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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 fairy art Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.

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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,
'Tis surely Juan now — No! I'm afraid
That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 1
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.

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Such love is innocent, and may exist

Between young persons without any danger. A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;

For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, But hear these freedoms form 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 Ethercal lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her togetherI really don't know what, nor Julia efther.

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LXXXIII.

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

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Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizable, Or if they did so, satisfied to mean [ableNothing but what was good, her breast was peaceA quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt 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, 1
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, 2 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,

1 See Ovid. de Art. Amand. 1. ii.

2 Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming-(I think)-the opening of Canto Second-but quote from memory. 3["I say this by the way-so don't look stern,

But if you 're angry, reader, pass it by."-MS.] [Juan Boscan Almogavà, of Barcelona, died about the

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 knew 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.
XCI.

He, 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.

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Thus parents also are at times short-sighted:

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 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 sha'n'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.

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CII.

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 in,—

March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. CIII.

'T 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,2

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

CIV.

'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six-perhaps still nearer sevenWhen Julia sate within as pretty a bower

As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 4

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 befell,

But there were she and Juan, face to face-
When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,
But 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. 5

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;

4 ["Oh, Susan! I've said, in the moments of mirth,
What's devotion to thee or to me?

I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,
And believe that that heaven's in thee."-MOORE.]

5 ["She stood on guilt's steep brink, in all the sense
And full security of innocence."- MS.]

In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis 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; CX.

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,

Which play'd within the tangles of her hair; And to contend with thoughts she could not smother She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother

To leave together this imprudent pair, 1 She who for many years had watch'd her son soI'm very certain mine would not have done so.

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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 smile. And 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. 2

CXV.

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced And half retiring from the glowing arm,

["To leave these two young people then and there."-MS.] 2 ["I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day; as if there was some association between an internal approach to greater light and purity, and the kindler of this dark lantern

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 controulless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array

Of poets and romancers: -You're a bore,
▲ 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.
CXVIII.

'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 are 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 licence,
Which some irregularity may make

In the design, and as I have a high sense
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit
To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

CXXI.

This licence 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.

of our external existence. The night is also a religious concern; and even more so when I viewed the moon and stars through Herschel's telescope, and saw that they were worlds." - Byron Diary, 1821.]

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;

'Tis 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

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 1 "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.

CXXIV.

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 2

The unexpected death of some old lady,

Or gentlemen 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-damn'd post-obits. 3

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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 4, by which coals
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
Tombuctoo 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; 'Tis 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

Humphry Davy, P.R.S., in 1815, and has, no doubt, already preserved thousands of miners from the dangers of the firedamp.]

[Jackson's Account of Tombuctoo, the great Emporium of Central Africa. Narrative of Robert Adams, a Sailor. Dr. Leyden's Discoveries in Africa, &c. &c. - Sir Edward Parry's three expeditions. Captain Ross's Voyage of Discovery, &c. &c.]

6["Not only pleasure 's sin, but sin 's a pleasure."- MS.]

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