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.

CXV.

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced

And half retiring from the glowing arm,

Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else 'twere 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-botween.

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'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 henceForward, 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

CANTO I.-E

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis 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 'Twas in November, but l'ain not so sure

About the day-the era's more obscure.

CXXII.

We'll talk of that anon.-'Tis 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 nightwinds creep
From leaf to leaf, 'tis sweet to view on high
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

CXXIII.

'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog'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;

'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

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 Isrealites are fit to mob its

Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.

CXXVI.

"Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end
To strife; 'tis 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 knownAnd life yields nothing further to recall

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.

CXXVIII.

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use

Of his own nature, and the various arts,

And likes particularly to produce

Some new experiment to show his parts;

This is the age of oddities let loose,

Where different talents find their different marts; You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost your Labour, there's a sure market for imposture.

CXXIX.

What opposite discoveries we have seen!

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)

One makes new noses, one a guillotine,

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,
But has not answer'd like the apparatus
Of the Humane Society's beginning,

By which men are unsuffocated gratis:

What wondrous new machines have late been spin