Is't English? No-'tis only parliamentary) That innovation's spirit now-a-days

Had made more progress than for the last century. He would not tread a factious path to praise, Though for the public weal disposed to venture As for his place, he could but say this of it, That the fatigue was greater than the profit

LXXIV.

[high

LXXX.

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen,
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd
Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [to lurch;
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search
Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen.
There were some massy members of the church,
Takers of tythes, and makers of good matches,
And several who sung fewer psalms than catches.

LXXXI.

There were some country wags, too,-and, alas!
Some exiles from the town, who had been driven
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass,
And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven.
And lo! upon that day it came to pass,

I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven,
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with.

LXXXII.

I knew him in his livelier London days,
A brilliant dinner-out, though but a curate;
And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise,
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate,
Oh, Providence! how wondrous are thy ways!
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?)
Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln,
A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on.

LXXXIII.

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes;
But both were thrown away among the fens ;
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks.
No longer ready ears and short-hand pens
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax:

The poor priest was reduced to common sense,
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long,
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng.

LXXXIV.

There is a difference, says the song, "between
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late
The latter worse used of the two we're seen-
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state)-
A difference "twixt a bishop and a dean,"
A difference between crockery-ware and plate,
As between English beef and Spartan broth-
And yet great heroes have been bred by both.

LXXXVII.

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day;
And Juan took his place he knew not where,
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait;
And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair;
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray
He seem'd unconscious of all passing there,
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.

LXXXVIII.

On which, at the third asking of the bans,

He started; and, perceiving smiles around Broadening to grins, he colored more than once. And hastily-as nothing can confound

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce-
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound,

And with such hurry that, ere he could curb it,
He'd paid his neighbor's prayer with half a turbot

LXXXIX.

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd,

The supplicator being an amateur;
But others, who were left with scarce a third,
Were angry-as they well might, to be sure.
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd
Lord Henry at his table should endure;
And this, and his not knowing how much oats
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes.
XC.

They little knew, or might have sympathized,
That he the night before had seen a ghost;
A prologue, which but slightly harmonized
With the substantial company engross'd
By matter, and so much materialized,

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most Of two things-how (the question rather old is) Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies.

XCI.

But what confused him more than smile or stare From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around. Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air. Especially as he had been renown'd

For some vivacity among the fair,

Even in the country circle's narrow bound(For little things upon my lord's estate

Were good small-talk for others still less great)

XCII.

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his,
And something like a smile upon her cheek.
Now this he really rather took amiss:

In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks A strong external motive; and in this

Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique, Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles.

XCIII.

'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation,
Indicative of some surprise and pity;
And Juan grew carnation with vexation,
Which was not very wise and still less witty,
Since he had gain'd at least her observation,
A most important outwork of the city-
As Juan should have known, had not his senses
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences.
XCIV.

But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn,
Nor seem embarrass'd-quite the contrary:
Her aspect was, as usual, still-not stern-

And she withdrew, but cast not down her eye,
Yet grew a little pale-with what? concern?

I know not; but her color ne'er was highThough sometimes faintly flush'd-and always clear As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.

XCV.

But Adeline was occupied by fame

This day; and watching, witching, condescending To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, And dignity with courtesy so blending, As all must blend whose part it is to aim

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) At their lord's, son's, and similar connexions' Safe conduct through the rocks of reelections.

XCVI.

Though this was most expedient on the whole,
And usual-Juan, when he cast a glance
On Adeline, while playing her grand role,
Which she went through as though it were a dance,
(Betraying only now and then her soul

By a look scarce perceptible askance,
Of weariness or scorn,) began to feel
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real;

XCVII.

Go well she acted all and every part

By turns-with that vivacious versatility, Which many people take for want of heart: They err-'tis merely what is call'd mobility," A thing of temperament, and not of art,

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility: And false--though true; for surely they're sincerest Who're strongly acted on by what is nearest. XCVIII.

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,
Heroes sometimes, though seldom-sages never,
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,
'Little that's great, but much of what is clever;
Most orators, but very few financiers,

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavor,
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigors,
And grow quite figurative with their figures.

XCIX.

The poets of arithmetic are they,

Who, though they prove not two and two to be Five, as they would do in a modest way,

Have plainly made it out that four are three,
Judging by what they take and what they pay.
The sinking Fund's unfathomable sea,
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.
C.

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease;
Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces,
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize
The ridicules of people in all places-

That honey of your fashionable bees--
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment;
And this at present was her kind employment.
CI.

However, the day closed, as days must close;
The evening also waned-and coffee came,
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose.
And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
Retired: with most unfashionable bows,

Their docile esquires also did the same,
Delighted with the dinner and their host,
But with the lady Adeline the most.

CII.

Some praised her beauty; others her great grace, The warmth of her politenes, whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face,

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity Yes: she was truly worthy her high place!

No one could envy her deserved prosperity: And then her dress-what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity! 7

CIII.

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises,
By an impartial indemnification

For all her past exertions and soft phrases,
In a most edifying conversation,

Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces
And families, even to the last relation;
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses
And truculent distortion of their tresses.

CIV.

True, she said little-'twas the rest that broke
Forth into universal epigram:

But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke:
Like Addison's "faint praise" so wont to damn
Her own but served to set off every joke,

As music chimes in with a melodrame.
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine, to-not defend.

CV.

There were but two exceptions to this keen Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one, Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;

And Juan too, in general behind none In gay remark on what he'd heard or seen,

Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone. In vain he heard the others rail or rally, He would not join them in a single sally

CVI.

Tis true he saw Aurora look as though

She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook Its motive for that charity we owe

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
Further; it might or it might not be so:
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
Observing little in his reverie,

Yet saw this much which he was glad to see.

CVII.

The ghost at least had done him this much good,
In making him as silent as a ghost,
If in the circumstances which ensued

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. And certainly Aurora had renew'd

In him some feelings which he had lately lost Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal, Are so divine, that I mnst deem them real:

CVIII.

The love of higher things and better days;

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways; The moments when we gather from a glance More joy than from all future pride or praise, Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance The heart in an existence of its own, Of which another's bosom is the zone.

CIX.

Who would not sigh Δι αι ταν Κυθέρειαν

That hath a memory, or that had a heart? Alas her star must wane like that of Dian,

Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. Anacreon only had the soul to tie on

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart Of Eros; but, though thou hast play'd us many tricks, Still we respect thee, "Alma Venus Genetrix ! "

CX.

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
And make the wordling sneer, the youngling weep.

CXI.

The night was as before: he was undrest,

Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : Completely "sans culotte," and without vest; In short, he hardly could be clothed with less: But apprehensive of his spectral guest,

He sate with feelings awkward to express, By those who have not had such visitations,) Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. CXII.

And not in vain listen'd;-Hush! what's that?
I see I see-Ah, no!-'tis not-yet 'tis-
Ye powers! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the cat!
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
Bo like a spiritual pit-a-pat,

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe

CXIII.

Again-what is't? The wind? No, no, this time It is the sable friar as before

With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again through shadows of the night sublime,

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems-the monk made his blood

curdle.

CXIV.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,"

Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, Sounding like very supernatural water,― Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!

For immaterialism's a serious matter:

So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.

CXV.

Were his eyes open ?-Yes! and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect-to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:

His eyes were open, and (as was before
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?-the doo

CXVI.

It open'd with a most infernal creak,

Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza, Vio che entrate!" The hinge seem'd to speak. Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza; Or-but all words upon such themes are weak · A single shade's sufficient to entrance a Hero-for what is substance to a spirit? Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?

CXVII.

The door flew wide, not swiftly-but, as y
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight-
And then swung back; nor close-but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high.
For he had two, both tolerably bright,-
And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stond
The sable friar in his solemn hood.

CXVIII.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before; but, being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking
His own internal ghost began to awaken
Within him, and to quell his corporeal quaking-
Hinting, that soul and body on the whole
Were odds against a disembodied soul.

CXIX.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce
And he arose-advanced-the shade retreated;
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,
Follow'd; his veins no longer cold, but heated
Resolved to thrust the mystery cart and tierce,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated:
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still