Lord Byron - 3 books to know Juvenalian Satire

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.

Anon—she was released, and then she stray'd

O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,

And stumbled almost every step she made;

And something roll'd before her in a sheet,

Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid:

'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd,

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.

The dream changed:—in a cave she stood, its walls

Were hung with marble icicles, the work

Of ages on its water-fretted halls,

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught,

Which froze to marble as it fell,—she thought.

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet,

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow,

Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet

Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!),

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat

Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song,

And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face

Faded, or alter'd into something new—

Like to her father's features, till each trace—

More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew—

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;

And starting, she awoke, and what to view?

O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?

'T is—'t is her father's—fix'd upon the pair!

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,

With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell

The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be

Perchance the death of one she loved too well:

Dear as her father had been to Haidee,

It was a moment of that awful kind—

I have seen such—but must not call to mind.

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek,

And caught her falling, and from off the wall

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak

Vengeance on him who was the cause of all:

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,

Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call,

A thousand scimitars await the word;

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