LX.

With the kind view of saving an eclât,
Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw
That Juan was unlikely to resist-
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas
In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is)-
LXI.

The Lady Adeline resolved to take

Such measures as she thought might best impede The further progress of this sad mistake.

She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold even at the stake,

And simple in the world, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.
LXII.

It was not that she fear'd the very worst:
His grace was an enduring, married man,
And was not likely all at once to burst

Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan
Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded first
The magic of her grace's talisman,
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret)
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

LXIII.

Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante,
And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And-what is worst of all-won't let you go:
LXIV.

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
"T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a "bonne fortune" be really "bonne."
LXV.

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart,
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
She call'd her husband now and then apart,

And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile,
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art

To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile; And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it. LXVI.

Firstly, he said, "he never interfered

In any body's business but the king's:" Next, that "he never judged from what appear'd, Without strong reason, of those sorts of things:" Thirdly, that "Juan had more brain than beard, And was not to be held in leading-strings;" And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, That good but rarely came from good advice."

LXVII.

And, therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse
To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth,
At least as far as bienséance allows:
That time would temper Juan's faults of youth;
That young men rarely made monastic vows,
That opposition only more attarbes-
But here a messenger brought in despatches:
LXVIII.

And being of the council call'd "the privy,"
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet,
To furnish matter for some future Livy

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt;
And if their full contents I do not give ye,
It is because I do not know them yet:
But I shall add them in a brief appendix,
To come between mine epic and its index.
LXIX.

But ere he went, he added a slight hint,
Another gentle commonplace or two,
Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint,

And pass, for want of better, though not new: Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, And having casually glanced it through, Retired; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister. LXX.

He was a cold, good, honourable man,

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing, A goodly spirit for a state divan,

A figure fit to walk before a king;
Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van

On birth-days, glorious with a star and strin¡,
The very model of a chamberlain-
And such I mean to make him when I reign.

LXXI.

But there was something wanting on the whole-I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell-Which pretty women-the sweet souls!-call sou.. Certes it was not body, he was well Proportion'd, as a poplat or a pole,

A handsome man, that human miracle; And in each circumstance of love or war, Had still preserved his perpendicular.

LXXII.

Still there was something wanting, as I've said-
That undefinable "je ne sais quoi,"
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led
To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed;
Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy
Was much inferior to King Menelaus ;-
But thus it is some women will betray us.
LXXIII.

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes,
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved

By turns the difference of the several sexes:
Neither can show quite how they would be lovea.
The sensual for a short time but connects us-
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved;
But both together form a kind of centaur,
Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.

LXXIV.

A something all-sufficient for the heart

Is that for which the sex are always seeking; But how to fill up that same vacant part

There lies the rub-and this they are but weak in. Frail mariners afloat without a chart,

They run before the wind through high seas breaking; And when they have made the shore, through every shock, 'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.

LXXV.

There is a flower call'd "love in idleness,"

For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming garden;I will not make his great description less,

And beg his British godship's humble pardon, If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress,

I touch a single leaf where he is warden;
But though the flower is different, with the French
Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, "voilà la pervenche!"
LXXVI.

Eureka! I have found it! What I mean
To say is, not that love is idleness,
But that in love such idleness has been
An accessory, as I have cause to guess.
Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between;

Your men of business are not apt to express Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.

Is much more to the purpose of his song;
Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,
Unless good company he kept too long;
But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station,
Thrice happy they who have an occupation!
LXXVIII.

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing;
Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves-
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,
As far as I know, that the church receives:
And since that time, it need not cost much showing,
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves,
And still more women, spring from not employing
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.
LXXIX.

And hence nigh life is oft a dreary void,

A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy'd.

Bards may sing what they please about content; Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd;

And hence arise the woes of sentiment,
Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances
Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.
LXXX.

I do declare, upon an affidavit,

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen; Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,

Would some believe that such a tale had been: But such intent I never had, nor have it;

Some truths are better kept behind a screen,
Especially when they would lock ke hes;
I therefore dea! in generalities.

LXXXI.

"An oyster may be cross'd in love,”—and why?
Because he mopeth idly in his shell,
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
Much as a monk may do within his cell:
And à propos of monks, their piety
With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.
LXXXIII.

Oh, Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,
Whose merit none enough can sing or say,
Thou hast struck one immense colossus down,
Thou moral Washington of Africa!
But there's another little thing, I own,

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day,
And set the other half of earth to rights:
You have freed the blacks-now pray shut up the whites.
LXXXIII.

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander;

Ship off the holy three to Senegal;

Teach them that "sauce for goose is sauce for gander,"
And ask them how they like to be in thrall.
Shut up each high heroic salamander,

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay's but small):
Shut up-no, not the king, but the pavilion,
Or else 't will cost us all another million.

LXXXIV.

Shut up the world at large; let Bedlam out,
And you will be perhaps surprised to find
All things pursue exactly the same route,

As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
This I could prove beyond a single doubt,

Were there a jot of sense among mankind; But till that point d'appui is found, alas! Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. LXXXV.

Our gentle Adeline had one defect

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; Her conduct had been perfectly correct,

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd,

Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a staunch one;
But when the latter works its own undoing,
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.
LXXXVI.

She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil.
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove,
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil:
Their union was a model to behold,
Serene and noble,-conjugal but cold.

LXXXVII.

There was no great disparity of years,

Though much in temper; but they never clash'd: They moved like stars united in their spheres, Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd. Where mingled and yet separate appears

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

LXXXVIII. Now, when she once had ta'en an interest In any thing, however she might flatter Herself that her intentions were the best, Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, And gather'd as they run, like growing water, Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast Was not at first too readily impress'd.

LXXXIX.

But when it was, she had that lurking demon
Of double nature, and thus doubly named-
Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen,
That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed
As obstinacy, both in men and women,

Whene'er their triumph nales, or star is tamed:-
And 'twill perplex the casuists in morality,
To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality.
XC.

Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo,

It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity:
Must the event decide between the two?

I leave it to your people of sagacity
To draw the line between the false and true,
If such can c'er be drawn by man's capacity:
My business is with Lady Adeline,
Who in her way too was a heroine.

XCI.

She knew not her own heart; then how should I?
I think not she was then in love with Juan:
If so, she would have had the strength to fly
The wild sensation, unto her a new one:
She merely felt a common sympathy

(I will not say it was a false or true one)
In him, because she thought he was in danger-
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger.
XCII.

She was, or thought she was, his friend-and this
Without the farce of friendship, or romance
Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss

Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, Or Germany, where people purely kiss.

To thus much Adeline would not advance; But of such friendship as man's may to man be, She was as capable as woman can be.

XCIII.

No doubt the secret influence of the sex
Will there, as also in the ties of blood,
An innocent predominance annex,

And tune the concord to a finer mood.
If free from passion, which all friendship checks,
And your true feelings fully understood,
No friend like to a woman earth discovers,
So that you have not been nor will be lovers.
XCIV.

Love bears within its breast the very germ
Of change; and how should this be otherwise?
That violent things more quickly find a term
Is shown through Nature's whole analogies:
And how should the most fierce of all be firm?
Would you have endless lightning in the skies?
Methinks love's very title says enough:
How should "the tender passion" e'er be tough?

XCV.

Alas! by all experience, seldom yet

(I merely quote what I have heard from many) Had lovers not some reason to regret

The passion which made Solomon a Zany. I've also seen some wives (not to forget

The marriage state, the best or worst of any)
Who were the very paragons of wives,
Yet made the misery of at least two lives.
XCVI.

I've also seen some female friends ('tis odd,
But true-as, if expedient, I could prove)
That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad,
At home, far more than ever yet was love-
Who did not quit me when oppression trod
Upon me; whom no scandal could remove;
Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battles,
Despite the snake society's loud rattles.

XCVII.

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline
Grew friends in this or any other sense,
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine:

At present I am glad of a pretence
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine,
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense;
The surest way for ladies and for books
To bait their tender or their tenter hooks.

XCVIII.

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, To read Don Quixote in the original,

A pleasure before which all others vanish; Whether their talk was of the kind call'd "small,' Or serious, are the topics I must banish

To the next canto; where, perhaps, I shall
Say something to the purpose, and display
Considerable talent in my way.

XCIX.
Above all, I beg all men to forbear

Anticipating aught about the matter:
They 'il only make mistakes about the fair,
And Juan, too, especially the latter.
And I shall take a much more serious air
Than I have yet done in this epic satire.
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan
Will fall; but if they do, 't will be their ruin.

C.

But great things spring from little-would you think,
That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion
As c'er brought man and woman to the brink
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion
As few would ever dream could form the link
Of such a sentimental situation?
You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, milliards-
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards.
CI.

'Tis strange-but true; for truth is always strange
Stranger than fiction: if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
How oft would vice and virtue places change.

The new world would be nothing to the old
If some Columbus of the moral seas
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes

CII.

What "antres vast and deserts idle" then
Would be discover'd in the human soul!
What ice-bergs in the hearts of mighty men,
With self-love in the centre as their pole!
What Anthropophagi are nine of ten

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control! Were things but only call'd by their right name, Cæsar himself would be ashamed of fame.

CANTO XV.

I.

AH! what should follow slips from my reflection: Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be

As à propos of hope or retrospection,

As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. All present life is but an interjection,

An "Oh!" or "Ah!" of joy or misery, Or a "Ha! ha!" or "Bah!"-a yawn, or "Pooh!" Of which perhaps the latter is most true.

II.

But, more or less, the whole 's a synocopé,
Or a singultus-emblems of emotion,
The grand antithesis to great ennui,

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, That watery outline of eternity,

Or miniature at least, as is my notion, Which ministers unto the soul's delight, In seeing matters which are out of sight.

III.

But all are better than the sigh supprest, Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a mask of rest, And turning human nature to an art.

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty!
She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey.
What though she now and then may slip from duty,
The more's the reason why you ought to stay.
Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty
You should be civil in a modest way:
Suppress then some slight feminine diseases,
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases.
X.

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous

Where she was interested (as was said), Because she was not apt, like some of us,

To like too readily, or too high bred

Would give up artlessly both heart and head Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, For objects worthy of the sentiment.

XI.

Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour,

That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, She had heard; but women hear with more good humour Such aberrations than we men of rigour. Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; Because he had, like Alcibiades,

The art of living in all climes with ease.

XII.
His manner was perhaps the more seductive,
Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce;
Notning affected, studied, or constructive
Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective,
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose,
And seem to say, "resist us if
Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man.

you can

XIII. They are wrong-that's not the way to set about it; As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it; In fact, his manner was his own alone: Sincere he was-at least you could not doubt it, In listening merely to his voice's tone. The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

XIV.

By nature soft, his whole address held off
Suspicion though not timid, his regard
Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof,

To shield himself, than put you on your guard: Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough,

But modesty's at times its own reward,
Like virtue; and the absence of pretension
Will go much further than there's need to mention.
XV.

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud;
Insinuating without insinuation;
Observant of the foibles of the crowd,

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation;
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,
So as to make them feel he knew his station
And theirs;-without a struggle for priority,
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority.

XVI.

That is, with men with women, he was what
They pleased to make or take him for; and their
Imagination's quite enough for that:

So that the outline's tolerably fair,
They fill the canvas up-and "verbum sat,"

If once their phantasies be brought to bear
Upon an object, whether sad or playful,
They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.
XVII.

Adeline, no deep judge of character,

Was apt to add a colouring from her own. 'Tis thus the good will amiably err,

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher,

But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools.

XVIII.

Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon?
Great Socrates? And thou, diviner still,'
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,
And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,

How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill
Volumes with similar sad illustrations,

But leave them to the conscience of the nations.
XIX.

I perch upon an humbler promontory,
Amidst life's infinite variety:

With no great care for what is nicknamed glory,
But speculating as I cast mine eye
On what may suit or may not suit my story,
And never straining hard to versify

I rattle on exactly as I'd talk

With any body in a ride or walk.

XX.

I don't know that there may be much ability
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ;
But there's a conversational facility,

Which may round off an hour upon a time.
Of this I'm sure at least, there's no servility
In mine irregularity of chime,
Which rings what's uppermost of new or hoary,
Just as I feel the "improvvisatore."

XXI.

"Omnia vult belle Matho dicere-dic aliquando Et bene, die neutrum, dic aliquando male." The first is rather more than mortal can do ;

The second may be sadly done or gaily; The third is still more difficult to stand to;

The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily: The whole together is what I could wish To serve in this conundrum of a dish.

XXII.

A modest hope-but modesty's my forte,
And pride my foible:-let us ramble on.
I meant to make this poem very short,

But now I can't tell where it may not run.
No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court
To critics, or to hail the setting sun
Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision
Were more;-but I was born for opposition.
XXIII.

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side:
So that I verily believe if they

Who now are basking in their full-blown pride,
Were shaken down, and "dogs had had their day,"
Though at the first I might by chance deride

Their tumble, I should turn the other way,
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty,
Because I hate even democratic royalty.

XXIV.

I think I should have made a decent spouse,
If I had never proved the soft condition;

I think I should have made monastic vows,
But for my own peculiar superstition:
'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows.
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,
Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet,

If some one had not told me to forego it.

XXV.

But "laissez aller "-knights and dames I sing,
Such as the times may furnish. "Tis a flight
Which seems at first to need no lofty wing,
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite:
The difficulty lies in colouring

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight)
With nature manners which are artificial,
And rendering general that which is especial.
XXVI.

The difference is, that in the days of old

Men made the manners; manners now make men--
Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold,
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten.
Now this at all events must render cold

Your writers, who must either draw again
Days better drawn before, or else assume
The present, with their commonplace costume.