This day; and watching, witching, condescending
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game,
And dignity with courtesy so blending,
As all must blend whose part it is to aim
(Especially as the sixth year is ending)
At their lord’s, son’s, or similar connection’s
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.
XCVI
Though this was most expedient on the whole
And usual—Juan, when he cast a glance
On Adeline while playing her grand role,
Which she went through as though it were a dance,
Betraying only now and then her soul
By a look scarce perceptibly askance
(Of weariness or scorn), began to feel
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real;
XCVII
So well she acted all and every part
By turns—with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err—’tis merely what is called mobility,1199
A thing of temperament and not of art,
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility;
And false—though true; for, surely, they’re sincerest
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.
XCVIII
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,
Heroes sometimes, though seldom—sages never:
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,
Little that’s great, but much of what is clever;
Most orators, but very few financiers,
Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour,
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker’s rigours,1200
And grow quite figurative with their figures.
XCIX
The poets of Arithmetic are they
Who, though they prove not two and two to be
Five, as they might do in a modest way,
Have plainly made it out that four are three,
Judging by what they take, and what they pay:
The Sinking Fund’s unfathomable sea,
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.
C
While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,
The fair Fitz-Fulke seemed very much at ease;
Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces,
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize
The ridicules of people in all places—
That honey of your fashionable bees—
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment;
And this at present was her kind employment.
CI
However, the day closed, as days must close;
The evening also waned—and coffee came.
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose,
And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
Retired: with most unfashionable bows
Their docile Esquires also did the same,
Delighted with their dinner and their Host,
But with the Lady Adeline the most.
CII
Some praised her beauty: others her great grace;
The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity
Was obvious in each feature of her face,
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity.
Yes; she was truly worthy her high place!
No one could envy her deserved prosperity.
And then her dress—what beautiful simplicity
Draperied her form with curious felicity!1201
CIII
Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises,
By an impartial indemnification
For all her past exertion and soft phrases,
In a most edifying conversation,
Which turned upon their late guests’ miens and faces,
Their families, even to the last relation;
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses,
And truculent distortion of their tresses.
CIV
True, she said little—’twas the rest that broke
Forth into universal epigram;
But then ’twas to the purpose what she spoke:
Like Addison’s “faint praise,”1202 so wont to damn,
Her own but served to set off every joke,
As music chimes in with a melodrame.
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine, to—not defend.
CV
There were but two exceptions to this keen
Skirmish of wits o’er the departed; one,
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;
And Juan, too, in general behind none
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:
In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
He would not join them in a single sally.
CVI
’Tis true he saw Aurora look as though
She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook
Its motive for that charity we owe
But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
Farther—it might or it might not be so.
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
Observing little in his reverie,
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.
CVII
The Ghost at least had done him this much good,
In making him as silent as a ghost,
If in the circumstances which ensued
He gained esteem where it was worth the most;
And, certainly, Aurora had renewed
In him some feelings he had lately lost,
Or hardened; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine, that I must deem them real:—
CVIII
The love of higher things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is called the World, and the World’s ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle manhood, but can ne’er entrance
The Heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another’s bosom is the zone.
CIX
Who would not sigh Αἴ αἴ τὰν Κυθέρειαν1203
That hath a memory, or that had a heart?
Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian:
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart.
Anacreon only had the soul to tie an
Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart
Of Eros: but though thou hast played us many tricks,
Still we respect thee, “Alma Venus Genetrix!”1204
CX
And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
Heaving between this World and Worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
Waved o’er his couch; he meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.
CXI
The night was as before: he was undrest,
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress;
Completely sans culotte, and without vest;
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less:
But apprehensive of his spectral guest,
He sate with feelings awkward to express
(By those who have not had such visitations),
Expectant of the Ghost’s fresh operations.
CXII
And not in vain
