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,

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For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's, sake: Her resolutions 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,
'Tis 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.

LXXVIII.

And even if by chance-and who can tell?
The devil's so very sly-she should discover
That all within was not so very well,

And, if still free, that such or such a lover

Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell

Such thoughts, and be the better when they're over; And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial:

I recommend young ladies to make trial.

LXXIX.

And then there are such things as love divine,
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure,
Such as the angels think so very fine,

"

And matrons, who would be no less secure,
Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine;'
Thus Julia said-and thought so to be sure;
And so I'd have her think, were I the man
On whom her reveries celestial ran.

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LXXX.

Such love is inuocent, and may exist
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 here these freedoms form the utmost list

Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger;
If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime,
But not my fault-I'll 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

Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion
He might be taught, by love and her together,
I 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 mentioned in the sequel.

LXXXIII.

Her plan she deemed 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 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,
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

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

LXXXVIII.

"Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine,

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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

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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 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.

XCII.

He 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,
How 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.

XCIII.

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:
'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern
His brain about the action of the sky;

If

you think 'twas 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:
He 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.

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XCV.

Sometimes he turned 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 'twere one whereon magicians bind
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,
According to some good old woman's tale.

XCVI.

Thus would he while his lonely hours away,
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,

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Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,

A bosom whereon he his head might lay,

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted; With several other things which I forget,

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

XCVII.

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;

She saw that Juan was not at his ease;

But that which chiefly may, and must, surprise,

Her only son with question or surmise;

Or, like all very clever people, could not.

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Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease

Whether it was she did not see, or would not,

XCVIII.

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common;
For instance-gentlemen, whose ladies take

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Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,

And break theWhich commandment is't they break?

(I have forgot the number, and think no man Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)

I say when these same gentlemen are jealous,

They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.

XCIX.

A real husband always is suspicious,

But still no less suspects in the wrong place;
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,
By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;
The last indeed's infallibly the case:

And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly,
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.

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