And they who watch'd her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes- the beautiful, the black-Oh! to possess such lustre- and then lack!
She died, but not alone; she held within A second principle of life, which might Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of Heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.
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: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful- such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away;
None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay;
Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.
But many a Greek maid in a loving song Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander With her sire's story makes the night less long;
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her:
If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong-A heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, For soon or late Love is his own avenger.
But let me change this theme which grows too sad, And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf;
I don't much like describing people mad, For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself-Besides, I 've no more on this head to add;
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, We 'll put about, and try another tack With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back.
Wounded and fetter'd, 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,'
Some days and nights elapsed before that he Could altogether call the past to mind;
And when he did, he found himself at sea, Sailing six knots an hour before the wind;
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee-Another time he might have liked to see 'em, But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum.
There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea)
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles;
They say so (Bryant says the contrary):
And further downward, tall and towering still, is The tumulus- of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus-All heroes, who if living still would slay us.
High barrows, without marble or a name, A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, And Ida in the distance, still the same, And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain;
The situation seems still form'd for fame-A hundred thousand men might fight again With case; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls;
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.
Don Juan, here permitted to emerge From his dull cabin, found himself a slave;
Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave;
Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge A few brief questions; and the answers gave No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation.
He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd To be Italians, as they were in fact;
From them, at least, their destiny he heard, Which was an odd one; a troop going to act In Sicily (all singers, duly rear'd In their vocation) had not been attack'd In sailing from Livorno by the pirate, But sold by the impresario at no high rate.
By one of these, the buffo of the party, Juan was told about their curious case;
For although destined to the Turkish mart, he Still kept his spirits up- at least his face;
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, And bore him with some gaiety and grace, Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, Than did the prima donna and the tenor.
In a few words he told their hapless story, Saying, 'Our Machiavellian impresario, Making a signal off some promontory, Hail'd a strange brig- Corpo di Caio Mario!
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, Without a Single scudo of salario;
But if the Sultan has a taste for song, We will revive our fortunes before long.
'The prima donna, though a little old, And haggard with a dissipated life, And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife, With no great voice, is pleasing to behold;
Last carnival she made a deal of strife By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna From an old Roman princess at Bologna.
'And then there are the dancers; there 's the Nini, With more than one profession, gains by all;
Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, She, too, was fortunate last carnival, And made at least five hundred good zecchini, But spends so fast, she has not now a paul;
And then there 's the Grotesca- such a dancer!
Where men have souls or bodies she must answer.
'As for the figuranti, they are like The rest of all that tribe; with here and there A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, The rest are hardly fitted for a fair;
There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, Yet has a sentimental kind of air Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour;
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure.
'As for the men, they are a middling set;
The musico is but a crack'd old basin, But being qualified in one way yet, May the seraglio do to set his face in, And as a servant some preferment get;
His singing I no further trust can place in:
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third ***.
