Don Juan - english E-Book

Lord Byron

• Herausgeber: lord byron
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Lord Byron - Don Juan is a satiric poem by Lord Byron, based on the legend of Don Juan, which Byron reverses, portraying Juan not as a womaniser but as someone easily seduced by women. It is a variation on the epic form. Byron himself called it an "Epic Satire" (Don Juan, c. xiv, st. 99). Byron completed 16 cantos, leaving an unfinished 17th canto before his death in 1824.

Leseprobe

DON JUAN

By Lord Byron

DEDICATION

Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate, And representative of all the race. Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at Last, yours has lately been a common case. And now my epic renegade, what are ye at With all the lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye, Which pye being opened they began to sing' (This old song and new simile holds good), 'A dainty dish to set before the King' Or Regent, who admires such kind of food. And Coleridge too has lately taken wing, But like a hawk encumbered with his hood, Explaining metaphysics to the nation. I wish he would explain his explanation. You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know, At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below, And be the only blackbird in the dish. And then you overstrain yourself, or so, And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob. And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages) Has given a sample from the vasty version Of his new system to perplex the sages. 'Tis poetry, at least by his assertion, And may appear so when the Dog Star rages, And he who understands it would be able To add a story to the tower of Babel. You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion From better company, have kept your own At Keswick, and through still continued fusion Of one another's minds at last have grown To deem, as a most logical conclusion, That poesy has wreaths for you alone. There is a narrowness in such a notion, Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean. I would not imitate the petty thought, Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought, Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary; was't for that you wrought? And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. You're shabby fellows—true—but poets still And duly seated on the immortal hill. Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows, Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go. To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs, And for the fame you would engross below, The field is universal and allows Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow. Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try 'Gainst you the question with posterity. For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, Contend not with you on the winged' steed, I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, The fame you envy and the skill you need. And recollect a poet nothing loses In giving to his brethren their full meed Of merit, and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise. He that reserves his laurels for posterity (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) Has generally no great crop to spare it, he Being only injured by his own assertion. And although here and there some glorious rarity Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, The major part of such appellants go To—God knows where—for no one else can know. If fallen in evil days on evil tongues, Milton appealed to the avenger, Time, If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime, He deigned not to belie his soul in songs, Nor turn his very talent to a crime. He did not loathe the sire to laud the son, But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, Or be alive again—again all hoar With time and trials, and those helpless eyes And heartless daughters—worn and pale and poor, Would he adore a sultan? He obey The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore, The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want, With just enough of talent and no more, To lengthen fetters by another fixed And offer poison long already mixed. An orator of such set trash of phrase, Ineffably, legitimately vile, That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile. Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion. A bungler even in its disgusting trade, And botching, patching, leaving still behind Something of which its masters are afraid, States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined, Conspiracy or congress to be made, Cobbling at manacles for all mankind, A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. If we may judge of matter by the mind, Emasculated to the marrow, it Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind, Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, Eutropius of its many masters, blind To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice; Its very courage stagnates to a vice. Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, For I will never feel them. Italy, Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee. Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me. Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill. Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate In honest simple verse this song to you. And if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 'Tis that I still retain my buff and blue; My politics as yet are all to educate. Apostasy's so fashionable too, To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?

CANTO THE FIRST

     I want a hero: an uncommon want,        When every year and month sends forth a new one,      Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,        The age discovers he is not the true one;      Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,        I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—      We all have seen him, in the pantomime,      Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.      Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,        Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,      Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,        And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;      Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,        Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow:      France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier      Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.      Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,        Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,      Were French, and famous people, as we know:        And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,      Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,        With many of the military set,      Exceedingly remarkable at times,      But not at all adapted to my rhymes.      Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,        And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;      There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar,        'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;      Because the army 's grown more popular,        At which the naval people are concern'd;      Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,      Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.      Brave men were living before Agamemnon        And since, exceeding valorous and sage,      A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;        But then they shone not on the poet's page,      And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,        But can't find any in the present age      Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);      So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan.      Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res'        (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),      And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,        What went before—by way of episode,      While seated after dinner at his ease,        Beside his mistress in some soft abode,      Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,      Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.      That is the usual method, but not mine—        My way is to begin with the beginning;      The regularity of my design        Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,      And therefore I shall open with a line        (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)      Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,      And also of his mother, if you 'd rather.      In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,        Famous for oranges and women—he      Who has not seen it will be much to pity,        So says the proverb—and I quite agree;      Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,        Cadiz perhaps—but that you soon may see;      Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,      A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.      His father's name was Jose—Don, of course,—        A true Hidalgo, free from every stain      Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source        Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;      A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,        Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,      Than Jose, who begot our hero, who      Begot—but that 's to come—Well, to renew:      His mother was a learned lady, famed        For every branch of every science known      In every Christian language ever named,        With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,      She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,        And even the good with inward envy groan,      Finding themselves so very much exceeded      In their own way by all the things that she did.      Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart        All Calderon and greater part of Lope,      So that if any actor miss'd his part        She could have served him for the prompter's copy;      For her Feinagle's were an useless art,        And he himself obliged to shut up shop—he      Could never make a memory so fine as      That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.      Her favourite science was the mathematical,        Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,      Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,        Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity;      In short, in all things she was fairly what I call        A prodigy—her morning dress was dimity,      Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,      And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.      She knew the Latin—that is, 'the Lord's prayer,'        And Greek—the alphabet—I 'm nearly sure;      She read some French romances here and there,        Although her mode of speaking was not pure;      For native Spanish she had no great care,        At least her conversation was obscure;      Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,      As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.      She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,        And said there was analogy between 'em;      She proved it somehow out of sacred song,        But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em;      But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong        And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em,      ''T is strange—the Hebrew noun which means "I am,"      The English always use to govern d--n.'      Some women use their tongues—she look'd a lecture,        Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,      An all-in-all sufficient self-director,        Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,      The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector,        Whose suicide was almost an anomaly—      One sad example more, that 'All is vanity'      (The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity').      In short, she was a walking calculation,        Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,      Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,        Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers,      Morality's prim personification,        In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers;      To others' share let 'female errors fall,'      For she had not even one—the worst of all.      O! she was perfect past all parallel—        Of any modern female saint's comparison;      So far above the cunning powers of hell,        Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;      Even her minutest motions went as well        As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:      In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,      Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar!      Perfect she was, but as perfection is        Insipid in this naughty world of ours,      Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss        Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,      Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss        (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),      Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve,      Went plucking various fruit without her leave.      He was a mortal of the careless kind,        With no great love for learning, or the learn'd,      Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,        And never dream'd his lady was concern'd;      The world, as usual, wickedly inclined        To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd,      Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two—      But for domestic quarrels one will do.      Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,        A great opinion of her own good qualities;      Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,        And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;      But then she had a devil of a spirit,        And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities,      And let few opportunities escape      Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.      This was an easy matter with a man        Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard;      And even the wisest, do the best they can,        Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,      That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;'        And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,      And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,      And why and wherefore no one understands.      'T is pity learned virgins ever wed        With persons of no sort of education,      Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,        Grow tired of scientific conversation:      I don't choose to say much upon this head,        I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,      But—Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,      Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?      Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd—why,        Not any of the many could divine,      Though several thousand people chose to try,        'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;      I loathe that low vice—curiosity;        But if there 's anything in which I shine,      'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,      Not having of my own domestic cares.      And so I interfered, and with the best        Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;      I think the foolish people were possess'd,        For neither of them could I ever find,      Although their porter afterwards confess'd—        But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind,      For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,      A pail of housemaid's water unawares.      A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,        And mischief-making monkey from his birth;      His parents ne'er agreed except in doting        Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;      Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in        Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth      To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home,      To teach him manners for the time to come.      Don Jose and the Donna Inez led        For some time an unhappy sort of life,      Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;        They lived respectably as man and wife,      Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,        And gave no outward signs of inward strife,      Until at length the smother'd fire broke out,      And put the business past all kind of doubt.      For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians,        And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;      But as he had some lucid intermissions,        She next decided he was only bad;      Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions,        No sort of explanation could be had,      Save that her duty both to man and God      Required this conduct—which seem'd very odd.      She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,        And open'd certain trunks of books and letters,      All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;        And then she had all Seville for abettors,      Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);        The hearers of her case became repeaters,      Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,      Some for amusement, others for old grudges.      And then this best and weakest woman bore        With such serenity her husband's woes,      Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,        Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose      Never to say a word about them more—        Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,      And saw his agonies with such sublimity,      That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!'      No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,        Is philosophic in our former friends;      'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,        The more so in obtaining our own ends;      And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus'        Conduct like this by no means comprehends;      Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue,      But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.      And if your quarrels should rip up old stories,        And help them with a lie or two additional,      I 'm not to blame, as you well know—no more is        Any one else—they were become traditional;      Besides, their resurrection aids our glories        By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:      And science profits by this resurrection—      Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.      Their friends had tried at reconciliation,        Then their relations, who made matters worse.      ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion        To whom it may be best to have recourse—      I can't say much for friend or yet relation):        The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,      But scarce a fee was paid on either side      Before, unluckily, Don Jose died.      He died: and most unluckily, because,        According to all hints I could collect      From counsel learned in those kinds of laws        (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect),      His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;        A thousand pities also with respect      To public feeling, which on this occasion      Was manifested in a great sensation.      But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay        The public feeling and the lawyers' fees:      His house was sold, his servants sent away,        A Jew took one of his two mistresses,      A priest the other—at least so they say:        I ask'd the doctors after his disease—      He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian,      And left his widow to her own aversion.      Yet Jose was an honourable man,        That I must say who knew him very well;      Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan        Indeed there were not many more to tell;      And if his passions now and then outran        Discretion, and were not so peaceable      As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),      He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.      Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,        Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.      Let 's own—since it can do no good on earth—        It was a trying moment that which found him      Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,        Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him:      No choice was left his feelings or his pride,      Save death or Doctors' Commons—so he died.      Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir        To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,      Which, with a long minority and care,        Promised to turn out well in proper hands:      Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,        And answer'd but to nature's just demands;      An only son left with an only mother      Is brought up much more wisely than another.      Sagest of women, even of widows, she        Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,      And worthy of the noblest pedigree        (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon):      Then for accomplishments of chivalry,        In case our lord the king should go to war again,      He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,      And how to scale a fortress—or a nunnery.      But that which Donna Inez most desired,        And saw into herself each day before all      The learned tutors whom for him she hired,        Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral;      Much into all his studies she inquired,        And so they were submitted first to her, all,      Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery      To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.      The languages, especially the dead,        The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,      The arts, at least all such as could be said        To be the most remote from common use,      In all these he was much and deeply read;        But not a page of any thing that 's loose,      Or hints continuation of the species,      Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious.      His classic studies made a little puzzle,        Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,      Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,        But never put on pantaloons or bodices;      His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,        And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,      Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology,      For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.      Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him,        Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,      Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,        I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,      Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn        Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:      But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one      Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'      Lucretius' irreligion is too strong,        For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;      I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,        Although no doubt his real intent was good,      For speaking out so plainly in his song,        So much indeed as to be downright rude;      And then what proper person can be partial      To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?      Juan was taught from out the best edition,        Expurgated by learned men, who place      Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,        The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface      Too much their modest bard by this omission,        And pitying sore his mutilated case,      They only add them all in an appendix,      Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;      For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,'        Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages;      They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop,        To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,      Till some less rigid editor shall stoop        To call them back into their separate cages,      Instead of standing staring all together,      Like garden gods—and not so decent either.      The Missal too (it was the family Missal)        Was ornamented in a sort of way      Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all        Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,      Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,        Could turn their optics to the text and pray,      Is more than I know—But Don Juan's mother      Kept this herself, and gave her son another.      Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,        And homilies, and lives of all the saints;      To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,        He did not take such studies for restraints;      But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,        So well not one of the aforesaid paints      As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,      Which make the reader envy his transgressions.      This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan—        I can't but say that his mamma was right,      If such an education was the true one.        She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;      Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,        You might be sure she was a perfect fright;      She did this during even her husband's life—      I recommend as much to every wife.      Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace;        At six a charming child, and at eleven      With all the promise of as fine a face        As e'er to man's maturer growth was given:      He studied steadily, and grew apace,        And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven,      For half his days were pass'd at church, the other      Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.      At six, I said, he was a charming child,        At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;      Although in infancy a little wild,        They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy      His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd,        At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy      Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,      Her young philosopher was grown already.      I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,        But what I say is neither here nor there:      I knew his father well, and have some skill        In character—but it would not be fair      From sire to son to augur good or ill:        He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair—      But scandal 's my aversion—I protest      Against all evil speaking, even in jest.      For my part I say nothing—nothing—but        This I will say—my reasons are my own—      That if I had an only son to put        To school (as God be praised that I have none),      'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut        Him up to learn his catechism alone,      No—no—I 'd send him out betimes to college,      For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.      For there one learns—'t is not for me to boast,        Though I acquired—but I pass over that,      As well as all the Greek I since have lost:        I say that there 's the place—but 'Verbum sat.'      I think I pick'd up too, as well as most,        Knowledge of matters—but no matter what—      I never married—but, I think, I know      That sons should not be educated so.      Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,        Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd      Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;        And everybody but his mother deem'd      Him almost man; but she flew in a rage        And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)      If any said so, for to be precocious      Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.      Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all        Selected for discretion and devotion,      There was the Donna Julia, whom to call        Pretty were but to give a feeble notion      Of many charms in her as natural        As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,      Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid      (But this last simile is trite and stupid).      The darkness of her Oriental eye        Accorded with her Moorish origin      (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;        In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);      When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,        Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin      Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,      Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.      She married (I forget the pedigree)        With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down      His blood less noble than such blood should be;        At such alliances his sires would frown,      In that point so precise in each degree        That they bred in and in, as might be shown,      Marrying their cousins—nay, their aunts, and nieces,      Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.      This heathenish cross restored the breed again,        Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;      For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain        Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;      The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:        But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,      'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma      Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.      However this might be, the race went on        Improving still through every generation,      Until it centred in an only son,        Who left an only daughter; my narration      May have suggested that this single one        Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion      I shall have much to speak about), and she      Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.      Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes)        Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire      Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise        Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,      And love than either; and there would arise        A something in them which was not desire,      But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul      Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.      Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow        Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;      Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,        Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,      Mounting at times to a transparent glow,        As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,      Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:      Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.      Wedded she was some years, and to a man        Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;      And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE        'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,      Especially in countries near the sun:        And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,'      Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue      Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.      'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,        And all the fault of that indecent sun,      Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,        But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,      That howsoever people fast and pray,        The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:      What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,      Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.      Happy the nations of the moral North!        Where all is virtue, and the winter season      Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth        ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);      Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,        By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on      The lover, who must pay a handsome price,      Because it is a marketable vice.      Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,        A man well looking for his years, and who      Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:        They lived together, as most people do,      Suffering each other's foibles by accord,        And not exactly either one or two;      Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,      For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.      Julia was—yet I never could see why—        With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;      Between their tastes there was small sympathy,        For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:      Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,        For malice still imputes some private end,      That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,      Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;      And that still keeping up the old connection,        Which time had lately render'd much more chaste,      She took his lady also in affection,        And certainly this course was much the best:      She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection,        And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;      And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,      At least she left it a more slender handle.      I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair        With other people's eyes, or if her own      Discoveries made, but none could be aware        Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;      Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,        Indifferent from the first or callous grown:      I 'm really puzzled what to think or say,      She kept her counsel in so close a way.      Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,        Caress'd him often—such a thing might be      Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,        When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;      But I am not so sure I should have smiled        When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;      These few short years make wondrous alterations,      Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.      Whate'er the cause might be, they had become        Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,      Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,        And much embarrassment in either eye;      There surely will be little doubt with some        That Donna Julia knew the reason why,      But as for Juan, he had no more notion      Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.      Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,        And tremulously gentle her small hand      Withdrew itself from his, but left behind        A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland      And slight, so very slight, that to the mind        'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand      Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art      Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.      And if she met him, though she smiled no more,        She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,      As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store        She must not own, but cherish'd more the while      For that compression in its burning core;        Even innocence itself has many a wile,      And will not dare to trust itself with truth,      And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.      But passion most dissembles, yet betrays        Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky      Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays        Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,      And in whatever aspect it arrays        Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;      Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,      Are masks it often wears, and still too late.      Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,        And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,      And burning blushes, though for no transgression,        Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;      All these are little preludes to possession,        Of which young passion cannot be bereft,      And merely tend to show how greatly love is      Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.      Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;        She felt it going, and resolved to make      The noblest efforts for herself and mate,        For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake;      Her resolutions were most truly great,        And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:      She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace,      As being the best judge of a lady's case.      She vow'd she never would see Juan more,        And next day paid a visit to his mother,      And look'd extremely at the opening door,        Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another;      Grateful she was, and yet a little sore—        Again it opens, it can be no other,      'T is surely Juan now—No! I 'm afraid      That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.      She now determined that a virtuous woman        Should rather face and overcome temptation,      That flight was base and dastardly, and no man        Should ever give her heart the least sensation;      That is to say, a thought beyond the common        Preference, that we must feel upon occasion      For people who are pleasanter than others,      But then they only seem so many brothers.      And even if by chance—and who can tell?        The devil 's so very sly—she should discover      That all within was not so very well,        And, if still free, that such or such a lover      Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell        Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over;      And if the man should ask, 't is but denial:      I recommend young ladies to make trial.      And then there are such things as love divine,        Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure,      Such as the angels think so very fine,        And matrons who would be no less secure,      Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;'        Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure;      And so I 'd have her think, were I the man      On whom her reveries celestial ran.      Such love is innocent, and may exist        Between young persons without any danger.      A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;        For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger,      But hear these freedoms form the utmost list        Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:      If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,      But not my fault—I tell them all in time.      Love, then, but love within its proper limits,        Was Julia's innocent determination      In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its        Exertion might be useful on occasion;      And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its        Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion      He might be taught, by love and her together—      I really don't know what, nor Julia either.      Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced        In mail of proof—her purity of soul—      She, for the future of her strength convinced.        And that her honour was a rock, or mole,      Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed        With any kind of troublesome control;      But whether Julia to the task was equal      Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel.      Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,        And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen      Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable,        Or if they did so, satisfied to mean      Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable—        A quiet conscience makes one so serene!      Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded      That all the Apostles would have done as they did.      And if in the mean time her husband died,        But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross      Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd)        Never could she survive that common loss;      But just suppose that moment should betide,        I only say suppose it—inter nos.      (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought      In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.)      I only say suppose this supposition:        Juan being then grown up to man's estate      Would fully suit a widow of condition,        Even seven years hence it would not be too late;      And in the interim (to pursue this vision)        The mischief, after all, could not be great,      For he would learn the rudiments of love,      I mean the seraph way of those above.      So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan.        Poor little fellow! he had no idea      Of his own case, and never hit the true one;        In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,      He puzzled over what he found a new one,        But not as yet imagined it could be      Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,      Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.      Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,        His home deserted for the lonely wood,      Tormented with a wound he could not know,        His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:      I 'm fond myself of solitude or so,        But then, I beg it may be understood,      By solitude I mean a sultan's, not      A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.      'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,        Where transport and security entwine,      Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,        And here thou art a god indeed divine.'      The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,        With the exception of the second line,      For that same twining 'transport and security'      Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.      The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals        To the good sense and senses of mankind,      The very thing which every body feels,        As all have found on trial, or may find,      That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals        Or love.—I won't say more about 'entwined'      Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before,      But beg 'Security' will bolt the door.      Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks,        Thinking unutterable things; he threw      Himself at length within the leafy nooks        Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;      There poets find materials for their books,        And every now and then we read them through,      So that their plan and prosody are eligible,      Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.      He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued        His self-communion with his own high soul,      Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,        Had mitigated part, though not the whole      Of its disease; he did the best he could        With things not very subject to control,      And turn'd, without perceiving his condition,      Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.      He thought about himself, and the whole earth        Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,      And how the deuce they ever could have birth;        And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,      How many miles the moon might have in girth,        Of air-balloons, and of the many bars      To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;—      And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.      In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern        Longings sublime, and aspirations high,      Which some are born with, but the most part learn        To plague themselves withal, they know not why:      'T was strange that one so young should thus concern        His brain about the action of the sky;      If you think 't was philosophy that this did,      I can't help thinking puberty assisted.      He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,        And heard a voice in all the winds; and then      He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,        And how the goddesses came down to men:      He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,        And when he look'd upon his watch again,      He found how much old Time had been a winner—      He also found that he had lost his dinner.      Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,        Boscan, or Garcilasso;—by the wind      Even as the page is rustled while we look,        So by the poesy of his own mind      Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,        As if 't were one whereon magicians bind      Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,      According to some good old woman's tale.      Thus would he while his lonely hours away        Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;      Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,        Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,      A bosom whereon he his head might lay,        And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,      With—several other things, which I forget,      Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.      Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,        Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;      She saw that Juan was not at his ease;        But that which chiefly may, and must surprise,      Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease        Her only son with question or surmise:      Whether it was she did not see, or would not,      Or, like all very clever people, could not.      This may seem strange, but yet 't is 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 break?      (I have forgot the number, and think no man

     And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,      Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.      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, 't is true,      But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,      A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.      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;      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 seem'd by the distraction of her air.      'T was 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.      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.      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 't is new:      She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,      And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.      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.      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.      And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced        And half retiring from the glowing arm,      Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;        Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,      Or else 't were 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.      O 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 controulless 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.      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.      'T is 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.      O Pleasure! you are 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.      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 licence,      Which some irregularity may make        In the design, and as I have a high sense      Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit      To beg his pardon when I err a bit.      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      'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure      About the day—the era 's more obscure.      We 'll talk of that anon.—'T is 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;      'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;        'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep      From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high      The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.      'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark        Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;      'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark        Our coming, and look brighter when we come;      'T is 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.      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.      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.      'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,        By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end      To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,        Particularly with a tiresome friend:      Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;        Dear is the helpless creature we defend      Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot      We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.      But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,        Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,      Like Adam's recollection of his fall;        The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd—all 's known—      And life yields nothing further to recall        Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,      No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven      Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.      Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use        Of his own nature, and the various arts,      And likes particularly to produce        Some new experiment to show his parts;      This is the age of oddities let loose,        Where different talents find their different marts;      You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost your      Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture.      What opposite discoveries we have seen!        (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)      One makes new noses, one a guillotine,        One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets;      But vaccination certainly has been        A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,      With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,      By borrowing a new one from an ox.      Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;        And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,      But has not answer'd like the apparatus        Of the Humane Society's beginning      By which men are unsuffocated gratis:        What wondrous new machines have late been spinning!      I said the small-pox has gone out of late;      Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great.      'T is said the great came from America;        Perhaps it may set out on its return,—      The population there so spreads, they say        'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn,      With war, or plague, or famine, any way,        So that civilisation they may learn;      And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is—      Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?      This is the patent-age of new inventions        For killing bodies, and for saving souls,      All propagated with the best intentions;        Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals      Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,        Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,      Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,      Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.      Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what,        And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;      'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that        Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure;      Few mortals know what end they would be at,        But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure,      The path is through perplexing ways, and when      The goal is gain'd, we die, you know—and then—      What then?—I do not know, no more do you—        And so good night.—Return we to our story:      'T was in November, when fine days are few,        And the far mountains wax a little hoary,      And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;        And the sea dashes round the promontory,      And the loud breaker boils against the rock,      And sober suns must set at five o'clock.      'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;        No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud      By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright        With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;      There 's something cheerful in that sort of light,        Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud:      I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,      A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.      'T was midnight—Donna Julia was in bed,        Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door      Arose a clatter might awake the dead,        If they had never been awoke before,      And that they have been so we all have read,        And are to be so, at the least, once more.--      The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist      First knocks were heard, then 'Madam—Madam—hist!      'For God's sake, Madam—Madam—here 's my master,        With more than half the city at his back—      Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!        'T is not my fault—I kept good watch—Alack!      Do pray undo the bolt a little faster—        They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack      Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly—      Surely the window 's not so very high!'      By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,        With torches, friends, and servants in great number;      The major part of them had long been wived,        And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber      Of any wicked woman, who contrived        By stealth her husband's temples to encumber:      Examples of this kind are so contagious,      Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous.      I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion        Could enter into Don Alfonso's head;      But for a cavalier of his condition        It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,      Without a word of previous admonition,        To hold a levee round his lady's bed,      And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword,      To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd.      Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep        (Mind—that I do not say—she had not slept),      Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;        Her maid Antonia, who was an adept,      Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,        As if she had just now from out them crept:      I can't tell why she should take all this trouble      To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.      But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,        Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who      Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,        Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two,      And therefore side by side were gently laid,        Until the hours of absence should run through,      And truant husband should return, and say,      'My dear, I was the first who came away.'      Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,        'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean?      Has madness seized you? would that I had died        Ere such a monster's victim I had been!      What may this midnight violence betide,        A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?      Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?      Search, then, the room!'—Alfonso said, 'I will.'      He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere,        Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat,      And found much linen, lace, and several pair        Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,      With other articles of ladies fair,        To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat:      Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords,      And wounded several shutters, and some boards.      Under the bed they search'd, and there they found—        No matter what—it was not that they sought;      They open'd windows, gazing if the ground        Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;      And then they stared each other's faces round:        'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought,      And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,      Of looking in the bed as well as under.      During this inquisition, Julia's tongue        Was not asleep—'Yes, search and search,' she cried,      'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!