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 That Donna Julia knew the reason why, Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gentle her small hand A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland LXXII. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, LXXIII But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 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, Of which young passion cannot be bereft, LXXV. Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state: 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, Again it opens, it can be no other, T is surely Juan now-No! I'm afraid 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: Love, then, but love within its proper limits, Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her togetherI really don't know what, nor Julia either. i LXXXII. With any kind of troublesome control: Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizable; 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, So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan. Of his own case, and never hit the true one; 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. << Oh love! in such a wilderness as this, 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 As all have found on trial, or may find, 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, And every now and then we read them through, 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, And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars, XCHI. In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 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, XCV. Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 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 plan of twenty years, and all is over; But Inez was so anxious and so clear Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 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, She sate, but not alone; I know not well But there were she and Juan face to face- CVI. How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart Strengthening the weak and trampling on the strong How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along! CVII. She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, CVIII. When people say, «I've told you fifty times,» They make you dread that they 'll recite them too Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp Had she imagined such a thing could rouse I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 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, Of poets and romancers :-You 're a bore, CXVII. And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, A little still she strove, and much repented, '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. Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); Oh Pleasure! you 're indeed a pleasant thing, Of reformation ere the year run out, But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 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 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 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, 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; But sweeter still than this, than these, than all 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 Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, T is pity though, in this sublime world, that 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 the sea dashes round the promontory, CXXXV. T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; Even as a summer sky's without a cloud: "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!» |