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

He begun To hear new words, and to repeat them; but Some feelings, universal as the sun, Were such as could not in his breast be shut More than within the bosom of a nun: He was in love — as you would be, no doubt, With a young benefactress — so was she, Just in the way we very often see. Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food; But who is their purveyor from above Heaven knows — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. It was such pleasure to behold him, such Enlargement of existence to partake Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: To live with him forever were too much; But then the thought of parting made her quake; He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast Like a rich wreck — her first love, and her last.

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, So that, her father being at sea, she was Free as a married woman, or such other Female, as where she likes may freely pass, Without even the incumbrance of a brother, The freest she that ever gazed on glass; I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison.

Produktbeschreibungen

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: But to return — Get very drunk; and when You wake with headache, you shall see what then. They were alone, but not alone as they Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, The twilight glow which momently grew less, The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay Around them, made them to each other press, As if there were no life beneath the sky Save theirs, and that their life could never die.

There lies the thing we love with all its errors And all its charms, like death without its terrors. They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond?

Some play the devil, and then write a novel. She had naught to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here. How much it costs us! And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise. And should he have forgotten her so soon? 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.

Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? One man alone at first her heart can move; She then prefers him in the plural number, Not finding that the additions much encumber. Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; They sometimes also get a little tired But that, of course, is rare , and then despond: And there he went ashore without delay, Having no custom-house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way About the time and place where he had been: He left his ship to be hove down next day, With orders to the people to careen; So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.

If single, probably his plighted fair Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care As cavalier servente, or despise her; And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.

And as the spot where they appear he nears, Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears — alas! A melody which made him doubt his ears, The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, A most unoriental roar of laughter. Here was no lack of innocent diversion For the imagination or the senses, Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, Perceiving in his absence such expenses, Dreading that climax of all human ills, The inflammation of his weekly bills.

He did not know alas! If all the dead could now return to life Which God forbid! Hate to the world and war with every nation He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. There wanted but the loss of this to wean His feelings from all milk of human kindness, And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; The ocean when its yeasty war is waging Is awful to the vessel near the rock; But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, Their fury being spent by its own shock, Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shines like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. These Oriental writings on the wall, Quite common in those countries, are a kind Of monitors adapted to recall, Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, And took his kingdom from him: There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The tables, most of ebony inlaid With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, Fretted with gold or silver: And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, Which made their new establishment complete; The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: His muse made increment of any thing, From the high lyric down to the low rational: If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! And where are they? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but blush? In vain — in vain: Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Den Autoren folgen

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, Yet in these times he might have done much worse: And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle: Milton left his house.

Such names at present cut a convict figure, The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, Are good manure for their more bare biography. But let me to my story: Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print — that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way; My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.

Sweet hour of twilight! Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man — and, as we would hope — perhaps the devil, That neither of their intellects are vast: Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet.

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. 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: They were alone once more; for them to be Thus was another Eden; they were never Weary, unless when separate: The heart — which may be broken: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: All these were theirs, for they were children still, And children still they should have ever been; They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene, 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, And never know the weight of human hours.

Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know. 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: 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.

How lonely every freeborn creature broods! Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy. It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; A gentlemanly distance, not too near, If you have got a former friend for foe; But after being fired at once or twice, The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.

I have pledged my faith; I love him — I will die with him: And then they bound him where he fell, and bore Juan from the apartment: The world is full of strange vicissitudes, And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; For if my pure libations exceed three, I feel my heart become so sympathetic, That I must have recourse to black Bohea: Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill! 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. Short solace, vain relief! Thus lived — thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame.

She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: And further downward, tall and towering still, is The tumulus — of whom? Troops of untended horses; here and there Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; Some shepherds unlike Paris led to stare A moment at the European youth Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; A turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian.

Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; But at this hour I wish to part in peace, Leaving such to the literary rabble: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild Instinct of gore and glory earth has known Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. Yet there will still be bards: Benign Ceruleans of the second sex! A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? And — but no matter, all those things are over; Still I have no dislike to learned natures, For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; I knew one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool.

But to the narrative: The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told. A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; Each bevy with the merchant in his station: Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, As most at his age are, of hope and health; Yet I must own he looked a little dull, And now and then a tear stole down by stealth; Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth, A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,.

His figure, and the splendour of his dress, Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess He was above the vulgar by his mien; And then, though pale, he was so very handsome; And then — they calculated on his ransom. Like a backgammon board the place was dotted With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted: Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. It chanced amongst the other people lotted, A man of thirty rather stout and hale, With resolution in his dark grey eye, Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.

One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men.

She did not run away, too — did she, sir? All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, To their own whims and passions, and what not; Society itself, which should create Kindness, destroys what little we had got: As is a slave by his intended bidder. As though they were in a mere Christian fair Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle.

I wonder if his appetite was good? Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: And such an end! I gazed as oft I have gazed the same To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;. But it was all a mystery. Here we are, And there we go: Can every element our elements mar? And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before.

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No Christian knoll to table, saw no line Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite.

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. One or two stared the captives in the face, Just as one views a horse to guess his price; Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation.

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is. Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse Has been accused I doubt not by conspiracy Of an improper friendship for her horse Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy: But to resume — should there be what may not Be in these days?

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, Who give themselves to architecture wholly; We know where things and men must end at best: The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech; A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.

You put me out in what I had to say. I have no more time nor many words to spare. I have no authority to tell the reason. And yet at last he managed to get through His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: I tell you no one means you harm. I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm If any take me for that which I seem: We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell. It seems the work of times before the line Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. The gate so splendid was in all its features, You never thought about those little creatures,.

They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all; And looking like two incubi, they glared As Baba with his fingers made them fall To heaving back the portal folds: Her presence was as lofty as her state; Her beauty of that overpowering kind, Whose force description only would abate: He stood like Atlas, with a world of words About his ears, and nathless would not bend: When he was gone, there was a sudden change: She had no prudence, but he had; and this Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. But to the main point, where we have been tending: And she would have consoled, but knew not how: However strange, he could not yet forget her, Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred.

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, That being the last thing a proud woman tries; She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! Remember, or if you can not imagine, Ye, who have kept your chastity when young, While some more desperate dowager has been waging Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung By your refusal, recollect her raging! Or recollect all that was said or sung On such a subject; then suppose the face Of a young downright beauty in this case.

Suppose — but you already have supposed, The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed Of good examples; pity that so few by Poets and private tutors are exposed, To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by! For what is stealing young ones, few or many, To cutting short their hopes of having any?

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, It also gently hints to them that others, Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud; That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, And works of the same pottery, bad or good, Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.

She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad! Though he deserved it well for being so backward, The cutting off his head was not the art Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. But all his great preparatives for dying Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, To hint that he is coming up this way. I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning! But bid my women form the milky way.

Hence, my old comet! His majesty was always so polite As to announce his visits a long while Before he came, especially at night; For being the last wife of the Emperour, She was of course the favorite of the four. His sons were kept in prison, till they grew Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, One or the other, but which of the two Could yet be known unto the fates alone; Meantime the education they went through Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: To no men are such cordial greetings given As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. This compliment, which drew all eyes upon The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake.

Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone: There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. When things are at the worst they sometimes mend. There is a tide in the affairs of women Which, taken at the flood, leads — God knows where: Those navigators must be able seamen Whose charts lay down its current to a hair; Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen With its strange whirls and eddies can compare: He died at fifty for a queen of forty; I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport — I Remember when, though I had no great plenty Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I Gave what I had — a heart: We left our hero and third heroine in A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: It is observed that ladies are litigious Upon all legal objects of possession, And not the least so when they are religious, Which doubles what they think of the transgression: With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, As the tribunals show through many a session, When they suspect that any one goes shares In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.

And as four wives must have quadruple claims, The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. Polygamy may well be held in dread, Not only as a sin, but as a bore: I own no prosody can ever rate it As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, I know not — it succeeded, and success Is much in most things, not less in the heart Than other articles of female dress. Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less; And no one virtue yet, except starvation, Could stop that worst of vices — propagation.

We leave this royal couple to repose: Bills, beasts, and men, and — no! With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, And then my stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call, And I can give my whole soul up to mind; Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, Is more than I know — the deuce take them both! Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or At least one of them! Still he forgot not his disguise: A goodly sinecure, no doubt! And what is that? Devotion, doubtless — how Could you ask such a question? Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer; Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything: And yet they had their little jealousies, Like all the rest; but upon this occasion, Whether there are such things as sympathies Without our knowledge or our approbation, Although they could not see through his disguise, All felt a soft kind of concatenation, Like magnetism, or devilism, or what You please — we will not quarrel about that: Of those who had most genius for this sort Of sentimental friendship, there were three, Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short To save description , fair as fair can be Were they, according to the best report, Though differing in stature and degree, And clime and time, and country and complexion; They all alike admired their new connection.

What say you, child? Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, Not very dashing, but extremely winning, With the most regulated charms of feature, Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.

But she was pensive more than melancholy, And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either — not unholy Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. I could not shut It sooner for the soul of me, and class My faults even with your own! And next she gave her I say her, because The gender still was epicene, at least In outward show, which is a saving clause An outline of the customs of the East, With all their chaste integrity of laws, By which the more a haram is increased, The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties Of any supernumerary beauties.

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss: But still more dread, O ye! But these are foolish things to all the wise, And I love wisdom more than she loves me; My tendency is to philosophise On most things, from a tyrant to a tree; But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. There was deep silence in the chamber: Many and beautiful lay those around, Like flowers of different hue, and dime, and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found, With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot.

And that so loudly, that upstarted all The Oda, in a general commotion: Matron and maids, and those whom you may call Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, One on the other, throughout the whole hall, All trembling, wondering, without the least notion More than I have myself of what could make The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.

But what was strange — and a strong proof how great A blessing is sound sleep — Juanna lay As fast as ever husband by his mate In holy matrimony snores away. And now commenced a strict investigation, Which, as all spoke at once and more than once, Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce To answer in a very clear oration.

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, It fell down of its own accord before Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop And pick it up, and bite it to the core; That just as her young lip began to ope Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, And so — she awoke with a great scream and start. All this she told with some confusion and Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand To expound their vain and visionary gleams.

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, Began, as is the consequence of fear, To scold a little at the false alarm That broke for nothing on their sleeping car. You surely are unwell, child! And here Juanna kindly interposed, And said she felt herself extremely well Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed When all around rang like a tocsin bell: And so good night to them — or, if you will, Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, And the mosque crescent struggled into sight Of the long caravan, which in the chill Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt, which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.

The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, Which fable places in her breast of wail, Is lighter far of heart and voice than those Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. He did not think much on the matter, nor Indeed on any other: But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! But as it was, his Highness had to hold His daily council upon ways and means How to encounter with this martial scold, This modern Amazon and queen of queans; And the perplexity could not be told Of all the pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, And rich with all contrivances which grace Those gay recesses: Would that I were a painter! Bring the two slaves! You know the rest. It is not that I shall not all fulfil Your orders, even in their severest sense; But such precipitation may end ill, Even at your own imperative expense: I do not mean destruction and exposure, In case of any premature disclosure;.

I leave them for the present with good wishes, Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange Another part of history; for the dishes Of this our banquet we must sometimes change; And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, Although his situation now seems strange And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. I wonder what they would be at!

Newton that proverb of the mind , alas! As little as the moon stops for the baying Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath! It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, And measures round of toises thousands three. This circumstance may serve to give a notion Of the high talents of this new Vauban: But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet; Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. The Russians now were ready to attack: But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!

How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque Who were immortal, could one tell their story? Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski,. Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, And no more handy substitute been near. I hope this little question is no sin, Because, though I am but a simple noddy, I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, Which many people pass for wits by quoting.

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: The Russians, having built two batteries on An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down The public buildings and the private too, No matter what poor souls might be undone. But a third motive was as probably To frighten them into capitulation; A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. One bark blew up, a second near the works Running aground, was taken by the Turks.

Count Damas drove them back into the water Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. This being the case, may show us what Fame is: But here are men who fought in gallant actions As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days When homicide and harlotry made great; If stars and titles could entail long praise, His glory might half equal his estate. This fellow, being six foot high, could raise A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then sovereign of the Russian people, Who measured men as you would do a steeple. While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent A courier to the prince, and he succeeded In ordering matters after his own bent; I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, But shortly he had cause to be content.

They had but little baggage at their backs, For there were but three shirts between the two; But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, Till, in approaching, were at length descried In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. But to the tale: But certes matters took a different face; There was enthusiasm and much applause, The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, And all presaged good fortune to their cause.

The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought That they were going to a marriage feast This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, Since there is discord after both at least: There was not now a luggage boy but sought Danger and spoil with ardour much increased; And why?

But so it was; and every preparation Was made with all alacrity: He made no answer; but he took the city. Most things were in this posture on the eve Of the assault, and all the camp was in A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive; Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin Are very silent when they once believe That all is settled: Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering; For the man was, we safely may assert, A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt, Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm A fortress, Harlequin in uniform.

To bring the other three here was absurd: But let that pass: And this young fellow — say what can he do? He with the beardless chin and garments torn? Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy Himself a favourite, ventured to address Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high In his resumed amusement. I was busy, and forgot. Why, you Will join your former regiment, which should be Now under arms. The women may be sent To the other baggage, or to the sick tent. But here a sort of scene began to ensue: The ladies — who by no means had been bred To be disposed of in a way so new, Although their haram education led Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, Passive obedience — now raised up the head, With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung Their arms, as hens their wings about their young,.

Always taught in vain! They shall be shown All the attention possible, and seen In safety to the waggons, where alone In fact they can be safe. You should have been Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.

• ;
• Full text of "Don Juan tenorio".
• The Keeper of Me!
• Kunden, die diesen Artikel gekauft haben, kauften auch.
• Offensive and Defensive Security: Concepts, Planning, Operations, and Management?

I know that nought so bothers The hearts of the heroic on a charge, As leaving a small family at large. To me this kind of life is not so new; To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape. I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, Request that they may both be used genteelly. John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, Though little versed in feelings oriental, Suggested some slight comfort in his way: Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, Or that the Russian army should repent all: And, strange to say, they found some consolation In this — for females like exaggeration.

O, thou eternal Homer! If not in poetry, at least in fact; And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches To colour up his rays from your despatches. O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded!

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.

Don Juan / George Byron

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.

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?

• .
• A Glossary for the Works of Geoffrey Chaucer (in the Riverside Edition).
• Nouvelles variations sur lAir Ah vous dirai-je, Maman!
• Connecting Content and Academic Language for English Learners and Struggling Students, Grades 2–6?
• SKY KNIGHTS!

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.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

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: 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. Si j'avais pu compter la-dessus, je ne me serais pas mis au service d'un si fougueux galant. Ciutti, je suis moulue ; je ne peux plus me mouvoir. Je ne me rappelle pas avoir jamais vu ce logement. Mais parle ; tu es aussi ici, Brigida? Cet appartement est-il du couvent? Lui alors, vous voyant choir ainsi, vous enleva dans ses bras et prit la fuite ; je le suivis, et il nous arracha au feu. Il se dit donc: Mais dans sa maison! Tu dis que je l'aime? Je ne veux pas le voir une fois de plus.

Et que faut- il que je fasse, pauvre de moi! Don Juan ; il i36 Don Juan Tenorio. Mais, voyons, je dois vous avertir que c'est vous qui l'avez perdu. Mais vous avez une petite barque? Vous seul pouvez douter de Don Juan! Mais entrez ici, vive Dieu! D'ici vous voyez et vous en- tendez; celte porte vous reste librement ouverte: Don Luis entre dans la chambre que Don Juan lui indique.

C'est avec les vieillards et les jeunes filles que tu la montres? Je serai esclave de ta fille; je vivrai dans ta maison; tu gouver- neras mes biens et me diras: Don Juan, tu es un couard, quand tu te vois en face du danger, et il n'est bassesse que tu n'oses pour te tirer d'affaire. Je la tuerai d'abord. Allons, remets-la-moi tout de suite, ou, si ma parole est sans effet, je te percerai la poitrine dans ta vile posture.

Ils se battent, et il perce Don Luis d'une estocade. Mais la justice arrive, et il faudra voir, sur ma foi, qui je suis. Il avait un fils, ce Don Diego, pire mille fois que le feu, un monstre de l'enfer. On les voit comme en plein jour, avec cette lune si brillante. Qu'est-ce que je vois? Je la crus endormie! Je ne veux pas laisser ma peau ici entre ses mains. Quand elle se dissipe, la statue a disparu ; et Don Juan sort de son extase.

Si tu es une image vaine, fille de ma seule folie, n'augmente pas mon infortune en trompant ma folle angoisse. Jusques aux morts qui pour moi quittent ainsi leurs tombes! Mais Don Juan ne recule pas! Je suis votre meurtrier, comme le monde le sait de reste: Qui me renvoie mon nom? Vous fait-elle reculer, Don Juan, comme les rustres, la peur des morts?

Et sachez une fois pour toutes, senor ca- pitaine, que je suis toujours Don Juan, et qu'il n'y a chose qui m'effraye. Je n'ai peur de rien, moi. Que tu ne puisses le faire, je le crois, et c'est ce qui m'af- flige; mais, pour ma part, je te ferai mettre un couvert sur la table. Donne du vin au commandeur.

Afin que, s'il ne peut venir, vous ne puissiez dire de moi qu'en son absence je ne lui ai pas fait honneur. Je souhaite donc que Dieu te donne sa gloire, commandeur. Vois qui Don Jiun Tenorio. On frappe tic nouveau, plus fort. Mais on frappe encore une fois. Je ne vois personne, senor. Celui qui fait cela 'ne se van- tera pas de sa plaisanterie. Ou frappe encore, et le coup s'entend un peu plus pris.

Ciutti, sors voir qui c'est. Apporte un autre plat. Les morts doivent s'infiltrer par la muraille: Il me suffit de te l'entendre dire. Soupons donc; mais je t'avertis Et afin que tu connaisses mieux sa justice infinie, j'attends de ta valeur que tu me rendes ma visite. Ne m'a-t-il pas dit: Dieu m'accorde seulement un jour! Mais vraiment je m'irrite, par Dieu! Mais nous sommes deux. Faites choix de l'un de nous, Don Juan, pour le premier.

Ce n'est pas moi, vive Dieu! Ils savaient mon adresse et ma chance Songe horrible, laisse-moi donc une fois pour toutes!