From Don Juan, Canto 16 (1824)

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
Biography: https://poets.org/poet/george-gordon-byron

15

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed

For contemplation rather than his pillow:

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,[115]

Let in the rippling sound of the lake’s billow,

With all the mystery by midnight caused:

Below his window waved (of course) a willow;

And he stood gazing out on the cascade

That flash’d and after darken’d in the shade.[120]

16

Upon his table or his toilet,—which

Of these is not exactly ascertain’d,—

(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain’d,)

A lamp burn’d high, while he leant from a niche,[125]

Where many a Gothic ornament remain’d,

In chisell’d stone and painted glass, and all

That time has left our fathers of their hall.

17

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw

His chamber door wide open—and went forth[130]

Into a gallery, of a sombre hue,

Long, furnish’d with old pictures of great worth,

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too,

As doubtless should be people of high birth.

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead[135]

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

18

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint

Look living in the moon; and as you turn

Backward and forward to the echoes faint

Of your own footsteps—voices from the urn[140]

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint

Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern,

As if to ask how you can dare to keep

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.

19

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,[145]

The charms of other days, in starlight gleams,

Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave

Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.[150]

A picture is the past; even ere its frame

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.

20

As Juan mused on mutability,

Or on his mistress—terms synonymous—

No sound except the echo of his sigh[155]

Or step ran sadly through that antique house;

When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,

A supernatural agent—or a mouse,

Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass

Most people as it plays along the arras.[160]

21

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array’d

In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear’d,

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,

With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;

His garments only a slight murmur made;[165]

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,

But slowly; and as he passed Juan by,

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

22

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint

Of such a spirit in these halls of old,[170]

But thought, like most men, there was nothing in ’t

Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold,

Coin’d from surviving superstition’s mint,

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold,

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.[175]

And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

23

Once, twice, thrice pass’d, repass’d—the thing of air,

Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t’ other place;

And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,

Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base[180]

As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face;

He tax’d his tongue for words, which were not granted,

To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

24

The third time, after a still longer pause,[185]

The shadow pass’d away—but where? the hall

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause

To think his vanishing unnatural:

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws

Of physics, bodies whether short or tall[190]

Might come or go; but Juan could not state

Through which the spectre seem’d to evaporate.

25

He stood—how long he knew not, but it seem’d

An age—expectant, powerless, with his eyes

Strain’d on the spot where first the figure gleam’d,[195]

Then by degrees recall’d his energies,

And would have pass’d the whole off as a dream,

But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,

Waking already, and return’d at length

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.[200]

26

All there was as he left it: still his taper

Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;

He rubb’d his eyes, and they did not refuse

Their office; he took up an old newspaper;[205]

The paper was right easy to peruse;

He read an article the king attacking,

And a long eulogy of “patent blacking.”

27

This savour’d of this world; but his hand shook:

He shut his door, and after having read[210]

A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,

Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.

There, couch’d all snugly on his pillow’s nook,

With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept[215]

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.

28

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,

Ponder’d upon his visitant or vision,

And whether it ought not to be disclosed,

At risk of being quizz’d for superstition.[220]

The more he thought, the more his mind was posed;

In the mean time, his valet, whose precision

Was great, because his master brook’d no less,

Knock’d to inform him it was time to dress.

29

He dress’d; and like young people he was wont[225]

To take some trouble with his toilet, but

This morning rather spent less time upon ’t;

Aside his very mirror soon was put;

His curls fell negligently o’er his front,

His clothes were not curb’d to their usual cut,[230]

His very neckcloth’s Gordian knot was tied

Almost an hair’s breadth too much on one side.

…

111

The night was as before: he was undrest,

Saving his night-gown, which is an undress;[930]

Completely “sans culotte,” and without vest;

In short, he hardly could be clothed with less:

But apprehensive of his spectral guest,

He sate with feelings awkward to express

(By those who have not had such visitations),[935]

Expectant of the ghost’s fresh operations.

112

And not in vain he listen’d ;—Hush! what’s that?

I see—I see—Ah, no !—’t is not—yet ’t is—

Ye powers! it is the—the—the—Pooh! the cat!

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his![940]

So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,

Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,

And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

113

Again—what is ’t? The wind? No, no,—this time[945]

It is the sable Friar as before,

With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.

Again through shadows of the night sublime,

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore[950]

The starry darkness round her like a girdle

Spangled with gems—the monk made his blood curdle.

114

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,

Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter

Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,[955]

Sounding like very supernatural water,

Came over Juan’s ear, which throbb’d, alas!

For immaterialism ’s a serious matter;

So that even those whose faith is the most great

In souls immortal, shun them téte-a-téte.[960]

115

Were his eyes open?—Yes! and his mouth too.

Surprise has this effect—to make one dumb,

Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through

As wide, as if a long speech were to come.

Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,[965]

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:

His eyes were open, and (as was before

Stated) his mouth. What open’d next?—the door.

116

It open’d with a most infernal creak,

Like that of hell. “Lasciate ogni speranza[970]

Voi ch’ entrate!” The hinge seem’d to speak,

Dreadful as Dante’s rhima, or this stanza;

Or—but all words upon such themes are weak;

A single shade ’s sufficient to entrance a

Hero—for what is substance to a spirit?[975]

Or how is ’t matter trembles to come near it?

117

The door flew wide, not swiftly,—but, as fly

The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight—

And then swung back; nor close—but stood awry,

Half letting in long shadows on the light,[980]

Which still in Juan’s candlesticks burn’d high,

For he had two, both tolerably bright,

And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood

The sable Friar in his solemn hood.

118

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken[985]

The night before, but being sick of shaking,

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken;

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking;

His own internal ghost began to awaken

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking—[990]

Hinting that soul and body on the whole

Were odds against a disembodied soul.

119

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,

And he arose, advanced—the shade retreated;

But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,[995]

Follow’d, his veins no longer cold, but heated,

Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,

At whatsoever risk of being defeated:

The ghost stopp’d, menaced, then retired, until

He reach’d the ancient wall, then stood stone still.[1000]

120

Juan put forth one arm—Eternal powers!

It touch’d no soul, nor body, but the wall,

On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers,

Chequer’d with all the tracery of the hall;

He shudder’d, as no doubt the bravest cowers,[1005]

When he can’t tell what ’t is that doth appal.

How odd, a single hobgoblin’s nonentity

Should cause more fear than a whole host’s identity!

121

But still the shade remain’d: the blue eyes glared,

And rather variably for stony death;[1010]

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath:

A straggling curl show’d he had been fair-hair’d ;

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath,

Gleam’d forth, as through the casement’s ivy shroud[1015]

The moon peep’d, just escaped from a grey cloud.

122

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust

His other arm forth—Wonder upon wonder!

It press’d upon a hard but glowing bust,

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.[1020]

He found, as people on most trials must,

That he had made at first a silly blunder,

And that in his confusion he had caught

Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

123

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem’d a sweet soul[1025]

As ever lurk’d beneath a holy hood:

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood;

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they reveal’d—alas! that e’er they should![1030]

In full, voluptuous, but not o’ergrown bulk,

The phantom of her frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke!^[1]