XXXV.

Buch were his trophies ;-not of spear and shield,
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes'
Yet I must own,—although in this I yield [brushes;
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,-
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd, next day, "if men ever hunted twice?" XXXVI.

He also had a quality uncommon

To early risers after a long chase,

Who wake in winter ere the the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race,

A quality agreeable to woman,

When her soft liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,He did not fall asleep just after dinner.

XXXVII.

But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humoring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret-cunning rogue!
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;
In short, there never was a better hearer.

XXXVIII.

And then he danced;-all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of Pantomime ;-he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense-

A thing in footing indispensable:

He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van

Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

XXXIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigor; And then he had an ear for music's sound,

Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigor. Such classic pas-sans flaws-set off our hero, He glanced like a personified bolero;

XL.

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora,

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The "tout ensemble" of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for, to the dolor Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. XLI.

No marvel then he was a favorite;

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspir'd. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved "tracasserie," Began to treat him with some small "agacerie."

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguished, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
I'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLIII.

This noble personage began to look

A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licenses must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke! 'Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators, when they count on woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;
Some would not deem such women could be found
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard;
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLV.

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke,
Who, one might think, was something in the affair
True, he was absent, and 'twas rumor'd, took

But small concern, about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook

Her gayeties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.

XLVI.

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,

Began to think the Duchess' conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

XLVII.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
'Tis so becoming to the soul and face;
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,

To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with-"Would you had thought twice Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!"

XLVIII.

Oh, Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: When your affairs come round, one way or t'other Go to the coffee-house, and take another 2

LXIII.

DON JUAN.

Her grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante
And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And-what is worst of all-won't let you go;
LXIV.

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
"Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a "bonne fortune" be really "bonne."
LXV.

And first, in the overflowing of her heart,
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
She call'd her husband now and then apart,

And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile,
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile;
And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet,
In such guise that she could make nothing of it.

LXX.

LXXI.

LXXII.

LXXIII.

LXXIV.

A something all-sufficient for the heart

Is that for which the sex are always seeking; But how to fill up that same vacant partThere lies the rub-and this they are but weak in. [ing; Frail mariners afloat without a chart,

They run before the wind through high seas breakAnd when they have made the shore, through every 'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. [shock,

LXXVII.

"Beatus ille procul!" from "negotiis,”
Saith Horace; the great little poet's wrong;
His other maxim, "Noscitur a sociis,"

Is much more to the purpose of his song;
Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,
Unless good company he kept too long;
But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station,
Thrice happy they who have an occupation!
LXXVIII.

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing;
Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves-
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,
As far as I know, that the church receives:
And since that time, it need not cost much showing,
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves,
And still more women, spring from not employing
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.
LXXIX.

And hence high life is oft a dreary void,

A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. Bards may sing what they please about content; Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd; And hence arise the woes of sentiment, Blue-devils, and blue-stockings, and romances Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. LXXX.

I do declare, upon an affidavit,

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen; Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,

Would some believe that such a tale had been: But such intent I never had, nor have it ;

Some truths are better kept behind a screen,
Especially when they would look like lies;
I therefore deal in generalities.

LXXXI.

"An oyster may be cross'd in love,"-and why?
Because he mopeth idly in his shell,
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
Much as a monk may do within his cell:
And a-propos of monks, their piety
With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.

LXXXII.

Oh, Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,
Whose merit none enough can sing or say,
Thou hast struck one immense colossus down,
Thou moral Washington of Africa!

But there's another little thing, I own,

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, And set the other half of earth to rights:

LXXXIV.

Shut up the world at large; let Bedlam out,
And you will be perhaps surprised to find
All things pursue exactly the same route,
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
This I could prove beyond a single doubt,

Were there a jot of sense among mankind;
But till that point d'appui is found, alas!
Like Archimedes, I cave earth as 'twas.
LXXXV.

Our gentle Adeline had one defect

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; Her conduct had been perfectly correct,

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd,

Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one, But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.

LXXXVI.

She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil.
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove,
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil ·
Their union was a model to behold,
Serene and noble,-conjugal but cold.

LXXXVII.

There was no great disparity of years,

Though much in temper; but they never clash'd: They moved like stars united in their spheres,

Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, Where mingled and yet separate appears

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

LXXXVIII.

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest
In any thing, however she might flatter
Herself that her intentions were the best,
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter:
Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd,
And gather'd as they run, like growing water,
Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast
Was not at first too readily impress'd.

LXXXIX.

whites.