With all the added charm of form and feature—
For me appears a question far too nice,
Since Adeline was liberal by nature;
But Nature’s Nature, and has more caprices
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.
LIII
Perhaps she did not like the quiet way
With which Aurora on those baubles looked,
Which charm most people in their earlier day:
For there are few things by Mankind less brooked,
And Womankind too, if we so may say,
Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked,
Like “Antony’s by Caesar,”1137 by the few
Who look upon them as they ought to do.
LIV
It was not envy—Adeline had none;
Her place was far beyond it, and her mind:
It was not scorn—which could not light on one
Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find:
It was not jealousy, I think—but shun
Following the ignes fatui of Mankind:
It was not—but ’tis easier far, alas!
To say what it was not than what it was.
LV
Little Aurora deemed she was the theme
Of such discussion. She was there a guest;
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream
Of Rank and Youth, though purer than the rest,
Which flowed on for a moment in the beam
Time sheds a moment o’er each sparkling crest.
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled—
She had so much, or little, of the child.
LVI
The dashing and proud air of Adeline
Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine,
Then turned unto the stars for loftier rays.
Juan was something she could not divine,
Being no Sibyl in the new world’s ways;
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,
Because she did not pin her faith on feature.
LVII
His fame too—for he had that kind of fame
Which sometimes plays the deuce with Womankind,
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,
Half virtues and whole vices being combined;
Faults which attract because they are not tame;
Follies tricked out so brightly that they blind:—
These seals upon her wax made no impression,
Such was her coldness or her self-possession.
LVIII
Juan knew nought of such a character—
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidée;
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea,
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere,
Was Nature’s all: Aurora could not be,
Nor would be thus:—the difference in them
Was such as lies between a flower and gem.
LIX
Having wound up with this sublime comparison,
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative,
And, as my friend Scott says, “I sound my warison;”1138
Scott, the superlative of my comparative—
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen,
Serf—Lord—Man, with such skill as none would share it, if
There had not been one Shakespeare and Voltaire,
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.1139
LX
I say, in my slight way I may proceed
To play upon the surface of Humanity.
I write the World, nor care if the World read,
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed
More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I
Thought that it might turn out so—now I know it,1140
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.
LXI
The conference or congress (for it ended
As Congresses of late do) of the Lady
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended
Some acids with the sweets—for she was heady;
But, ere the matter could be marred or mended,
The silvery bell rang, not for “dinner ready,”
But for that hour, called half-hour, given to dress,
Though ladies’ robes seem scant enough for less.
LXII
Great things were now to be achieved at table,
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks
For weapons; but what Muse since Homer’s able
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works)
To draw up in array a single day-bill
Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks,
In soups or sauces, or a sole ragoût,
Than witches, b‑ches, or physicians, brew.
LXIII
There was a goodly “soupe à la bonne femme”1141
Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too,
A turbot for relief of those who cram,
Relieved with “dindon à la Périgeux;”
There also was—the sinner that I am!
How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?—
“Soupe à la Beauveau,” whose relief was dory,
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.
LXIV
But I must crowd all into one grand mess
Or mass; for should I stretch into detail,
My Muse would run much more into excess,
Than when some squeamish people deem her frail;
But though a bonne vivante, I must confess
Her stomach’s not her peccant part; this tale
However doth require some slight refection,
Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.
LXV
Fowls “à la Condé,” slices eke of salmon,
With “sauces Génevoises,” and haunch of venison;
Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon—1142
A man like whom I hope we shan’t see many soon;
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on,
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison;
And then there was champagne with foaming whirls,
As white as Cleopatra’s melted pearls.
LXVI
Then there was God knows what “à l’Allemande,”
“À l’Espagnole,” “timballe,” and “salpicon”—
With things I can’t withstand or understand,
Though swallowed with much zest upon the whole;
And “entremets” to piddle with at hand,
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul;
While great Lucullus’ Robe triumphal muffles—
(There’s fame)—young partridge fillets, decked with truffles.1143
LXVII
What are the fillets on the Victor’s brow
To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch
Which nodded to the nation’s spoils below?
Where the triumphal chariots’ haughty march?
Gone to where Victories must like dinners go.
Farther I shall not follow the research:
But oh! ye modern Heroes with your cartridges,
When will your names lend lustre e’en to
