Rereading Byron's "Don Juan": Canto III

Lord Byron’s third canto is a long study in suspense—as we merge with pirate Lambro as he returns to his pirate-isle only to find all think he is dead, his daughter is having party-time, and some young man is wooing that daughter—and a detailed character-study of Lambro (displaced father, displaced authority, displaced pirate).  So much to notice while rereading.

We ought to teach rereading so much more.

Byron: "Where is the world of eight years past?"

'Where is the world?' cries Young at eighty.  'Where
The world in which a man was born?' Alas!
Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there--
I look for it -- 'tis gone, a globe of glass,
Cracked, shivered, vanished, scarcely gazed on, ere
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

--Lord Byron
Don Juan Canto 11, stanza 76.

Bookish

Introduction to Poetry

Here are the books:
English 43: Introduction to Poetry
CCSF
Spring 2019

Byron: "This Odd Labyrinth"

I won’t describe—that is, if I can help
    Description; and I won’t reflect—that is,
If I can stave off thought, which, as a whelp
    Clings to its teat, sticks to me through the abyss
Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp
    Holds by the rock; or as a lover’s kiss
Drains its first draught of lips: --but, as I said,
I won’t philosophize, and will be read.

--Lord Byron
Don Juan: Canto X, #28

Glimpses: Or, Lecture Notes

Reprise: "And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing"

I
Nothing so difficult as a beginning 
In poesy, unless perhaps the end; 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; 
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 

II
But Time, which brings all beings to their level, 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
Man, -- and, as we would hope, -- perhaps the devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast: 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 
We know not this -- the blood flows on too fast; 
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

III
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
And wish'd that others held the same opinion; 
They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
And other minds acknowledged my dominion: 
Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow 
Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion, 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 
'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep: 
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

V
Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the land, 
And trace it in this poem every line: 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 
My own meaning when I would be very fine; 
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 
Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI
To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic; 
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 
And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic: 
But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

VII
How I have treated it, I do not know; 
Perhaps no better than they have treated me 
Who have imputed such designs as show 
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see: 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; 
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

--Lord Byron,
the opening stanzas of the fourth canto of Don Juan

I've posted these lines before, but that's fine.  That's what reprise is for.

Byron: "A Small Drop Of Ink"

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
       Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
      'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
      Of ages.  To what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper, even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.

--Lord Byron,
Don Juan: 
stanza 88 of Canto III.

"There Is A Tide In The Affairs of Women . . ."

Or, "But Actium, Lost For Cleopatra's Eyes"
--Byron's opening to Canto VI of Don Juan:


'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood'--you know the rest,
And most of us have found it, now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guessed
The moment, till too late to come again.
But no doubt every thing is for the best--
Of which the surest sign is in the end:
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.


There is a tide in the affairs of women
'Which taken at the flood leads'--God knows where.
Those navigators must be able seamen
Whose charts lay down its current to a hair;
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen
With its strange whirls and eddies can compare:--
Men with their heads reflect on this and that--
But women with their hearts or heaven knows what!


And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,
Young, beautiful, and daring--who would risk
A throne, the world, the universe, to be
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk
The stars from out the sky, than not be free
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk--
Though such a she's a devil (if that there be one)
Yet she would make full many a Manichean.


Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset
By commonest Ambition, that when Passion
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget,
Or at the least forgive, the laving rash one.
If Anthony be well remembered yet,
'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion,
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes,
Outbalance all the Caesar's victories.


He died at fifty for a queen of forty;
I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty,
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but sport--I
Remember when, though I had no great plenty
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I
Gave what I had--a heart:--as the world went, I
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever.


--Lord Byron

Minerva, Mermaid: sculpture mix: sea foam glazing; copper wire.

Talking About Byron

"I Leave The Thing a Problem, Like All Things":
The Example of Byron


A suggestive, representative introduction to the life, the work, the letters, and the irrepressible voice of George Gordon, Lord Byron--with reference to certain enduring critical problems and promising perspectives that ought to arise when you delve deeply into the English Romantic Period's Most Popular, Most Topical, and Greatest Poet.

That's the talk I gave yesterday afternoon.

An "overstuffed yakfest" is how I summed it up later, but I think a good time was had by most, if not all.  I hope so. I had a great audience, certainly, and I provided visual aids, thick handouts, enthusiasm, and as much humor as I could pack in between quotations.  While quoting, I can let Byron provide the humor, the satire, or the pathos--and sometimes all three in the same line.

Of course, giving a talk often shows you the better, more focused talk you should have given, but that's for next time.  (I should make those notes on focal points and put them in the file . . . .)

Here's the quotation I meant to put up on the board as part of that better focus:

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
---------Lord Byron,
from Don Juan, Canto III, stanza 88

Byron: "Between Two Worlds Life Hovers . . ."

Between two worlds life hovers like a star

'Twixt night and morn upon the horizon's verge,

How little do we know that which we are!

How less what we may be! The eternal surge

Of time and tide rolls on and bears afar

Our bubbles. As the old burst, new emerge,

Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves

Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

--Lord Byron's last stanza to Canto XV of his incomparable Don Juan

Passages: Pegasus "Sprains a Wing"? Not Hardly

Here is the opening to Lord Byron's fourth canto of his marvelous, seemingly miscellaneous masterpiece Don Juan. I love the narrative voice; the ease of speech, allusion, and rhyming; and the deceptive defense, hardly--and yet completely--serious. Playing games in earnest: that's my Lord Byron.

Canto IV

Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurled from heaven for sinning.
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

But time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp adversity will teach at last
Man and as we would hope, perhaps the devil
That neither of their intellects are vast.
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this--the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow
And wished that others held the same opinion;
They took it up when my days grew more mellow,
And other minds acknowledged my dominion.
Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow
Leaf', and imagination droops her pinion;
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep,
'Tis that our nature cannot always bring
Itself to apathy, for we must steep
Our hearts first in the depth of Lethe's spring,
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep.
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the land
And trace it in this poem every line.
I don't pretend that I quite understand
My own meaning when I would be very fine;
But the fact is that I have nothing planned,
Unless it were to be a moment merry,
A novel word in my vocabulary.

To the kind reader of our sober clime
This way of writing will appear exotic.
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,
Who sang when chivalry was more quixotic,
And revelled in the fancies of the time--
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic.
But these, save the last, being obsolete,
I chose a modern subject as more meet.

How I have treated it, I do not know;
Perhaps no better than they have treated me
Who have imputed such designs as show
Not what they saw, but what they wished to see.
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so;
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free.
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear
And tells me to resume my story here.


And resume his story he does.

I hope I have awakened some curiosity or have reminded some of you what a joy--what an absolute and absolutely resonant joy--Byron's poetry can be.