Which might defy a crotchet critic’s rigour.
Such classic pas—sans flaws—set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified Bolero;1076
XL
Or like a flying Hour before Aurora,
In Guido’s famous fresco1077 (which alone
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a
Remnant were there of the old World’s sole throne):
The “tout ensemble” of his movements wore a
Grace of the soft Ideal, seldom shown,
And ne’er to be described; for to the dolour
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.
XLI
No marvel then he was a favourite;
A full-grown Cupid,1078 very much admired;
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight
The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired.
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved tracasserie,
Began to treat him with some small agacerie.
XLII
She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguished, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand Monde:
I’d rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what’s stated:
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
XLIII
This noble personage began to look
A little black upon this new flirtation;
But such small licences must lovers brook,
Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!
’Twill but precipitate a situation
Extremely disagreeable, but common
To calculators when they count on Woman.
XLIV
The circle smiled, then whispered, and then sneered;
The misses bridled, and the matrons frowned;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they feared;
Some would not deem such women could be found;
Some ne’er believed one half of what they heard;
Some looked perplexed, and others looked profound:
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
XLV
But what is odd, none ever named the Duke,
Who, one might think, was something in the affair:
True, he was absent, and, ’twas rumoured, took
But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare:
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
Which never meets, and therefore can’t fall out.
XLVI
But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of Virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,
Began to think the Duchess’ conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Looked grave and pale to see her friend’s fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.
XLVII
There’s nought in this bad world like sympathy:
’Tis so becoming to the soul and face,
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet Friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were Humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
Consoling us with—“Would you had thought twice!
Ah! if you had but followed my advice!”
XLVIII
O Job! you had two friends: one’s quite enough,
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They’re but bad pilots when the weather’s rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,
As they will do like leaves at the first breeze:
When your affairs come round, one way or t’ other,
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.1079
XLIX
But this is not my maxim: had it been,
Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not—
I would not be a tortoise in his screen
Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not:
’Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen
That which Humanity may bear, or bear not:
’Twill teach discernment to the sensitive,
And not to pour their Ocean in a sieve.
L
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so,”
Uttered by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, ’stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,1080
And solace your slight lapse ’gainst bonos mores,
With a long memorandum of old stories.
LI
The Lady Adeline’s serene severity
Was not confined to feeling for her friend,
Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity,
Unless her habits should begin to mend:
But Juan also shared in her austerity,
But mixed with pity, pure as e’er was penned
His Inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
And (as her junior by six weeks) his Youth.
LII
These forty days’ advantage of her years—
And hers were those which can face calculation,
Boldly referring to the list of Peers
And noble births, nor dread the enumeration—
Gave her a right to have maternal fears
For a young gentleman’s fit education,
Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap,
In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap.
LIII
This may be fixed at somewhere before thirty—
Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
The strictest in chronology and virtue
Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew:
Reset it—shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.
LIV
But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
’Twas rather her Experience made her sage,
For she had seen the World and stood its test,
As I have said in—I forget what page;
My Muse despises reference, as you have guessed
By this time;—but strike six from seven-and-twenty,
And you will find her sum of years in plenty.
LV
At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
She put all coronets into commotion:
At seventeen, too, the World was still enchanted
With the new Venus of their brilliant Ocean:
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
A Hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam,
