Читать книгу 3 books to know Juvenalian Satire - Lord Byron, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 11

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Nothing so difficult as a beginning

In poesy, unless perhaps the end;

For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,

Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,

Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,

Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

But Time, which brings all beings to their level,

And sharp Adversity, will teach at last

Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the devil,

That neither of their intellects are vast:

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,

We know not this—the blood flows on too fast;

But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,

We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,

And wish'd that others held the same opinion;

They took it up when my days grew more mellow,

And other minds acknowledged my dominion:

Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow

Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion,

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk

Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,

'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep,

'T is that our nature cannot always bring

Itself to apathy, for we must steep

Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep:

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

Some have accused me of a strange design

Against the creed and morals of the land,

And trace it in this poem every line:

I don't pretend that I quite understand

My own meaning when I would be very fine;

But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd,

Unless it were to be a moment merry,

A novel word in my vocabulary.

To the kind reader of our sober clime

This way of writing will appear exotic;

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,

Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic,

And revell'd in the fancies of the time,

True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic:

But all these, save the last, being obsolete,

I chose a modern subject as more meet.

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.

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.

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 day.

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 years—the river

Damm'd from its fountain—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—

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.

'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.

Haidee 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.

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,—

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.

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.

O beautiful! and rare as beautiful

But theirs was love in which the mind delights

To lose itself when the old world grows dull,

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights,

Intrigues, adventures of the common school,

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights,

Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more,

Whose husband only knows her not a wh—re.

Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know.

Enough.—The faithful and the fairy pair,

Who never found a single hour too slow,

What was it made them thus exempt from care?

Young innate feelings all have felt below,

Which perish in the rest, but in them were

Inherent—what we mortals call romantic,

And always envy, though we deem it frantic.

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 Haidee'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 for those of nightingales or doves.

They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour

Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes,

For it had made them what they were: the power

Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies,

When happiness had been their only dower,

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties;

Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought

The past still welcome as the present thought.

I know not why, but in that hour to-night,

Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came,

And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight,

Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame,

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight;

And thus some boding flash'd through either frame,

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh,

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye.

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate

And follow far the disappearing sun,

As if their last day! of a happy date

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone;

Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate—

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none,

His glance inquired of hers for some excuse

For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort

Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short,

And master'd by her wisdom or her pride;

When Juan spoke, too—it might be in sport—

Of this their mutual feeling, she replied—

'If it should be so,—but—it cannot be—

Or I at least shall not survive to see.'

Juan would question further, but she press'd

His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast,

Defying augury with that fond kiss;

And no doubt of all methods 't is the best:

Some people prefer wine—'t is not amiss;

I have tried both; so those who would a part take

May choose between the headache and the heartache.

One of the two, according to your choice,

Woman or wine, you 'll have to undergo;

Both maladies are taxes on our joys:

But which to choose, I really hardly know;

And if I had to give a casting voice,

For both sides I could many reasons show,

And then decide, without great wrong to either,

It were much better to have both than neither.

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother,

All that the best can mingle and express

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another,

And love too much, and yet can not love less;

But almost sanctify the sweet excess

By the immortal wish and power to bless.

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart,

Why did they not then die?—they had lived too long

Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;

Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong;

The world was not for them, nor the world's art

For beings passionate as Sappho's song;

Love was born with them, in them, so intense,

It was their very spirit—not a sense.

They should have lived together deep in woods,

Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:

How lonely every freeborn creature broods!

The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair;

The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow

Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.

Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,

Haidee and Juan their siesta took,

A gentle slumber, but it was not deep,

For ever and anon a something shook

Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep;

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook

A wordless music, and her face so fair

Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream

Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream,

The mystical usurper of the mind—

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem

Good to the soul which we no more can bind;

Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be)

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,

Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar

Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour,

Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high—

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.

Anon—she was released, and then she stray'd

O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,

And stumbled almost every step she made;

And something roll'd before her in a sheet,

Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid:

'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd,

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.

The dream changed:—in a cave she stood, its walls

Were hung with marble icicles, the work

Of ages on its water-fretted halls,

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught,

Which froze to marble as it fell,—she thought.

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet,

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow,

Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet

Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!),

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat

Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song,

And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face

Faded, or alter'd into something new—

Like to her father's features, till each trace—

More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew—

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;

And starting, she awoke, and what to view?

O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?

'T is—'t is her father's—fix'd upon the pair!

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,

With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell

The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be

Perchance the death of one she loved too well:

Dear as her father had been to Haidee,

It was a moment of that awful kind—

I have seen such—but must not call to mind.

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek,

And caught her falling, and from off the wall

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak

Vengeance on him who was the cause of all:

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,

Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call,

A thousand scimitars await the word;