CIX.

Julia had honour, virtue, truth and love,
For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
By all the vows below, to powers above,

She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
Quite by mistake-she thought it was her own;

CX.

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,

Which play'd within the tangles of her hair;

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother,

+

She scem'd by the distraction of her air. 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother To leave together this imprudent pair,

She who for many years had watch'd her son soI'm very certain mine would not have done so.

CXI.

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees
Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp,
As if it said « detain me, if you please ; »

Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp
His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze;

She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

CXII.

I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
But what he did, is much what you would do;
His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,
Love is so very timid when 'tis new:

She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,
And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.
CXIII.

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon :
The devil's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way

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
Το 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-between.

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 licence,

Which some irregularity may make

In the design, and as I have a high sense

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit

To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

CXXI.

This licence 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 I'm 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 moonlight 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 night winds 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 Israelites 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;