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postilions. But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture.

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known. How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind: Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves?

The nations are In prison — but the gaoler, what is he? No less a victim to the bolt and bar. Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? On with the horses! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species. The effect on Juan was of course sublime: So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving.

Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, Such is the shortest way to general curses. So said the Florentine: But Juan saw not this: He paused — and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues?

And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? I thought you had more religion, Mrs.

I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it. If it be chance; or if it be according To the old text, still better: And therefore will I leave off metaphysical Discussion, which is neither here nor there: These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.

But what is to be done? O for a glass of max! Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled. He from the world had cut off a great man, Who in his time had made heroic bustle. Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle? Who queer a flat? Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal his blowing , So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach Of travellers to mighty Babylon: Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. Stone—Henge is not — but what the devil is it? The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.

A row of gentlemen along the streets Suspended may illuminate mankind, As also bonfires made of country seats; But the old way is best for the purblind: So they lead In safety to the place for which you start, What matters if the road be head or heart? Juan presented in the proper place, To proper placemen, every Russ credential; And was received with all the due grimace By those who govern in the mood potential, Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, Thought what in state affairs is most essential That they as easily might do the youngster, As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.

And, after all, what is a lie? The very shadow of true Truth would shut Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy — except it should be dated Some years before the incidents related. Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? Man In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, More than on continents — as if the sea See Billingsgate made even the tongue more free.

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, And parts, and hearts: Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? Juan, who was a little superficial, And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examined by this learned and especial Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: His duties warlike, loving or official, His steady application as a dancer, Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, Which now he found was blue instead of green.

There wanted but this requisite to swell His qualities with them into sublime: But I will fall at least as fell my hero; Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain — or none will know The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.

I think I know a trick or two, would turn Their flanks; — but it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern: Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz, The only dance which teaches girls to think, Makes one in love even with its very faults. Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste: But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle: Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Where is the world of eight years past? Where is Napoleon the Grand? The devil can tell: Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well? And where — oh, where the devil are the rents? Where is his will? Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried this is An evolution oft performed of late. Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses? Where are the Grenvilles? Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? Divorced or doing thereanent. Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, Have taken up at length with younger brothers: Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers; Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: In short, the list of alterations bothers. Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through.

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable, without being new: I have seen a Duke No matter which turn politician stupider, If that can well be, than his wooden look. Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see. What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is required by proper courtesy; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant.

Is yet within the unread events of time. Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better! Why call we misers miserable?

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. Ye who but see the saving man at table, And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring.

I still prefer thee unto paper, Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour. Who hold the balance of the world? Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain? Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan Is not a merely speculative hit, But seats a nation or upsets a throne.

Why call the miser miserable?

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, To build a college, or to found a race, A hospital, a church — and leave behind Some dome surmounted by his meagre face: Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind Even with the very ore which makes them base; Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, Or revel in the joys of calculation. Or do they benefit mankind? How beauteous are rouleaus! Is not all love prohibited whatever, Excepting marriage? Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, And marriage also may exist without; But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, And ought to go by quite another name.

Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; While sages write against all procreation, Unless a man can calculate his means Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. And now to business. But I am sick of politics. When tired of play, he flirted without sin With some of those fair creatures who have prided Themselves on innocent tantalisation, And hate all vice except its reputation.

The little Leila, with her orient eyes, And taciturn Asiatic disposition Which saw all western things with small surprise, To the surprise of people of condition, Who think that novelties are butterflies To be pursued as food for inanition , Her charming figure and romantic history Became a kind of fashionable mystery. The women much divided — as is usual Amongst the sex in little things or great.

And I assure you, that like virgin honey Tastes their first season mostly if they have money. Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, Look yes last night, and yet say no today? For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, Worn out with importunity; or fall But here perhaps the instances are fewer To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. O, pardon my digression — or at least Peruse! For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, My Muse by exhortation means to mend All people, at all times, and in most places, Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces.

Like many people everybody knows, Don Juan was delighted to secure A goodly guardian for his infant charge, Who might not profit much by being at large. In brief, the little orphan of the East Had raised an interest in her, which increased. Though this might ruin others, it did not him, At least entirely — for he had seen too many Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: How far it profits is another matter.

I call such things transmission; for there is A floating balance of accomplishment Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, According as their minds or backs are bent. But now I will begin my poem. These first twelve books are merely flourishes, Preludios, trying just a string or two Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure; And when so, you shall have the overture. Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, Yclept the Great World; for it is the least, Although the highest: And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, For the first season such a life scarce palls.

For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dresses ready. This works a world of sentimental woe, And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; But yet is merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration. A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it!

At first he did not think the women pretty. I say at first — for he found out at last, But by degrees, that they were fairer far Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast Beneath the influence of the eastern star. A further proof we should not judge in haste; Yet inexperience could not be his bar To taste: I will not swear that black is white; But I suspect in fact that white is black, And the whole matter rests upon eyesight.

Ask a blind man, the best judge. Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. But this has nought to do with their outsides. Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, An erring woman finds an opener door For her return to Virtue — as they cal That lady, who should be at home to all. For me, I leave the matter where I find it, Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads People some ten times less in fact to mind it, And care but for discoveries and not deeds.

Besides, he had not seen of several hundred A lady altogether to his mind. And though not vainer from his past success, No doubt his sensibilities were less. He saw, however, at the closing session, That noble sight, when really free the nation, A king in constitutional possession Of such a throne as is the proudest station, Though despots know it not — till the progression Of freedom shall complete their education.

Produktbeschreibungen

And Juan was received, as hath been said, Into the best society: Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction Ends. And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, Remember, reader! That is your present theme for popularity: Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, It grows an act of patriotic charity, To show the people the best way to break.

My plan but I, if but for singularity, Reserve it will be very sure to take. Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers, And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. But then they have their claret and Madeira To irrigate the dryness of decline; And county meetings, and the parliament, And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.

The struggle to be pilots in a storm? The landed and the monied speculation? The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, Instead of love, that mere hallucination? Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest: If I sneer sometimes, It is because I cannot well do less, And now and then it also suits my rhymes. But his adventures form a sorry sight; A sorrier still is the great moral taught By that real epic unto all who have thought.

Redressing injury, revenging wrong, To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; Opposing singly the united strong, From foreign yoke to free the helpless native: I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare To venture a solution: It chanced some diplomatical relations, Arising out of business, often brought Himself and Juan in their mutual stations Into close contact. And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow In judging men — when once his judgment was Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, Had all the pertinacity pride has, Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, Because its own good pleasure hath decided.

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, As most men do, the little or the great; The very lowest find out an inferior, At least they think so, to exert their state Upon: He liked to teach that which he had been taught, And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; And reconciled all qualities which grace man, Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman.

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Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. At Blank—Blank Square; — for we will break no squares By naming streets: Such I might stumble over unawares, Unless I knew the very chastest squares. Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: But Adeline had not the least occasion For such a shield, which leaves but little merit To virtue proper, or good education.

Secure of admiration, its impression Was faint, as of an every-day possession. Which is in all respects, save now and then, A dull and desolate appendage. But Adeline was not indifferent: Shall I go on? I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, So let the often-used volcano go. And such are many — though I only meant her From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, On which the Muse has always sought to enter. And your cold people are beyond all price, When once you have broken their confounded ice.

But heaven must be diverted; its diversion Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: The world upon the whole is worth the assertion If but for comfort that all things are kind: And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, Of the two principles, but leaves behind As many doubts as any other doctrine Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.

The English winter — ending in July, To recommence in August — now was done. But for post-horses who finds sympathy? Let radicals its other acts attack, Its sessions form our only almanack. Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, And happiest they who horses can engage; The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. The London winter and the country summer Were well nigh over.

None than themselves could boast a longer line, Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks as olden as their pedigree Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. A paragraph in every paper told Of their departure: Amundeville and Lady A. And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post?

There has lately been here The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame, Whose loss in the late action we regret: This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical — a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.

Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall: We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. Judges in very formidable ermine Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops, who had not left a single sermon: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket: And ah, ye poachers! If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. That is, up to a certain point; which point Forms the most difficult in punctuation. The party might consist of thirty-three Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet. There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.

My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely: Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp.

If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.

The days of Comedy are gone, alas! Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit—Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man — the hungry sinner!

Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash! When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast. For some had absent lovers, all had friends. The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven — because it never ends. And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says; The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

With evening came the banquet and the wine; The conversazione; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine My heart or head aches with the memory yet. There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. But in the country ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question? Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die?

And both may after all turn out untrue. An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new.

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A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death. And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears — but where?

This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. I ask in turn — Why do you play at cards? I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages.

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: Why do their sketches fail them as inditers Of what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe?

Poor thing of usages! A daily plague, which in the aggregate May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate The real sufferings of their she condition? Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. An indoor life is less poetical; And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral.

He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the coxcombry of certain she men. But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue!

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero;. No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; At least he kept his vanity retired.

Such was his tact, he could alike delight The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! Without a friend, what were humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: But this is not my maxim: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And as her junior by six weeks his youth.

Thy scythe, so dirty With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, If but to keep thy credit as a mower. But Adeline was far from that ripe age, Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, She put all coronets into commotion: Full text of " Don Juan tenorio " See other formats d? OA, commandeur de Calatrava.

Les trois derniers, cinq ans plus tard, et e une nuit aussi. L'auberge de Christofano Buttarelli. Du temps de libre, la bourse pleine, bonnes filles et bon vin. I Les mots en italique sont en italien dans le texte. Mais j'ai appris le castillan et si votre Excellence trouve plus facile de sa langue Don Luis Mejia est-il venu aujour- d'hui?

En finiras-tu, avec ton histoire? Et savez-vous quelque chose j d'aucun d'eux? Mejia et Tenorio sont de retour ins doute Alors, apportez-moi le masque. L'alliance a de grands avantages ; mais je ne veux pas que Tenorio taille un suaire dans le voile du mariage. De toute ma vie je n'ai vu homme de plus mauvaise humeur. La voici, avec deux chaises, deux verres et deux bouteilles. Tous les re- gardent. De la guerre et de l'amour c'est l'antique et classique terre ; et l'Empereur s'y trouvait, en guerre avec elle et la France.

Ici est Don Juan Tenorio, et il n'est pas d'homme qui le vaille. Que les querelleurs le recherchent , que les joueurs l'entourent, que les glorieux Varrctcnt: Tels sont les hauts faits de Don Juan: Ici est un Don Luis, qui en vaut au moins deux. Vous avez parfaitement raison. J'en compte ici trente-deux. Qui ose me parler ainsi? En vain tu me le demandes. Je ne le fus jamais. Les fils tels que toi sont tils de Satan. Ainsi c'est dit, Don Luis: Je ne vous supposais pas une telle har- diesse, parbleu! Les rondes emmenait Don Juan e: Don Luis; beaucoup les suivent. Si l'honneur et la vie sont en jeu, mon adresse et ma valeur joueront pour ma vie et pour mon honneur Voila les mensonges de la foule!

Il a eu l'effronterie de dire cela? Tant que je serai ici, ne vous en embarrassez point, Don Luis. Il se fonde sur le peu de temps qui reste pour se retourner, et sur ce qu'il est ce qu'il est. Mais donnez-moi votre parole de rester muet. Il me semble que cette nuit est une date fatale pour moi. Dona Ana, que tu arrives au bon moment! Mais ce n'est pas le moment de parler de cela: Ne suis-je pas ici, moi? Je crois, Ciutti, que voici la preuve: Que le ciel te paie, mon Ana, une satisfaction aussi parfaite! Et nous voici tous les deux dans la rue. Adieu, Don Luis; si je vous le gagne, c'est trahison, mais digne de moi.

Quand elle croira se trouver avec lui Approchez, je suis Don Juan. Elle qui jamais ne vit briller ses plumes aux splendeurs du soleil, que sait-elle des couleurs dont elle peut s'enor- gueillir? Qui pensez- vous qui demeure ici? Aujourd'hui n'est pas demain, Lucia. Cette maison, cette bourse pourra-t-elle l'ouvrir?

LLdA Je me rends. Je ne sais ce que j'ai, pauvre de moi! Cette femme, avec ses discours, en fin de compte, me divertit parfois. Et aujourd'hui elle me fait faute C'est Don Juan qui me l'envoie? Lui faire ainsi affront, serait le tuer. Et on a eu bien soin de le faire relier en noir! Le papier serait de lui?

Don Juan / George Byron

Est-ce que je vais mourir? Faut-il que je n'entende que son nom seul, que seule je voie son image? Cet homme peut-il arriver jusqu'ici? N'entendez-vous pas qu'on marche? Pour le moment, je n'entends rien. Vous allez l'enlever ainsi? Mes gens m'attendent en bas ; suis-moi. Mais elles ne sont pas ici.

Mais j'entends des pas par la dehors. Je ne sais pourquoi je tremble! Mais que vois-je, Dieu saint! Et la signature de Don Juan! J'ai vu un homme sauter par-dessus les murs du jardin.

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