Don Juan

I

I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one; Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I’ll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan⁠— We all have seen him, in the pantomime, Sent to the Devil somewhat ere his time.

II

Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And filled their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo’s monarchs stalk, Followers of Fame, “nine farrow” of that sow: France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette Were French, and famous people, as we know; And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau, With many of the military set, Exceedingly remarkable at times, But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV

Nelson was once Britannia’s god of War, And still should be so, but the tide is turned; There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar, ’Tis with our hero quietly inurned; Because the army’s grown more popular, At which the naval people are concerned; Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service, Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V

of Spain; A better cavalier ne’er mounted horse, Or, being mounted, e’er got down again, Than José, who begot our hero, who Begot⁠—but that’s to come⁠—Well, to renew:

X

His mother was a learnèd lady, famed For every branch of every science known⁠— In every Christian language ever named, With virtues equalled by her wit alone: She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded, In their own way, by all the things that she did.

XI

Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart All Calderon and greater part of Lopé; So, that if any actor missed his part, She could have served him for the prompter’s copy; For her Feinagle’s were an useless art, And he himself obliged to shut up shop⁠—he Could never make a memory so fine as That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez.

XII

Her favourite science was the mathematical, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy⁠—her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, And other stuffs, with which I won’t stay puzzling.

XIII

She knew the Latin⁠—that is, “the Lord’s prayer,” And Greek⁠—the alphabet⁠—I’m nearly sure; She read some French romances here and there, Although her mode of speaking was not pure; For

CXXXVI

’Twas midnight⁠—Donna Julia was in bed, Sleeping, most probably⁠—when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead, If they had never been awoke before, And that they have been so we all have read, And are to be so, at the least, once more;⁠— The door was fastened, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then “Madam⁠—Madam⁠—hist!

CXXXVII

“For God’s sake, Madam⁠—Madam⁠—here’s my master, With more than half the city at his back⁠— Was ever heard of such a curst disaster! ’Tis not my fault⁠—I kept good watch⁠—Alack! Do pray undo the bolt a little faster⁠— They’re on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly⁠— Surely the window’s not so very high!”

CXXXVIII

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, With torches, friends, and servants in great number; The major part of them had long been wived, And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Of any wicked woman, who contrived By stealth her husband’s temples to encumber: Examples of this kind are so contagious, Were one not punished, all would be outrageous.

CXXXIX

I can’t tell how, or why, or what suspicion Could enter into Don Alfonso’s head; But for a cavalier of his condition It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, Without a word of previous admonition, To hold a levee round his lady’s bed, And summon lackeys, armed with fire and sword, To prove himself the thing he most abhorred.

CXL

CXII

His eyes he opened, shut, again unclosed, For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, And felt again with his despair o’erwrought, And wished it Death in which he had reposed, And then once more his feelings back were brought, And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen A lovely female face of seventeen.

CXIII

’Twas bending close o’er his, and the small mouth Seemed almost prying into his for breath; And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recalled his answering spirits back from Death: And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe Each pulse to animation, till beneath Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh To these kind efforts made a low reply.

CXIV

Then was the cordial poured, and mantle flung Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm Raised higher the faint head which o’er it hung; And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, Pillowed his death-like forehead; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drenched by every storm; And watched with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom⁠—and hers, too.

CXV

And lifting him with care into the cave, The gentle girl, and her attendant⁠—one Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, And more robust of figure⁠—then begun To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave Light to the rocks that roofed them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe’er She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and fair.

VIII

Don Juan had got out on Shooter’s Hill; Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of Good and Ill Where London streets ferment in full activity, While everything around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard⁠—and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum:⁠—

IX

I say, Don Juan, wrapped in contemplation, Walked on behind his carriage, o’er the summit, And lost in wonder of so great a nation, Gave way to ’t, since he could not overcome it. “And here,” he cried, “is Freedom’s chosen station; Here peals the People’s voice, nor can entomb it Racks⁠—prisons⁠—inquisitions; Resurrection Awaits it, each new meeting or election.

X

“Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay But what they please; and if that things be dear, ’Tis only that they love to throw away Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. Here laws are all inviolate⁠—none lay Traps for the traveller⁠—every highway’s clear⁠— Here”⁠—he was interrupted by a knife, With⁠—“Damn your eyes! your money or your life!”⁠—

XI