XCVIII.

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common;
For instance-gentlemen, whose ladies take
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
And break the-which commandment is't they
(I have forgot the number, and think no man [break?
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 harboring 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.

C.

Thus parents also are at times shortsighted;

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, Till some confounded escapade has blighted

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; And then the mother cries, the father swears, And wonders why the devil he got heirs.

CI.

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear

Of sight, that I must think on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I shan't say here;
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.
CII.

It was upon a day, a summer's day;

Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, And so is spring about the end of May;

The sun no doubt, is the prevailing reason, But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,

And stand convicted of more truth than treason, That there are months which nature grows more merry in ;

March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

CIII.

'Twas on a summer's day-the sixth of June: I like to be particular in dates,

Not only of the age, and year, but moon;
They are a sort of posthouse, where the Fates
Change horses, making history change its tune,
Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,
Leaving at last not much besides chronology,
Excepting the post-obits of theology.

CIV.

'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six-perhaps still nearer seven, When Julia sate within as pretty a bower

As ere held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, With all the trophies of triumphant songHe won them well, and may he wear them long.

CV.

She sate, but not alone; I know not well
How this same interview had taken place,
And even if I knew, I should not tell-
People should hold their tongues in any case-
No matter how or why the thing befell,

But there were she and Juan face to face-
When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise,
But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

CVI.

How beautiful she looked! her conscious heart Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong; Oh love! how perfect is thy mystic art, [strong, Strengthening the weak and trampling on the How self-deceitful is the sagest part

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along; The precipice she stood on was immenseSo was her creed in her own innocence.

CVII.

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth: And of the folly of all prudish fears, Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, Because that number rarely much endears, And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.

CVIII.

When people say, "I've told you fifty times,"
They mean to scold, and very often do;
When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes,"
They make you dread that they'll recite them too;
In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
At fifty, love for love is rare, 'tis true;
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

CIX.

Julia had honor, 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:

One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
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 smothe
She seem'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 so-
I'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 his 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 smileAnd then she looks so modest all the while.

CXIV.

There is a dangerous stillness 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,

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 hence
Forward, 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
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 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 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 night-winds creep

CXVI.

Oh, Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,
With your cenfounded 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.

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky;

CXXIII.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog'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
For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, [already

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.