CXIV.

There is a dangerous silence 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,

And then

-God knows what next-I can't

I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.

go on;

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.

"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

I make a resolution every spring

you, no doubt;

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 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 nightwinds 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.