religion's, virtue's sake; Her resolutions were most truly great,And almost might have made a Tarquin quake: She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace,
As being the best judge of a lady's case.
She vow'd she never would see Juan more, And next day paid a visit to his mother, And look'd extremely at the opening door,
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; Grateful she was, and yet a little sore-- Again it opens, it can be no other,
'T is surely Juan now--No! I 'm afraid
That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.
She now determined that a virtuous woman Should rather face and overcome temptation, That flight was base and dastardly, and no man Should ever give her heart the least sensation; That is to say, a thought beyond the common Preference, that we must feel upon occasion For people who are pleasanter than others,
But then they only seem so many brothers.
And even if by chance--and who can tell? The devil 's so very sly--she should discover That all within was not so very well,
And, if still free, that such or such a lover
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell
Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over;
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And if the man should ask, 't is but denial: I recommend young ladies to make trial.
And then there are such things as love divine, Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, Such as the angels think so very fine,
And matrons who would be no less secure, Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;' Thus Julia said--and thought so, to be sure; And so I 'd have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran.
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, 't is quite a crime,
But not my fault--I 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 Ethereal 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 mention'd in the sequel.
Her plan she deem'd 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 mean time 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 naught.)
I only say suppose this supposition:
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Juan being then 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
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 god indeed divine.'
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 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),
