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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 clay.


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 ;(1) 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.

(1) [MS. -.

“ from its mother's knee
When its last weaning draught is drain'd for ever,
The child divided it were less to see,
Than these two from each other torn apart."]


“ 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


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. (2)


Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead. [them :

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for They found no fault with Time, save that he fed;

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: (1) See Herodotus. (2) [“ The less of this cold world, the more of Heaven.” – MILMAN.]


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 Το pass

their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours.


Moons changing had rollid 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 (1) Most love, possession, unto them appear'd A thing which each endearment more endear'd.

Oh 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.

(1) [MS. — “For theirs were buoyant spirits, which would bound

'Gainst common failings," &c.]


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 (1) 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 Haidée'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.

(1) [The celebrated “Confessions of an English Opium Eater," by Mr. De Quincey, had been published shortly before this Canto was written. — E.]


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 heart's 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 Haidée'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 [gone;

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate -

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance enquired 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;(1) then turn'daside: Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short,

And master'd by her wisdom or her pride; When Juan spoke, tooit might be in sport

Of this their mutual feeling, she replied “ If it should be so,—butit cannot beOr I at least shall not survive to see.”

(1) [“ Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,

As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing." — SHAKSPEARE.]

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