3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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СКАЧАТЬ of a virtuous station;

      Few changes e'er can better their affairs,

      Theirs being an unnatural situation,

      From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:

      Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

      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 't was 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, 't is her boon,

      Else how the devil is it that fresh features

      Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

      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.

      But soon Philosophy came to my aid,

      And whisper'd, 'Think of every sacred tie!'

      'I will, my dear Philosophy!' I said,

      'But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye!

      I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid,

      Or neither—out of curiosity.'

      'Stop!' cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian

      (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian);

      'Stop!' so I stopp'd.—But to return: that which

      Men call inconstancy is nothing more

      Than admiration due where nature's rich

      Profusion with young beauty covers o'er

      Some favour'd object; and as in the niche

      A lovely statue we almost adore,

      This sort of adoration of the real

      Is but a heightening of the 'beau ideal.'

      'T is the perception of the beautiful,

      A СКАЧАТЬ