But all these, save the last, being obsolete,
I chose a modern subject as more meet.

VII

How I have treated it, I do not know;

Perhaps no better than they have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see: But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ;

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,

And tells me to resume my story here.

VIII

Young Juan and his lady-love were left
To their own hearts' most sweet society;
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft,

Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing.

IX

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their

Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail;
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair,
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail
They were all summer; lightning might assail
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail

A long and snake-like life of dull decay
Was not for them-they had too little clay.

X

They were alone once more; for them to be
Thus was another Eden; they were never
Weary, unless when separate: the tree

Cut from its forest root of

Damm'd from its fountain

years

- the river

the child from the knee

And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, Would wither less than these two torn apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart

ΧΙ

The heart — which may be broken: happy they
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay,

Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold
The long year link'd with heavy day on day,

And all which must be borne, and never told; While life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die.

XII

"Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this:

The death of friends, and that which slays even more The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore

Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

XIII

Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead —

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled;

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : Each was the other's mirror, and but read

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection.

XIV

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,
The least glance better understood than words,
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much;
A language, too, but like to that of birds,
Known but to them, at least appearing such

As but to lovers a true sense affords;

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd

To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard,

XV

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.

XVI

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys
As rarely they beheld throughout their round;
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys,
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound
By the mere senses; and that which destroys
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd
A thing which each endearment more endear'd.

XIX

This is in others a factitious state,

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, But was in them their nature or their fate :

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding,
For Haidée's knowledge was by no means great,
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding;

So that there was no reason for their loves.
More than those of nightingales or doves.

FROM "DON JUAN," CANTO XI

BYRON AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES

LV

IN twice five years the "greatest living poet,"
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
Although 't is an imaginary thing.