He snatch'd them up, then cover'd her all o'er
And gently drew her thence within the door.

XIX.

Juan!--you lucky dog!-what oracle

Could e'er have prophesied so sweet a scene As that which we have now to chronicle,

Or morals mourn that it should e'er have been
Our lot, on paper, to record a particle

Of what (truth will insist) took place between
Don Juan and the Duchess ?-Amorous pair!
Be lenient, Love, for thou alone wert there.

XX.

And had'st thou not forgot "to bolt the door "1
When thou had'st heralded the fair one safely
To her Adonis, we had known no more

About the matter; and 'twere well that briefly
We should, e'en now, the tender tale pass o'er,
Were it not safer (for the truth's sake chiefly)
To tell it all ourself, than let it burst
From those who are too prone to tell the worst.

XXI.

Well, then, as we have said, that urchin, Love,
In careless mood forgot to fast' the door,
Thereby subjecting Juan and his dove

To that which hath so oft occurr'd before-
Namely, that some unwelcome step might rove
That way; (a prying eye's a dreadful bore).
Oh Venus!-wherefore dost thou not protect
Thy vot'ries in their need ?-thine own elect.

1" But beg'security' will bolt the door."

Don Juan, canto 1, stanza 89.

XXII.

Now Luna's magic orb shed forth her ray

O'er the still scene, nor deign'd she shine less bright For that the Duchess and her Juan lay

Entranc'd-enchanted in each other's sight-
All else but their own madd'ning joys forgot:
In sooth, they slept not till the dawning light
Of morn began to make the stars look pale,
For fear those lated loves betray the tale.

XXIII.

Here leave we the fond pair to take their fill
Of passion's sweet intoxicating draught,
While ev'ry wearied head beside was still,

No waking eye, save theirs, or look'd, or laught,
Within the precincts of Amundeville,

So lately echoing mirth at wit's bright shaft. Nature and Art alike were fast asleep

All but th' enamour'd, who love's vigils keep.

XXIV.

Now this compels us to make one exception :
Two pair of lovely lids were wide apart,
Besides those of the Duchess-an eruption
Like a volcano fir'd one restless heart,
That trembled to its base-beyond conception
Pain'd and distress'd; nor could aught ease the smart
Experienc'd by its owner, whose wild passion
O'erleap'd the limits of cold-hearted fashion.

XXV.

Alas! that th' unwilling Muse should be

Constrain❜d to tell the secrets of this night!

Not Juan's eye alone the ghost did see;

Not Fitz-Fulke's form alone did play the sprite;

Another ghost at that time had made free
To walk the corridor, and "take a sight,"
But, such a sight!—The sick'ning heart's tremor
Made the sight-seer wish it ne'er might see more.

XXVI.

Whose eye was that, which, with distracted gaze Glar'd on the ghost that reach'd Don Juan's room? Whose step was it that stealthily did pace

The corridor, still keeping in the gloom?

A dusky form was there, which seem'd to trace

The steps of the sham ghost-one might presume

The second monk the same, it was array'd

So like the first" the shadow of a shade.”

XXVII.

It might be shadow, for, as stopp'd the ghost
Of the Black Friar at Juan's door, so stopp'd
The shade, in distance some five yards at most;
And, when the ghost retreated, the shade hopp'd
Some paces backward also, where 'twas lost.

In the deep darkness of the place, and popp'd
Into a friendly niche, behind a statue,

Mutt'ring, "Whoe'er you are, Madame, I'll match you!"

XXVIII.

Those words breath'd more of threat'ning than inquiry; Certes the shade suspected who the ghost was,

And peeping from the bronze (in accents fiery,

Though smother'd), said, "I know you now, that's poz! Howe'er your cunning ghostship may attire

And what'er trouble your adventure cause,

ye,

I'll solve the mystery, lady fair ne'er doubt me!
You'll find it hard to make one move without me."

XXIX.

Just then down fell the ghostly monk's dark cowl,
And, somehow, with it fell a lighter lining

Of softer stuff, more fitted for the soul

Of that bright being which did now stand shining, Like some fair angel-form, waiting the toll

Of Heaven's sweet bells for saints' admission chiming. Heaven's gate was open-Juan's door we meanAnd in its ray was this heaven's Gabriel seen,

XXX.

Inviting the sweet visitor to dwell

Within the brightness of that (lamp-light) place: A moment more, alas! the angel fell

Into her Gabriel's most warm embrace!

This, to the shade without, was a real hell,
And curses from its lips, each other chase.

E'en short relief from torture is a boon;
The shade sank on the flooring in a swoon.

XXXI.

I'll tell thee what, friend Byron, 'twill not do
Thus to be tied down to a certain measure.
"Twere well if we could hit on something new;
I candidly confess I feel no pleasure
In being always thus condemn'd to rhyming,1
As if no sense existed without chiming
The syllables together like—like crockery,
'Tis a great bore-of intellect a mockery.

"I'd rather be a kitten and cry-mew,

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers:
I had rather hear a brazen can'stick turn'd,

Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry,
'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag."

Shakespeare's Henry IV., act III., sc. 1.

XXXII.

Like nursery nonsense, ever the same sing-song,
Or church bells, with their everlasting ding-dong,
A most confounded nuisance. Freedom's lays
Cannot be always crippled up in stays,

Like English women, who lace up their bodies
Till they can scarcely breathe, the simple noddies!
Though some, for doing so, may have a reason;
Then, more than all, 'gainst nature 'tis sad treason.

XXXIII.

Rhyme, jingling rhyme, is puerile, conceited,
And measure is not always meet, nor meted.
Some shops give, of this last, proof practical;
Public attention to this fact I call,
Because, in these hard times, 'tis necessary
Of your hard cash to be a little chary:

The one rubs 'gainst the other so confoundedly,
Especially when cheated so unboundedly,

In weight, or measure, length, breadth, quality,
You're surely trick'd, somehow, whate'er you buy.

XXXIV.

You'd scarcely think it, but, show you we can

A real down-bed, with stout quill feathers plenary, Sold by a "downy cove," whose gaudy van

Invites all "persons who're about to marry" To purchase his down-beds (the funny man),

As if most marriage down-beds did not carry To their possessors thorns enough to prick 'em, Without a quantity of quills to stick 'em!

XXXV.

And then some poets cheat you with bad rhyme ;
But, pray, good reader, criticise not mine.
('Tis well sometimes to give a specimen
To illustrate the sort of thing we mean)-