And now my epic renegade, what are ye at With all the lakers, in and out of place? And Coleridge too has lately taken wing, But like a hawk encumbered with his hood, Explaining metaphysics to the nation. I wish he would explain his explanation. You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know, At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below, And be the only blackbird in the dish.
And then you overstrain yourself, or so, And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob. And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion I think the quarto holds five hundred pages Has given a sample from the vasty version Of his new system to perplex the sages. I would not imitate the petty thought, Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought, Since gold alone should not have been its price.
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows, Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go. To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs, And for the fame you would engross below, The field is universal and allows Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow. And recollect a poet nothing loses In giving to his brethren their full meed Of merit, and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise. He that reserves his laurels for posterity Who does not often claim the bright reversion Has generally no great crop to spare it, he Being only injured by his own assertion.
If fallen in evil days on evil tongues, Milton appealed to the avenger, Time, If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime, He deigned not to belie his soul in songs, Nor turn his very talent to a crime. He did not loathe the sire to laud the son, But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
He obey The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! An orator of such set trash of phrase, Ineffably, legitimately vile, That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile. If we may judge of matter by the mind, Emasculated to the marrow, it Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind, Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, Eutropius of its many masters, blind To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice; Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, For I will never feel them. Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill. Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate In honest simple verse this song to you. Their friends had tried at reconciliation, Then their relations, who made matters worse. But, ah! His classic studies made a little puzzle, Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, But never put on pantaloons or bodices; His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, Were forced to make an odd sort!
Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, And homilies, and lives of all the saints; To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, He did not take such studies for restraints; But how faith is acquired, and then ensured, So well not one of the aforesaid paints As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, Which make the reader envy his transgressions.
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. 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.
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.
Happy the nations of the moral North! She now determined that a virtuous woman Should rather face and overcome temptation, That flight was base and dastardly, and no man Should ever give her heart the least sensation; That is to say, a thought beyond the common Preference, that we must feel upon occasion For people who are pleasanter than others, But then they only seem so many brothers. And even if by chance—and who can tell? Such love is innocent, and may exist Between young persons without any danger.
Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced In mail of proof—her purity of soul— She, for the future of her strength convinced. Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did. And if in the mean time her husband died, But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream! This should be entre nous, for Julia thought In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.
So much for Julia. Poor little fellow! I have forgot the number, and think no man Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. O Love! O Plato! O Pleasure! Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take— Start not! What opposite discoveries we have seen! Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.
Has madness seized you? What may this midnight violence betide, A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?
Search, then, the room! It was for this that I became a bride! Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, How dare you think your lady would go on so? Is it for this I scarce went anywhere, Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Were there not also Russians, English, many? And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: I praise your vast forbearance not to beat Me also, since the time so opportune is— O, valiant man!
Tell me—and be assured, that since you stain My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! No sooner was it bolted, than—Oh shame! O sin! Oh sorrow! Alfonso will be back The moment he has sent his fools away. A pair of shoes! My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze— Alfonso first examined well their fashion, And then flew out into another passion.
And how ye may be doubly widows—wives! Here ends this canto. She had resolved that he should travel through All European climes, by land or sea, To mend his former morals, and get new, Especially in France and Italy At least this is the thing most people do. Thou shalt not covet Mr. But now at thirty years my hair is grey I wonder what it will be like at forty? No more—no more—Oh!
What is the end of Fame? What are the hopes of man? I cast thee on the waters—go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days. Had he but been placed at a public school, In the third form, or even in the fourth, His daily task had kept his fancy cool, At least, had he been nurtured in the north; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worth— A lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.
Their veil and petticoat—Alas! Don Juan bade his valet pack his things According to direction, then received A lecture and some money: for four springs He was to travel; and though Inez grieved As every kind of parting has its stings , She hoped he would improve—perhaps believed: A letter, too, she gave he never read it Of good advice—and two or three of credit.
The best of remedies is a beef-steak Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer—so may you. But Juan had got many things to leave, His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve Than many persons more advanced in life; And if we now and then a sigh must heave At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.
Farewell, my mother! Or think of any thing excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick. Julia, my love! He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! Mann, of London. The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust—which all descriptive power transcends— Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they Eased her at last although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted , And then with violence the old ship righted. Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-room, and stood before It with a pair of pistols; and their fears, As if Death were more dreadful by his door Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so; Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below, And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon— Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.
The boats, as stated, had got off before, And in them crowded several of the crew; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reaching any shore; And then they were too many, though so few— Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat. The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale: to run Before the sea until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done: A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Were served out to the people, who begun To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, And most of them had little clothes but rags.
But man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. The consequence was easily foreseen— They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, In spite of all remonstrances, and then On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual. Ekenhead, and I did. And such was she, the lady of the cave: Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them what I hope will never vanish The basquina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay.
A fisherman he had been in his youth, And still a sort of fisherman was he; But other speculations were, in sooth, Added to his connection with the sea, Perhaps not so respectable, in truth: A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. He was a Greek, and on his isle had built One of the wild and smaller Cyclades A very handsome house from out his guilt, And there he lived exceedingly at ease; Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt, A sad old fellow was he, if you please; But this I know, it was a spacious building, Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.
He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, For Haidee stripped her sables off to make His couch; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case by chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, She and her maid—and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.
But to resume. Return we to Don Juan. He begun To hear new words, and to repeat them; but Some feelings, universal as the sun, Were such as could not in his breast be shut More than within the bosom of a nun: He was in love,—as you would be, no doubt, With a young benefactress,—so was she, Just in the way we very often see.
It was such pleasure to behold him, such Enlargement of existence to partake Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: To live with him forever were too much; But then the thought of parting made her quake; He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast Like a rich wreck—her first love, and her last. Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, So that, her father being at sea, she was Free as a married woman, or such other Female, as where she likes may freely pass, Without even the incumbrance of a brother, The freest she that ever gazed on glass; I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison.
Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after. They were alone, but not alone as they Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, The twilight glow which momently grew less, The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay Around them, made them to each other press, As if there were no life beneath the sky Save theirs, and that their life could never die.
They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage—and what rests beyond? She had naught to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.
And oh! How much it costs us! O, Love! But Juan! And should he have forgotten her so soon? I hate inconstancy—I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast No permanent foundation can be laid; Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, And yet last night, being at a masquerade, I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, Which gave me some sensations like a villain.
Hail, Muse! Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast—but place to die— Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
Sad thought! And there he went ashore without delay, Having no custom-house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way About the time and place where he had been: He left his ship to be hove down next day, With orders to the people to careen; So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.
If single, probably his plighted fair Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care As cavalier servente, or despise her; And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.
And as the spot where they appear he nears, Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears—alas! A melody which made him doubt his ears, The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, A most unoriental roar of laughter.
Here was no lack of innocent diversion For the imagination or the senses, Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, Perceiving in his absence such expenses, Dreading that climax of all human ills, The inflammation of his weekly bills. He did not know alas! Now in a person used to much command— To bid men come, and go, and come again— To see his orders done, too, out of hand— Whether the word was death, or but the chain— It may seem strange to find his manners bland; Yet such things are, which I can not explain, Though doubtless he who can command himself Is good to govern—almost as a Guelf.
If all the dead could now return to life Which God forbid! The cubless tigress in her jungle raging Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; The ocean when its yeasty war is waging Is awful to the vessel near the rock; But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, Their fury being spent by its own shock, Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shines like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.
There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The tables, most of ebony inlaid With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, Fretted with gold or silver:—by command, The greater part of these were ready spread With viands and sherbets in ice—and wine— Kept for all comers at all hours to dine. Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set where were they? And where are they? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear. Must we but blush? Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still? In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.
And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. Milton left his house. Such names at present cut a convict figure, The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, Are good manure for their more bare biography.
But let me to my story: I must own, If I have any fault, it is digression— Leaving my people to proceed alone, While I soliloquize beyond expression; But these are my addresses from the throne, Which put off business to the ensuing session: Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Ave Maria! Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print—that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way; My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,—all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Sweet hour of twilight! O, Hesperus! Soft hour! Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail They were all summer: lightning might assail And shiver them to ashes, but to trail A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them—they had too little day.
Thrice fortunate! O beautiful! Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know. Young innate feelings all have felt below, Which perish in the rest, but in them were Inherent—what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic.
Powers of Heaven! Kneel with me— He will forgive us—yes—it must be—yes. Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy. It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; A gentlemanly distance, not too near, If you have got a former friend for foe; But after being fired at once or twice, The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.
And then they bound him where he fell, and bore Juan from the apartment: with a sign Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill! She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, And then give way, subdued because surrounded; Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.
Short solace, vain relief! Thus lived—thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful—such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
Heaven knows! Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; As on the beach the waves at last are broke, Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought Dash into poetry, which is but passion, Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion.
Benign Ceruleans of the second sex! A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? But to the narrative:—The vessel bound With slaves to sell off in the capital, After the usual process, might be found At anchor under the seraglio wall; Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, Were landed in the market, one and all, And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, Bought up for different purposes and passions.
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; Each bevy with the merchant in his station: Poor creatures! Like a backgammon board the place was dotted With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted: Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. It chanced amongst the other people lotted, A man of thirty rather stout and hale, With resolution in his dark grey eye, Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men. She did not run away, too,—did she, sir? All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. As though they were in a mere Christian fair Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle.
I wonder if his appetite was good? Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. Poor fellow! The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb— And now nought left him but the muffled drum.
The scars of his old wounds were near his new, Those honourable scars which brought him fame; And horrid was the contrast to the view— But let me quit the theme; as such things claim Perhaps even more attention than is due From me: I gazed as oft I have gazed the same To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith; But it was all a mystery.
Here we are, And there we go:—but where? Can every element our elements mar? And air—earth—water—fire live—and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before. How get out? Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No Christian knoll to table, saw no line Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite.
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is.
But to resume,—should there be what may not Be in these days? The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech; A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.
What fear you? I tell you no one means you harm. Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell. I also would suggest the fitting time To gentlemen in any such like case, That is to say in a meridian clime— With us there is more law given to the chase, But here a small delay forms a great crime: So recollect that the extremest grace Is just two minutes for your declaration— A moment more would hurt your reputation.
In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! Remember, or if you can not imagine, Ye, who have kept your chastity when young, While some more desperate dowager has been waging Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung By your refusal, recollect her raging!
Or recollect all that was said or sung On such a subject; then suppose the face Of a young downright beauty in this case. Byron himself called it an "Epic Satire". When the first two cantos were published anonymously in , the poem was criticised for its "immoral content", though it was also immensely popular. The story, told in seventeen cantos, begins with the birth of Don Juan.
The husband finds out, and Don Juan is sent away to Cadiz. On the way, he is shipwrecked, survives, and meets the daughter of a pirate, whose men sell Don Juan as a slave. A young woman who is a member of a Sultan's harem, sees that this slave is purchased. Don Juan becomes sick, is sent to England, where he finds someone to watch over the young girl, Leila. Next, a few adventures involving the artistocracy of Britain ensue.
Don Juan , also Don Giovanni Italian , is a legendary, fictional libertine. The name "Don Juan" is a common metaphor for a womanizer. Don Juanis a satiric poem by Lord Byron, based on the legend of Don Juan, which Byron reverses, portraying Juan not as a womaniser but as someone easily seduced by women.
When the first two cantos were published anonymously in , the poem was criticised for its "immoral content," though it was also immensely popular. Lord Byron's satirical masterpiece, an epic poem which mimics legendary folklore, is presented here complete for the reader's enjoyment. At the opening of the text Byron famously mocks Robert Southey, a contemporary Romantic poet who held the esteemed title of Poet Laureate for three decades.
The barbed verses mock and skewer what Byron viewed as inadequacies in his rival's form, which Byron himself liberally quotes and maligns. On publication, Don Juan received a generally warm reception for its strident commitment to humour. Over the years the work became considered as one of the foremost achievements of Romantic-era poetry.
Donna Julia, 23 years old and married to Don Alfonso, begins to desire Don Juan when he is 16 years old. Despite her attempt to resist, Julia begins an affair with Juan. Julia falls in love with Juan. Don Juan [ Don Juan Lord Byron. Byron's Don Juan Bernard Beatty. Byron: Don Juan Anne Barton. Don Juan Byron. On the way, he is shipwrecked, survives and meets the daughter of a pirate, whose men sell Don Juan as a slave.
A young woman, who is a member of a sultan's harem, sees that this slave is purchased. She disguises him as a girl and sneaks him into her chambers. Moving from one place to the next, Don Juan encounters new women and new adventures. Byron 6th baron. George Gordon N. Author : George Gordon N. Another chapter concerns the differing ways in which Don Juan has been treated by other artists, from Tirso de Molina, via E. Hoffman, to Johnny Depp.
Topics range from the politics of Don Juan, and its treatment of women, to its comic rhymes. This book is in the Deseret Alphabet, a phonetic alphabet for writing English developed in the midth century at the University of Deseret now the University of Utah. In her introduction to this brilliant and outrageous literary landmark, Anne Barton places Don Juan within the context of Byron's life and reading, and offers an interpretation of the poem which demonstrates its underlying coherence and Following a dramatic shipwreck, his exploits take him to Greece, where he is sold as a slave, and to Russia, where he becomes a favourite of the Empress Catherine who sends him on to England.
Written entirely in ottava rima stanza form, Byron's Don Juan blends high drama with earthy humour, outrageous satire of his contemporaries in particular Wordsworth and Southey and sharp mockery of Western societies, with England coming under particular attack. It is a variation on the epic form. Byron himself called it an "Epic Satire" Don Juan, c. Modern critics generally consider it Byron's masterpiece, with a total of more than 16, lines of verse.
Byron completed 16 cantos, leaving an unfinished 17th canto before his death in
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