She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Yet all these heroines are alike in one respect – their potentiality of passionate emotion: since Byron's "passions and his powers," according to his intense admirer Shelley, "are incomparably greater than those of other men: " and he has used the last almost recklessly in portrayal of the first.
As the poet reclines in sombre meditation, his reverie is broken by the not unwelcome entrance of his friends – who may be better termed his intimate acquaintances. For, to that brooding, introspective spirit, – constitutionally shy, and morbidly conscious of the fact, – "friendship is a propensity," he has declared, "to which my genius is very limited. I do not know the male human being, except Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom I feel anything that deserves the name. All my others are men-of-the-world friendships." Be that as it may, it is with a warmly cordial expression, and with that peculiarly sweet smile of his, that Byron welcomes his usual visitors, – Captain Williams, Captain Medwin, Taafe the Irishman, and Percy Bysshe Shelley, "the most companionable person under thirty," he has avowed, "that ever I knew." When they have discussed the latest little Pisan on dits, and the progress of Shelley's boat-building, the conversation trends more and more towards literary topics: personal topics, be it understood, for Byron is not an omnivorous reader like Shelley. Williams and Medwin, themselves dabblers in verse and prose, listen with respectful admiration to the dicta of the great poets exchanging views. The low, clear, harmonious voice of Byron "is a sort of intoxication: men are held by it as under a spell." He makes no secret of his open contempt for the professional writing fraternity. "Who would write, if he had anything better to do?" he scornfully enquires, "I think the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by themselves and others, a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness."
Shelley, whose assiduous studies in literature have led him to quite other conclusions, defends his craft with ardour. But Byron's chief successes have been too lightly won. He who wrote the Corsair in ten days, the Bride of Abydos in four, and Lara whilst undressing after balls and masquerades, cannot be expected to take a very serious view of poetry as the one business of a lifetime. "I by no means rank poetry or poets," says he, "high in the scale of imagination. Poetry is the lava of the imagination, whose eruption prevents an earthquake. If I live ten years longer," he adds prophetically, "you will see that all is not over with me, – I don't mean in literature, for that is nothing, and, it may seem odd enough to say, I don't think it's my vocation. But you will see that I shall do something or other!"
JUAN AND HAIDÉE
"They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light
Into each other – and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss."
(Don Juan.)
This contemner of poesy, however, is soon persuaded, without much difficulty, to read aloud some excerpts from his new poems in process of completion: and very well he reads them. The listeners are moved to smiles by the bitter humour of the Vision of Judgment: they are left half breathless by the impetuous vigour of Heaven and Earth. But a murmur of unfeigned applause punctuates the second canto of Don Juan, with its exquisite presentment of youth, love, and ecstasy in the persons of Juan and Haidée.
It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill,
Upon the other, and the rosy sky,
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.
And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand,
Over the shining pebbles and the shells,
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand…
…
They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light
Into each other – and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss.
(Don Juan.)
Byron's restless spirit, perpetually eager to express itself in action, now makes him anxious to dismiss intellectual discussions: and he hastily proposes a game of billiards. As he moves around the billiard-table, his lameness is distinctly noticeable: not all the ingenuity of his tailor, nor his own efforts to walk naturally, can conceal it. Yet, as has been said of him in other matters, he redeems all his defects by his graces. And his companions note with surprise the remarkable change for the better which has taken place in him since, a few months before, he arrived at this old palace on the Arno with a troop of servants, carriages, horses, fowls, dogs, and monkeys. The selfish and sensual Byron of Venetian days is entirely a thing of the past. "He is improved in every respect," – says Shelley to Williams, "in genius, in temper, in moral views, in health and happiness." And although keeping up a certain splendour upon an income of £4000 a year, he devotes £1000 of that income entirely to purposes of charity. His own personal needs are of the simplest.