I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
     When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
     The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
     I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

     II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
     Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
     And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
     Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

     III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
     Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
     And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
     With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

     IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
     And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
     'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
     At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

     V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
     And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
     But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
     But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

     VI
Most epic poets plunge "in medias res"
     (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
     What went before—by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,
     Beside his mistress in some soft abode,
Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

     VII
That is the usual method, but not mine—
     My way is to begin with the beginning;
The regularity of my design
     Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
And therefore I shall open with a line
     (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,
And also of his mother, if you'd rather.

     VIII
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
     Famous for oranges and women—he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
     So says the proverb—and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
     Cadiz perhaps—but that you soon may see;
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.

     IX
His father's name was Jóse—Don, of course,—
     A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
     Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,
     Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
Than Jóse, who begot our hero, who
Begot—but that's to come—Well, to renew:

     X
His mother was a learnéd lady, famed
     For every branch of every science known
In every Christian language ever named,
     With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
     And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded
In their own way by all the things that she did.

 

... 

 

 LIV
Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
     Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;
     And everybody but his mother deem'd
Him almost man; but she flew in a rage
     And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)
If any said so, for to be precocious
Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.

     LV
Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
     Selected for discretion and devotion,
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
     Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
Of many charms in her as natural
     As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid
(But this last simile is trite and stupid).

     LVI
The darkness of her Oriental eye
     Accorded with her Moorish origin
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;
     In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,
     Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.

     LVII
She married (I forget the pedigree)
     With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
His blood less noble than such blood should be;
     At such alliances his sires would frown,
In that point so precise in each degree
     That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
Marrying their cousins—nay, their aunts, and nieces,
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

     LVIII
This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
     Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;
For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
     Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
     But there's a rumour which I fain would hush,
'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.

     LIX
However this might be, the race went on
     Improving still through every generation,
Until it centred in an only son,
     Who left an only daughter; my narration
May have suggested that this single one
     Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
I shall have much to speak about), and she
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

     LX
Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
     Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
     Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise
     A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.

     LXI
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
     Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;
Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,
     Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
     As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,
Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:
Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.

     LXII
Wedded she was some years, and to a man
     Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;
And yet, I think, instead of such a one
     'T were better to have two of five-and-twenty,
Especially in countries near the sun:
     And now I think on 't, "mi vien in mente",
Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

     LXIII
'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
     And all the fault of that indecent sun,
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
     But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
That howsoever people fast and pray,
     The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
Is much more common where the climate's sultry.

     LXIV
Happy the nations of the moral North!
     Where all is virtue, and the winter season
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
     ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,
     By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on
The lover, who must pay a handsome price,
Because it is a marketable vice.

     LXV
Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,
     A man well looking for his years, and who
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:
     They lived together, as most people do,
Suffering each other's foibles by accord,
     And not exactly either one or two;
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

     LXVI
Julia was—yet I never could see why—
     With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
     For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:
Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,
     For malice still imputes some private end)
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; 

...
  CLXXX
Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon,
     Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,
And laid conditions he thought very hard on,
     Denying several little things he wanted:
He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,
     With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted,
Beseeching she no further would refuse,
When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes.

     CLXXXI
A pair of shoes!—what then? not much, if they
     Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
     Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,
Was but a moment's act.—Ah! well-a-day!
     My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze—
Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
And then flew out into another passion.

     CLXXXII
He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
     And Julia instant to the closet flew.
"Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake—not a word—
     The door is open—you may yet slip through
The passage you so often have explored—
     Here is the garden-key—Fly—fly—Adieu!
Haste—haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet—
Day has not broke—there's no one in the street:"

     CLXXXIII
None can say that this was not good advice,
     The only mischief was, it came too late;
Of all experience 't is the usual price,
     A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:
Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice,
     And might have done so by the garden-gate,
But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown,
Who threaten'd death—so Juan knock'd him down.

     CLXXXIV
Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light;
     Antonia cried out "Rape!" and Julia "Fire!"
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight.
     Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire,
Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night;
     And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher;
His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar,
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.

     CLXXXV
Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it,
     And they continued battling hand to hand,
For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it;
     His temper not being under great command,
If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,
     Alfonso's days had not been in the land
Much longer.—Think of husbands', lovers' lives!
And how ye may be doubly widows—wives!

     CLXXXVI
Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
     And Juan throttled him to get away,
And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;
     At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,
     And then his only garment quite gave way;
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

     CLXXXVII
Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found
     An awkward spectacle their eyes before;
Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd,
     Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door;
Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground,
     Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more:
Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about,
And liking not the inside, lock'd the out.