But after, there are sometimes certain signs
Which prove plain English truer of the two.
Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-
But I may have; and you, too, reader, dread it.
LXXIII,

The simple olives, best allies of wine,
Must I pass over in my bill of fare?
I must, although a favourite plat of mine

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everywhere.
On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine,
The grass my table-cloth, in open air,
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes,
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears,

Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs;

Like that same mystic music of the spheres,

Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings. 'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard Long dialogues-which pass'd without a word! LXXVII.

Aurora sat with that indifference

Which piques a preux chevalier-as it ought: Of all offences, that's the worst offence, Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught, Like a good ship entangled among ice, And after so much excellent advice.

LXXVIII.

To his gay nothings nothing was replied,
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity
Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside,

Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.
The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?
Heaven knows! But Adeline's malicious eyes
Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

LXXIX.

And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it ;' A kind of triumph I'll not recommend,

Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it, Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,

To bring what was a jest to a serious end: For all men prophecy what is or was, And hate those who wont let them come to pass. LXXX.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,

Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of conspicuous comprehensions, That he would rather make them more than less Aurora, at the last (so history mentions,

Though probably much less a fact than guess), So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

LXXXI.

From answering, she began to question: this With her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss, Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette-So very difficult, they say, it is

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refinedAurora's spirit was not of that kind.

LXXXA.

But Juan had a sort of winning way,
A proud humility, if such there be,
Which show'd such deference to what females say,
As if each charming word were a decree.
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
And taught him when to be reserved or free;
He had the art of drawing people out,
Without their seeing what he was about.

LXXXIII.

Aurora, who, in her indifference,

Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud, Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud Rather by deference than compliment,

And wins even by a delicate dissent.

LXXXIV.

And then he had good looks: that point was carried

Nem.con. amongst the women, which I grieve
To say leads oft to crim. con, with the married-
A case which to the juries we may leave,
Since with digressions we too long have tarried.
Now, though we know of old that looks deceive,
And always have done, somehow these good looks
Make more impressions than the best of books.

LXXXV.
Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces,
Was very young, although so very sage;
Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,
Especially upon a printed page.

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces,
Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
And Socrates, that model of all duty,
Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty

LXXXVI.

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic;

But innocently so, as Socrates:
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic

At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic

Has shown, I know not why they should displease

In virgins-always in a modest way,
Observe; for that with me's a sine qua.*
LXXXVII.

Also observe that, like the great Lord Coke
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd
Opinions two, which at first sight may look
Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook,

Or none at all-which seems a sorry jest;
But if a writer should be quite consistent,
How could he possibly show things existent?
LXXXVIII.

If people contradict themselves, can I

Help contradicting them, and everybody, Even my veracious self? But that's a lie:

I never did so, never will-how should I?
He who doubts all things, nothing can deny :
Truth's fountains may be clear-her streams are
muddy,

And cut through such canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

LXXXIX.

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable

Are false, but may be render'd also true,
By those who sow them in a land that's arable.
'Tis wonderful what fable will not do !
'Tis said it makes reality more bearable;
But what's reality? Who has its clue?
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?"
XC.

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear:
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we've need, on our career,
To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'Tis time that some new prophet should appear,
Or old ndulge man with a second sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
Without a small refreshment from the spheres.

XCI.

But here again, why will I thus entangle

Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle;

And yet, such is my folly or my fate,

I always knock my head against some angle,
About the present, past, or future state;
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

XCII.

But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission,

And now I will give up all argument;
And positively henceforth no temptation
Shall fool me to the top up of my bent."*

Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation.
Indeed, I never knew what people meant,

By dreaming that my Muse's conversation Was dangerous: I think she is as harinless As some who labour more, and yet may charm less. XCV.

Grim reader, did you ever see a ghost?

No; but you've heard- I understand-be dumb! And don't regret the time you may have lost,

For you have got that pleasure still to come;
And do not think I mean to sneer at most

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb
That source of the sublime and the mysterious:
For certain reasons, my belief is serious.

XCVI

Serious? You laugh-you may: that will I not,
My smiles must be sincere or not at all,
I say I do believe a haunted spot
Exists-and where? That shall I not recall,
Because I'd rather it should be forgot:

'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal. In short, upon that subject I've some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.

XCVII.

The night (I sing by night-sometimes an owl,
And now and then a nightingale) is dim;
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl
Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl-
I wish to heaven they would not look so grin ;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate-

I think, too, that I have sate up too late:

XCVIII.

And therefore, though 'tis by no means my way To rhyme at noon-when I have other things To think of, if I ever think-I say

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, And prudently postpone until mid-day Treating a topic which, alas, but brings

*Hamlet, act iii. scene 2.

Shadows;-but you must be in my condition, Before you learn to call this superstition.

XCIX.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge:

i.

How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles: as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

THE antique Persians taught three useful things,
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.*
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings-
A mode adopted since by modern youth.
Bows have they, generally with two strings:
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth:
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever,
But draw the long bow better now than ever.

II.

The cause of this effect, or this defect-

'For this effect defective comes by cause'tIs what I have not leisure to inspect;

But this I must say in my own applause, Of all the Muses that I recollect,

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.

III.

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats
From anything, this epic will contain

A wilderness of the most rare conceits,

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 'Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets, Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.

IV.

But of all truths which she has told, the most
True is that which she is about to tell.

I said it was a story of a ghost

What then? I only know it so befell. Have you explored the limits of the coast,

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. V.

Some people would impose now with authority, Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; Men whose historical superiority

Is always greatest at a miracle.

But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
Who bids all men believe the impossible,
Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he
Quiets at once with 'quia impossibile.'

VI.

And therefore mortals cavil not at all:
Believe:-if 'tis improbable, you must;
And if it is impossible, you shall:

'Tis always best to take things upon trust.

Xenophon, Cyrop.

+ Hamlet, act ii, scene 2,

I do not speak profanely, to recall

Those holier mysteries which the wise and just Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, As all truths must, the more they are disputed: VII.

I merely mean to say what Johnson said,

That, in the course of some six thousand years,
All nations have believed that, from the dead,
A visitant at intervals appears.

And what is strangest upon this strange head,
Is that, whatever bar the reason rears
'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger still
In its behalf, let those deny who will.

VIII.

The dinner and the soirée, too, were done :

The supper, too, discuss'd, the dames admired: The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by oneThe song was silent and the dance expired: The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired; And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon, Than dying tapers-and the peeping moon.

IX.

The evaporation of a joyous day,

Is like the last glass of champagne, without The foam which made its virgin bumper gay; Or like a system coupled with a doubt; Or like a soda bottle, when its spray

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; Or like a billow, left by storms behind, Without the animation of the wind:

X.

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,
Or none; or like-like nothing that I know,
Except itself;-such is the human breast:
A thing, of which similitudes can show
No real likeness,-like the old Tyrian vest
Dyed purple,* none at present can tell how,
If from a shell-fish or from cochineal,
So perish every tyrant's robe, piecemeal!

ΧΙ.

But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
Undressing is a woe: our robe de chambre
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall

[amber. Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than Titus exclaim'd, 'I've lost a day!' Of all

The nights and days most people can remember (I've had of both, some not to be disdain'd),

I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd.

The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whe ther from a shell-fish or from cochineal, or from kermes, is still an article of dispute; and even its colour-some say purple, others scarlet: I say nothing,

Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err):

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told:
The ocean's tides and mortal's brains she sways,
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.
XV.

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed
For contemplation rather than his pillow:
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow,
With all the mystery by midnight caused:

Below his window waved (of course) a willow;
And he stood gazing out on the cascade
That flash'd, and after darken'd in the shade.
XVI.

Upon his table or his toilet-which

Of these is not exactly ascertain'd (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd)A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all That time has left our fathers of their hall.

XVII.

Then, as the night was clear, though cold, he threw His chamber door wide open-and went forth Into a gallery of a sombre hue,

Long furnish'd with old pictures of great worth:, Of knight and dames, heroic and chaste too,

As doubtless should be people of high birth; But, by dim lights, the portraits of the dead Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

XVIII.

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint

Of your own footsteps, voices from the urn Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint Start from the frames which fençe their aspect stern,

As Juan mused on mutability.

Or on his mistress-terms synonymous

No sound except the echo of his sigh,

Or step, ran sadly through that antique house;
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,
A supernatural agent-or a mouse,
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass
Most people, as it plays along the arras.
XXI.

It was no mouse; but lo! a monk, array'd
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd,
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard:
His garments only a slight murmur made:

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly; and as he passed Juan by
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.
XXII.

Juan was petrified: he had heard a hint
Of such a spirit in these halls of old,
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in't
Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold,
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint,

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold,
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper:
And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

XXIII.

Once, twice, thrice, pass'd, repass'd, the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,

Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face: He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted,

To ask the reverend person what he wanted.
XXIV.

The third time, after a still longer pause,

The shadow pass'd away-but where? The hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.

ΧΧV.

He stood-how long he knew not, but it seem'd
An age-expectant, powerless, with his eyes
Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd:
Then by degrees recall'd his energies,