And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she Had not one word to say of constancy.
She loved, and was beloved- she adored, And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion, Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,-But by degrees their senses were restored, Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on;
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart Felt as if never more to beat apart.
Alas! they were so young, so beautiful, So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour Was that in which the heart is always full, And, having o'er itself no further power, Prompts deeds eternity can not annul, But pays off moments in an endless shower Of hell-fire- all prepared for people giving Pleasure or pain to one another living.
Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were So loving and so lovely- till then never, Excepting our first parents, such a pair Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever;
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, And hell and purgatory- but forgot Just in the very crisis she should not.
They look upon each other, and their eyes Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps Round Juan's head, and his around her lies Half buried in the tresses which it grasps;
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, He hers, until they end in broken gasps;
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique, Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.
And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms;
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants With all it granted, and with all it grants.
An infant when it gazes on a light, A child the moment when it drains the breast, A devotee when soars the Host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest, A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.
For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving;
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving:
There lies the thing we love with all its errors And all its charms, like death without its terrors.
The lady watch'd her lover- and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, O'erflow'd her soul with their united power;
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, Where nought upon their passion could intrude, And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.
Alas! the love of women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.
They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage- and what rests beyond?
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over.
Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares, Losing the advantage 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!
