LXVIII.

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair With other people's eyes, or if her own Discoveries made, but none could be aware

Of this, at least no sympton e'er was shown; Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, Indifferent from the first or callous grown : I'm really puzzled what to think or say, She kept her counsel in so close a way.

LXIX.

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,

Caress'd him often, such a thing might be Quite innocently done, and harmless styled

When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; But I am not so sure I should have smiled

When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three: These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.

LXX.

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become
Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
And much embarrassment in either eye:
There surely will be little doubt with some

That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
But as for Juan, he had no more notion
Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.
LXXI.

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,

And tremulously gentle her small hand
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand
Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.

LXXII.

And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while,
For that compression in its burning core;
Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

LXXIII

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretels the heaviest tempest, it displays

Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, And in whatever aspect it arrays

Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

LXXIV.

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left.
All these are little preludes to possession,

Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
And merely tend to show how greatly love is
Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.

LXXV.

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state:
She felt it going, and resolved to make
The noblest efforts for herself and mate,

For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake. Her reslutions were most truly great,

And almost might have made a Tarquin quake; She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, As being the best judge of a lady's case.

LXXVI.

She vow'd she never would see Juan more,
And next day paid a visit to his mother,
And look'd extremely at the opening door,
Which, by the Virgin's grace let in another;
Grateful she was, and yet a little sore-

Again it opens, it can be no other,

T is surely Juan now-No! I'm afraid
That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.
LXXVII.

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.

Between young persons without any danger: A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd; For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, But hear these freedoms for the utmost list

Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:
If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,
But not my fault-I tell them all in time.
LXXXI.

Love, then, but love within its proper limits,
Was Julia's innocent determination
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its
Exertion might be useful on occasion;
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its

Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her togetherI really don't know what, nor Julia either.

LXXXII.
Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced
In mail of proof-her purity of soul,
She, for the future of her strength convinced,
And that her honour was a rock, or mole,
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed

With any kind of troublesome control:
But whether Julia to the task was equal

Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel.
LXXXIII.

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizable;
Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burn'd each other, quite persuaded
That all the apostles would have done as they did.
LXXXIV.

And if, in the mean time, her husband died,

But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream (and then she sigh'd)! Never could she survive that common loss; But just suppose that moment should betide, I only say suppose it—inter nos

(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought).

LXXXV.

I only say suppose this supposition:

Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, Would fully suit a widow of condition;

Even seven years hence it would not be too late; And in the interim (to pursue this vision)

The mischief, after all, could not be great,
For he would learn the rudiments of love,
I mean the seraph way of those above.
LXXXVI.

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan.
Poor little fellow! he had no idea

Of his own case, and never hit the true one;
In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,
He puzzled over what he found a new one,
But not as yet imagined it could be a
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.

LXXXVII.

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,

His home deserted for the lonely wood, Tormented with a wound he could not know, His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude.

I'm fond myself of solitude or so,

But then I beg it may be understood

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not

A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.
LXXXVIII.

<< Oh love! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.»> The bard I quote from does not sing amiss," With the exception of the second line,

For that same twining « transport and security>> Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.

LXXXIX.

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals
To the good sense and senses of mankind,
The very thing which every body feels

As all have found on trial, or may find,
That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals

Or love:-I won't say more about << entwined»> Or « transport,» as we know all that before, But beg << security» will bolt the door.

XC.

Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks,
Thinking unutterable things; he threw
Himself at length within the leafy nooks
Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;
There poets find materials for their books,

And every now and then we read them through,
So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

CIX.

lle, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued His self-communion with his own high soul, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,

Had mitigated part, though not the whole Of its disease; he did the best he could

With things not very subject to control, And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

XCII.

Ile thought about himself, and the whole earth,
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
And how the deuce they ever could have birth;

And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars,
flow many miles the moon might have in girth,
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.

XCHI.

In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
Longings sublime, and aspirations high,
Which some are born with, but the most part learn
To plague themselves withal, they know not why:
'T was strange that one so young should thus concern
His brain about the action of the sky;

If you think it was philosophy that this did,

I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

XCIV.

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,
And heard a voice in all the winds; and then
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
And how the goddesses came down to men:
Hle miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,
And, when he look'd upon his watch again,
He found how much old Time had been a winner,
He also found that he had lost his dinner.

XCV.

Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,
Boscan, or Garcilasso; by the wind
Even as the page is rustled while we look,
So by the poesy of his own mind
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,

As if 't were one whereon magicians bind Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, According to some good old woman's tale.

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted;

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discove:,
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted,
Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,
Till some confounded escapade has blighted

The plan of twenty years, and all is over;
And then the mother cries, the father swears,
And wonders why the devil he got heirs.
CL.

But Inez was so anxious and so clear

Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I shan't say here;
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.
CHI.

It was upon a day, a summer's day;

Summer's indeed a very dangerous season. And so is spring about the end of May;

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;

But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,

And stand convicted of more truth than treason, That there are months which nature grows more merry

CHI

'I was on a summer's day—the sixth of June : I like to be particular in dates,

Not only of the age, and year, but moon;

They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Change horses, making history change its tune,

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, Excepting the post-obits of theology.

CIV.

'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six-perhaps still nearer seven, When Julia sate within as pretty a bower

As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,

To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
With all the trophies of triumphant song-
He won them well, and may he wear them long.
CV.

She sate, but not alone; I know not well
How this same interview had taken place,
And even if I knew, I should not tell-
People should hold their tongues in any case:
No matter how or why the thing befel,

But there were she and Juan face to face-
When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,
Sut very difficult, to shut their eyes.

CVI.

How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong,
Oh love! how perfect is thy mystic art,

Strengthening the weak and trampling on the strong How self-deceitful is the sagest part

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along!
The precipice she stood on was immense-
So was her creed in her own innocence.

CVII.

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,
And of the folly of all prudish fears,
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:

I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth,
Because that number rarely much endears,
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.

CVIII.

When people say, «I've told you fifty times,»
They mean to scold, and very often do;
When poets say, I've written fifty rhymes,»

They make you dread that they 'll recite them too
In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes :
At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true;
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty louis,
CIX.

Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,
For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
By all the vows below to powers above.

She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove:
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
Quite by mistake-she thought it was her own

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees
Gently, but palpably, confirm'd its grasp,
As if it said « Detain me, if you please;»>

Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp
liis fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze:
She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp,

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.
CXII.

I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
But what he did is much what you would do;
His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,

Love is so very timid when 't is new:

She blush'd and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

CXUL

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature: there is not a day,

The longest, not the twenty-first of June,

Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smileAnd then she looks so modest all the while!

CXIV.

There is a dangerous silence in that hour,

A stillness which leaves room for the full soul

To open all itself, without the power

Of calling wholly back its self-control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose.

CXV.

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced,

And half retiring from the glowing arm, Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed : Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist;

But then the situation had its charm, And then-God knows what next-I can't go on; I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.

CXVI.

Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,
With your confounded fantasies, to more
Immoral conduct by the fancied sway
Your system feigns o'er the controlless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array

Of poets and romancers :-You 're a bore,
A charlatan, a coxcomb-and have been,
At best, no better than a go-between.

CXVII.

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs,
Until too late for useful conversation;
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,
I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion;
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation,

A little still she strove, and much repented,
And whispering « I will ne'er consent »-consented.
CXVI!L

'Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward

To those who could invent him a new pleasure; Methinks the requisition 's rather hard,

And must have cost his majesty a treasure.
For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard,

Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);
I care not for new pleasures, as the old
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.
CXIX.

Oh Pleasure! you 're indeed a pleasant thing,
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt;
I make a resolution every spring

Of reformation ere the year run out,

But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout :
I'm very sorry, very much ashamed,
And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd.
CXX.

Here my chaste muse a liberty must take

Start not! still chaster reader,--she 'll be nice hence Forward, and there is no great cause to quake :

This liberty is a poetic license,

Which some irregularity may make

In the design; and as I have a high sense
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit
To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

CXXI.

This license is to hope the reader will

Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, Without whose epoch my poetic skill,

For want of facts, would all be thrown away),

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still

In sight, that several months have pass'd; we'll say T was in November, but I'm not so sure About the day-the era 's more obscure.

CXXII.

We'll talk of that anon.-T is sweet to hear, At midnight, on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow d, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky;

CXXIII.

T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark bay deep mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth ;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;
Sweet is revenge-especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
CXXV.

Sweet is a legacy; and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete,

Who 've made us youth » wait too-too long already For an estate, or cash, or country-seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady,
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner, for their double-dama'd post-obits.
CXXVI.

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end

To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend;

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.
CXXVII.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all
Is first and passionate love-it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd--all's known-And life yields nothing further to recal

Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.

CXXXII.

This is the patent age of new inventions
For killing bodies and for saving souls,
All propagated with the best intentions:

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions;
Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
CXXXIII.

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what,
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;

T is pity though, in this sublime world, that
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure.
Few mortals know what end they would be at,

But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gain'd, we die, you know—and then— CXXXIV.

What then?-I do not know, no more do you—
And so good night.-Return we to our story:
"T was in November, when fine days are few,
And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;

And the sea dashes round the promontory,
And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
And sober suns must set at five o'clock.

CXXXV.

T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;
No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
With the piled wood, round which the family crowd:
There's something cheerful in that sort of light,

Even as a summer sky's without a cloud:
I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.
CXXXVI.

"T was midnight-Donna Julia was in bed, Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead,

If they had never been awoke beforeAnd that they have been so we all have read, And are to be so, at the least, once more. The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, First knocks were heard, then « Madam--Madam-hist' CXXXVII.

«For God's sake, Madam-Madam-here's my master, With more than half the city at his backWas ever heard of such a cursed disaster?

T is not my fault-I kept good watch-Alack! Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster

They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may flySurely the window's not so very high!»