On which three single hours of moonshine smile—
And then she looks so modest all the while!
CXIV
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.
CXV
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced
And half retiring from the glowing arm,
Which trembled like the bosom where ’twas placed;
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,
Or else ’twere 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.
CXVI
Oh 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 controlless 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.
CXVII
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.
CXVIII
’Tis said that Xerxes offered a reward87
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.
CXIX
Oh Pleasure! you’re indeed a pleasant thing,88
Although one must be damned 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 reclaimed.
CXX
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, ’tis fit
To beg his pardon when I err a bit.
CXXI
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 passed; we’ll say
’Twas in November, but I’m not so sure
About the day—the era’s more obscure.
CXXII
We’ll talk of that anon.—’Tis sweet to hear
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier,89
By distance mellowed, o’er the waters sweep;
’Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;
’Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep
From leaf to leaf; ’tis sweet to view on high
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
CXXIII
’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come;90
’Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark,
Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
CXXIV
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.
CXXV
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet91
The unexpected death of some old lady,
Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
Who’ve made “us youth”92 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-damned post-obits.93
CXXVI
’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels,
By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end
To strife; ’tis 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 spot94
We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot.
CXXVII
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 plucked—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 filched for us from Heaven.
CXXVIII
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.
CXXIX
What opposite discoveries we have seen!
(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)
One makes new noses,95 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,96
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,
By borrowing a new one from an ox.97
CXXX
Bread has been made (indifferent) from
