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, 'tis quite a crime,
But not my fault-1 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
Etherial 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 mentioned in the sequel.
Her plan she deemed 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 meantime 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 nought.)
I only say suppose this supposition:
Juan being 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 a
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 good indeed divine..
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 5)
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: 'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky;
think 'twas 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 'twere one whereon magiciaus 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 whereoù 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 'tis very common,
For instance-gentlemen, whose ladies take
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
And break the...Which commandment is't they break!
(I have forgot the number, and think no man
Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous,
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.
A real husband always is suspicious,
But still no less suspects in the wrong place,
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,
By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;
The last indeed's infallibly the case:
And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.
Thus parents also are at times short sighted;
Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover,
The while the wicked world beholds delighted
Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,
Till some confounded escapade has blighted
The plan of twenty years, and all is over;
And then the mother cries, the father swears,
And wonders why the devil he got heirs.
But Inez was so anxious, and so clear
Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here,
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.
It was upon a day, a summer's day;
Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,
And so is spring, about the end of May:
The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,
And stand convicted of more truth than reason, [ry in
That there are months which nature grows more mer-
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.
'Twas on a summer's day-the sixth of June:I like to be particular in dates,
Not only of the age, and year, but moon:
They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Change horses, making history change its tune, Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, Excepting the post-obits of theology.
'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour
Of half-past six-perhaps still nearer seven,
When Julia sat within as pretty a bower
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon - Moore,
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
With all the trophies of triumphant song-
He won them well, and may he wear them long!
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