Haidee was Nature’s bride, and knew not this; Haidee was Passion’s child, born where the sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.
And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! How much it costs us! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good—I wonder Castlereagh don’t tax ’em.
And now ’twas done—on the lone shore were plighted Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallow’d and united, Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed: And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise.
O, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, Titus the master, Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave All those may leap who rather would be neuter (Leucadia’s rock still overlooks the wave)— O, Love! thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.
Thou mak’st the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, Have much employ’d the muse of history’s pen; Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, Such worthies Time will never see again; Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.
Thou mak’st philosophers; there’s Epicurus And Aristippus, a material crew! Who to immoral courses would allure us By theories quite practicable too; If only from the devil they would insure us, How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), ‘Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?’ So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.
But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia? And should he have forgotten her so soon? I can’t but say it seems to me most truly Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon Does these things for us, and whenever newly Strong palpitation rises, ’tis her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?