Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto IV

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.

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