by Byron
For fear, like Banquo’s kings, they reach a score.
LXVII
Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing,
530
Others were levelling their looks at her;
She heard the men’s half-whisper’d mode of praising,
And, till ’twas done, determined not to stir;
The women only thought it quite amazing
That, at her time of life, so many were
535
Admirers still, – but men are so debased,
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste.
LXVIII
For my part, now, I ne’er could understand
Why naughty women – but I won’t discuss
A thing which is a scandal to the land,
540
I only don’t see why it should be thus;
And if I were but in a gown and band,
Just to entitle me to make a fuss,
I’d preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily.
LXIX
545
While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling,
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what,
So that her female friends, with envy broiling,
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that;
And well dress’d males still kept before her filing,
550
And passing bow’d and mingled with her chat;
More than the rest one person seem’d to stare
With pertinacity that’s rather rare.
LXX
He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany;
And Laura saw him, and at first was glad,
555
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,
Although their usage of their wives is sad;
’Tis said they use no better than a dog any
Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad:
They have a number, though they ne’er exhibit ’em,
560
Four wives by law, and concubines ‘ad libitum.’
LXXI
They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily,
They scarcely can behold their male relations,
So that their moments do not pass so gaily
As is supposed the case with northern nations;
565
Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely:
And as the Turks abhor long conversations,
Their days are either pass’d in doing nothing,
Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.
LXXII
They cannot read, and so don’t lisp in criticism;
570
Nor write, and so they don’t affect the muse;
Were never caught in epigram or witticism,
Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, —
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism!
But luckily these beauties are no ‘Blues,’
575
No bustling Botherbys have they to show ’em
‘That charming passage in the last new poem.’
LXXIII
No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,
Who having angled all his life for fame,
And getting but a nibble at a time,
580
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Small ‘Triton of the minnows,’ the sublime
Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo’s echo, usher of the school
Of female wits, boy bards – in short, a fool!
LXXIV
585
A stalking oracle of awful phrase,
The approving ‘Good!’ (by no means GOOD in law)
Humming like flies around the newest blaze,
The bluest of bluebottles you e’er saw,
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,
590
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter,
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better.
LXXV
One hates an author that’s all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turn’d up with ink,
595
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don’t know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;
Of coxcombry’s worst coxcombs e’en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,
600
These unquench’d snuffings of the midnight taper.
LXXVI
Of these same we see several, and of others,
Men of the world, who know the world like men,
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers,
Who think of something else besides the pen;
605
But for the children of the ‘mighty mother’s,’
The would-be wits and can’t-be gentlemen,
I leave them to their daily ‘tea is ready’,’
Smug coterie, and literary lady.
LXXVII
The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention
610
Have none of these instructive pleasant people,
And one would seem to them a new invention,
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple;
I think ’twould almost be worth while to pension
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill)
615
A missionary author, just to preach
Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.
LXXVIII
No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses,
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses
620
Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Upon the living manners, as they pass us;
No exhibition glares with annual pictures;
They stare not on the stars from out their attics,
Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics.
LXXIX
625
Why I thank God for that is no great matter,
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,
I’ll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;
I fear I have a little turn for satire,
630
And yet methinks the older that one grows
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughte
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.
LXXX
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
635
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter,
Abominable Man no more allays
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,
I love you both, and both shall have my praise:
Oh, for old Saturn’s reign of sugar-candy! –
640
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.
LXXXI
Our Laura’s Turk still kept his eyes upon her,
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way,
Which seems to say, ‘Madam, I do you honour,
And while I please to stare, you’ll please to stay:’
645
Could staring win a woman, this had won her,
But Laura could not thus be led astray;
She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle
Even at this stranger’s most outlandish ogle.
LXXXII
The morning now was on the point of breaking,
650
A turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
In any other kind of exercise,
To make their preparat
ions for forsaking
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise,
655
Because when once the lamps and candles fail,
His blushes make them look a little pale.
LXXXIII
I’ve seen some balls and revels in my time,
And stay’d them over for some silly reason,
And then I look’d (I hope it was no crime)
660
To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I’ve seen some thousands in their prime,
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn),
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.
LXXXIV
665
The name of this Aurora I’ll not mention,
Although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God’s invention,
A charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension,
670
Yet if you like to find out this fair she,
At the next London or Parisian ball
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.
LXXXV
Laura, who knew it would not do at all
To meet the daylight after seven hours sitting
675
Among three thousand people at a ball,
To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting;
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl,
And they the room were on the point of quitting,
When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got
680
Just in the very place where they should not.
LXXXVI
In this they’re like our coachmen, and the cause
Is much the same – the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,
They make a never intermitting bawling.
685
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws,
And here a sentry stands within your calling;
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing,
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.
LXXXVII
The Count and Laura found their boat at last,
690
And homeward floated o’er the silent tide,
Discussing all the dances gone and past;
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside;
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide)
695
Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer,
When lo! the Mussulman was there before her.
LXXXVIII
‘Sir,’ said the Count, with brow exceeding grave,
‘Your unexpected presence here will make
It necessary for myself to crave
700
Its import? But perhaps ’tis a mistake;
I hope it is so; and at once to wave
All compliment, I hope so for your sake;
You understand my meaning, or you shall.’
‘Sir,’ (quoth the Turk) “tis no mistake at all.
LXXXIX
705
‘That lady is my wife!’ Much wonder paints
The lady’s changing cheek, as well it might;
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,
Italian females don’t do so outright;
They only call a little on their saints,
710
And then come to themselves, almost or quite;
Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces,
And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.
XC
She said, – what could she say? Why, not a word:
But the Count courteously invited in
715
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
‘Such things, perhaps, we’d best discuss within,’
Said he; ‘don’t let us make ourselves absurd
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,
For then the chief and only satisfaction
720
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction.’
XCI
They enter’d, and for coffee call’d – it came,
A beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it’s not the same.
Now Laura, much recover’d, or less loth
725
To speak, cries ‘Beppo! what’s your pagan name?
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth!
And how came you to keep away so long?
Are you not sensible ’twas very wrong?
XCII
And are you really, truly, now a Turk?
730
With any other women did you wive?
Is’t true they use their fingers for a fork?
Well, that’s the prettiest shawl – as I’m alive!
You’ll give it me? They say you eat no pork.
And how so many years did you contrive
735
To – Bless me! did I ever? No, I never
Saw a man grown so yellow! How’s your liver?
XCIII
Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not;
It shall be shaved before you’re a day older:
Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot –
740
Pray don’t you think the weather here is colder?
How do I look? You shan’t stir from this spot
In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder
Should find you out, and make the story known.
How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it’s grown!’
XCIV
745
What answer Beppo made to these demands
Is more than I know. He was cast away
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands;
Became a slave of course, and for his pay
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands
750
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay,
He join’d the rogues and prosper’d, and became
A renegado of indifferent fame.
XCV
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
Keen the desire to see his home again,
755
He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
And not be always thieving on the main;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacca,
760
Mann’d with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.
XCVI
Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten!) cash,
He then embark’d with risk of life and limb,
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash;
He said that Providence protected him –
765
For my part, I say nothing – lest we clash
In our opinions: – well, the ship was trim,
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on,
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.
XCVII
They reach’d the island, he transferr’d his lading.
770
And self and live stock, to another bottom,
And pass’d for a true Turkey-merchant, trading
With goods of various names, but I’ve forgot ’em.
However, he got off by this evading,
Or else the people would perhaps have shot him;
775
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.
XCVIII
His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him,
(He made the church a present, by the way);
780
And borrow’d the Count’s smallclothes for a day:
His friends the more for his long absence prized him,
Finding he’d wherewithal to make them gay,
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them,
For stories – but I don’t believe the half of them.
XCIX
785
Whate’er his youth had suffer’d, his old age
With wealth and talking make him some amends;
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage,
I’ve heard the Count and he were always friends.
My pen is at the bottom of a page,
790
Which being finish’d, here the story ends;
’Tis to be wish’d it had been sooner done,
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
Epistle to Mr Murray
I
My dear Mr Murray,
You’re in a damn’d hurry
To set up this ultimate Canto;
But (if they don’t rob us)
5
You’ll see Mr Hobhouse
Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.
II
For the Journal you hint of,
As ready to print off,
No doubt you do right to commend it;
10
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of
Our ‘Beppo:’ — when copied, I’ll send it.
III
In the mean time you’ve ‘Gally’
Whose verses all tally,
15
Perhaps you may say he’s a Ninny,
But if you abashed are
Because of ‘Alashtar’
He’ll piddle another ‘Phrosine.’ –
IV
Then you’ve [Sotheby]’s Tour, –
20
No great things, to be sure, –
You could hardly begin with a less work;
For the pompous rascallion,
Who don’t speak Italian
Nor French, must have scribbled by Guesswork.
V
25
No doubt he’s a rare man
Without knowing German
Translating his way up Parnassus,
And now still absurder
He meditates Murder
30
As you’ll see in the trash he calls Tasso’s.
VI
But you’ve others his betters
The real men of letters –
Your orators — critics — and wits —
And I’ll bet that your Journal
35
(Pray is it diurnal?)
Will pay with your luckiest hits. —
VII
You can make any loss up
With ‘Sence’ and his gossip.
, A work which must surely succeed;
40
Then Queen Mary’s Epistle-craft,
With the new ‘Fytte’ of ‘Whistlecraft,’
Must make people purchase and read.
VIII
Then you’ve General Gordon
Who girded his sword on,
