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George Gordon Byron - Don Juan: Canto The Third
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Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain,
He fear`d his neck to venture such a nag on,
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon,
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 

`Pedlars,` and `Boats,` and `Waggons!` Oh! ye shades
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?
That trash of such sort not alone evades
Contempt, but from the bathos` vast abyss
Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss-
The `little boatman` and his `Peter Bell`
Can sneer at him who drew `Achitophel`! 

T` our tale.- The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet`s song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,
The rosy flood of twilight`s sky admired;-
Ave Maria! o`er the earth and sea,
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! 

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o`er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem`d stirr`d with prayer. 

Ave Maria! `t is the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria! `t is the hour of love!
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son`s above!
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove-
What though `t is but a pictured image?- strike-
That painting is no idol,- `t is too like. 

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!- in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna`s immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow`d o`er,
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio`s lore
And Dryden`s lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! 

The shrill cicadas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed`s and mine,
And vesper bell`s that rose the boughs along;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti`s line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
Which learn`d from this example not to fly
From a true lover,- shadow`d my mind`s eye. 

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent`s brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o`erlabour`d steer;
Whate`er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate`er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather`d round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring`st the child, too, to the mother`s breast. 

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day`s decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns! 

When Nero perish`d by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy`d,
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy`d,
Some hands unseen strew`d flowers upon his tomb:
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

But I `m digressing; what on earth has Nero,
Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero,
More than such madmen`s fellow man- the moon`s?
Sure my invention must be down at zero,
And I grown one of many `wooden spoons`
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please
To dub the last of honours in degrees). 

I feel this tediousness will never do-
`T is being too epic, and I must cut down
(In copying) this long canto into two;
They `ll never find it out, unless I own
The fact, excepting some experienced few;
And then as an improvement `t will be shown:
I `ll prove that such the opinion of the critic is
From Aristotle passim.--See poietikes.
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