1821
                                    DON JUAN
                                by George Byron
DEDICATION
                 DEDICATION.

  BOB SOUTHEY! You 're a poet- Poet-laureate,
    And representative of all the race,
  Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at
    Last,- yours has lately been a common case;
  And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
    With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
  A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
  Like 'four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;'

  'Which pye being open'd they began to sing'
    (This old song and new simile holds good),
  'A dainty dish to set before the King,'
    Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;-
  And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
    But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,-
  Explaining metaphysics to the nation-
  I wish he would explain his Explanation.

  You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
    At being disappointed in your wish
  To supersede all warblers here below,
    And be the only Blackbird in the dish;
  And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
    And tumble downward like the flying fish
  Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
  And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!

  And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excursion
    (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
  Has given a sample from the vasty version
    Of his new system to perplex the sages;
  'T is poetry- at least by his assertion,
    And may appear so when the dog-star rages-
  And he who understands it would be able
  To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

  You- Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
    From better company, have kept your own
  At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
    Of one another's minds, at last have grown
  To deem as a most logical conclusion,
    That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:
  There is a narrowness in such a notion,
  Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

  I would not imitate the petty thought,
    Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
  For all the glory your conversion brought,
    Since gold alone should not have been its price.
  You have your salary; was 't for that you wrought?
    And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
  You're shabby fellows- true- but poets still,
  And duly seated on the immortal hill.

  Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows-
    Perhaps some virtuous blushes;- let them go-
  To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs-
    And for the fame you would engross below,
  The field is universal, and allows
    Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow:
  Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
  'Gainst you the question with posterity.

  For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
    Contend not with you on the winged steed,
  I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
    The fame you envy and the skill you need;
  And recollect a poet nothing loses
    In giving to his brethren their full meed
  Of merit, and complaint of present days
  Is not the certain path to future praise.

  He that reserves his laurels for posterity
    (Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
  Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
    Being only injured by his own assertion;
  And although here and there some glorious rarity
    Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
  The major part of such appelants go
  To- God knows where- for no one else can know.

  If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
    Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time,
  If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
    And makes the word Miltonic' mean 'sublime,'
  He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
    Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
  He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,
  But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

  Think'st thou, could he- the blind Old Man- arise
    Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
  The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
    Or be alive again- again all hoar
  With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,
    And heartless daughters- worn- and pale- and poor;
  Would he adore a sultan? he obey
  The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

  Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
    Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
  And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
    Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore,
  The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,
    With just enough of talent, and no more,
  To lengthen fetters by another fix'd,
  And offer poison long already mix'd.

  An orator of such set trash of phrase
    Ineffably- legitimately vile,
  That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
    Nor foes- all nations- condescend to smile,-
  Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
    From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
  That turns and turns to give the world a notion
  Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

  A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
    And botching, patching, leaving still behind
  Something of which its masters are afraid,
    States to be curb'd and thoughts to be confined,
  Conspiracy or Congress to be made-
    Cobbling at manacles for all mankind-
  A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
  With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.

  If we may judge of matter by the mind,
    Emasculated to the marrow It
  Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
    Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
  Eutropius of its many masters,- blind
    To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
  Fearless- because no feeling dwells in ice,
  Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

  Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
    For I will never feel them?- Italy!
  Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
    Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee-
  Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
    Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
  Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
  And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

  Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,
    In honest simple verse, this song to you.
  And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
    'T is that I still retain my 'buff and blue;'
  My politics as yet are all to educate:
    Apostasy 's so fashionable, too,
  To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean;
  Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?

  VENICE, September 16, 1818.
                   CANTO THE FIRST.

  I WANT a hero: an uncommon want,
    When every year and month sends forth a new one,
  Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
    The age discovers he is not the true one;
  Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
    I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan-
  We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
  Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

  Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
    Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
  Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
    And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
  Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
    Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow:
  France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier
  Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

  Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
    Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
  Were French, and famous people, as we know:
    And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
  Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
    With many of the military set,
  Exceedingly remarkable at times,
  But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

  Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
    And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
  There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
    'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
  Because the army 's grown more popular,
    At which the naval people are concern'd;
  Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
  Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

  Brave men were living before Agamemnon
    And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
  A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
    But then they shone not on the poet's page,
  And so have been forgotten:- I condemn none,
    But can't find any in the present age
  Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
  So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan.

  Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res'
    (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),
  And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
    What went before- by way of episode,
  While seated after dinner at his ease,
    Beside his mistress in some soft abode,
  Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,
  Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

  That is the usual method, but not mine-
    My way is to begin with the beginning;
  The regularity of my design
    Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
  And therefore I shall open with a line
    (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)
  Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,
  And also of his mother, if you 'd rather.

  In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
    Famous for oranges and women- he
  Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
    So says the proverb- and I quite agree;
  Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
    Cadiz perhaps- but that you soon may see;
  Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
  A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.

  His father's name was Jose- Don, of course,-
    A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
  Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
    Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
  A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,
    Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
  Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
  Begot- but that 's to come- Well, to renew:

  His mother was a learned lady, famed
    For every branch of every science known
  In every Christian language ever named,
    With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,
  She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
    And even the good with inward envy groan,
  Finding themselves so very much exceeded
  In their own way by all the things that she did.

  Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart
    All Calderon and greater part of Lope,
  So that if any actor miss'd his part
    She could have served him for the prompter's copy;
  For her Feinagle's were an useless art,
    And he himself obliged to shut up shop- he
  Could never make a memory so fine as
  That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.

  Her favourite science was the mathematical,
    Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,
  Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,
    Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity;
  In short, in all things she was fairly what I call
    A prodigy- her morning dress was dimity,
  Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,
  And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.

  She knew the Latin- that is, 'the Lord's prayer,'
    And Greek- the alphabet- I 'm nearly sure;
  She read some French romances here and there,
    Although her mode of speaking was not pure;
  For native Spanish she had no great care,
    At least her conversation was obscure;
  Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
  As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.

  She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,
    And said there was analogy between 'em;
  She proved it somehow out of sacred song,
    But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em;
  But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong
    And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em,
  ''T is strange- the Hebrew noun which means "I am,"

  Some women use their tongues- she look'd a lecture,
    Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,
  An all-in-all sufficient self-director,
    Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,
  The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector,
    Whose suicide was almost an anomaly-
  One sad example more, that 'All is vanity'
  (The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity').

  In short, she was a walking calculation,
    Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,
  Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,
    Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers,
  Morality's prim personification,
    In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers;
  To others' share let 'female errors fall,'
  For she had not even one- the worst of all.

  Oh! she was perfect past all parallel-
    Of any modern female saint's comparison;
  So far above the cunning powers of hell,
    Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;
  Even her minutest motions went as well
    As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:
  In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
  Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar!

  Perfect she was, but as perfection is
    Insipid in this naughty world of ours,
  Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss
    Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,
  Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss
    (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),
  Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve,
  Went plucking various fruit without her leave.

  He was a mortal of the careless kind,
    With no great love for learning, or the learn'd,
  Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,
    And never dream'd his lady was concern'd;
  The world, as usual, wickedly inclined
    To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd,
  Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two-
  But for domestic quarrels one will do.

  Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,
    A great opinion of her own good qualities;
  Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,
    And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;
  But then she had a devil of a spirit,
    And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities,
  And let few opportunities escape
  Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.

  This was an easy matter with a man
    Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard;
  And even the wisest, do the best they can,
    Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,
  That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;'
    And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,
  And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,
  And why and wherefore no one understands.

  'T is pity learned virgins ever wed
    With persons of no sort of education,
  Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,
    Grow tired of scientific conversation:
  I don't choose to say much upon this head,
    I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,
  But- Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
  Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

  Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd- why,
    Not any of the many could divine,
  Though several thousand people chose to try,
    'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;
  I loathe that low vice- curiosity;
    But if there 's anything in which I shine,
  'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,
  Not having of my own domestic cares.

  And so I interfered, and with the best
    Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;
  I think the foolish people were possess'd,
    For neither of them could I ever find,
  Although their porter afterwards confess'd-
    But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind,
  For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,
  A pail of housemaid's water unawares.

  A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
    And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
  His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
    Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;
  Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in
    Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth
  To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home,
  To teach him manners for the time to come.

  Don Jose and the Donna Inez led
    For some time an unhappy sort of life,
  Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;
    They lived respectably as man and wife,
  Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,
    And gave no outward signs of inward strife,
  Until at length the smother'd fire broke out,
  And put the business past all kind of doubt.

  For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians,
    And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;
  But as he had some lucid intermissions,
    She next decided he was only bad;
  Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions,
    No sort of explanation could be had,
  Save that her duty both to man and God
  Required this conduct- which seem'd very odd.

  She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,
    And open'd certain trunks of books and letters,
  All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;
    And then she had all Seville for abettors,
  Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);
    The hearers of her case became repeaters,
  Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,
  Some for amusement, others for old grudges.

  And then this best and weakest woman bore
    With such serenity her husband's woes,
  Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,
    Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose
  Never to say a word about them more-
    Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,
  And saw his agonies with such sublimity,
  That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!'

  No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,
    Is philosophic in our former friends;
  'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,
    The more so in obtaining our own ends;
  And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus'
    Conduct like this by no means comprehends;
  Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue,
  But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.

  And if your quarrels should rip up old stories,
    And help them with a lie or two additional,
  I 'm not to blame, as you well know- no more is
    Any one else- they were become traditional;
  Besides, their resurrection aids our glories
    By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:
  And science profits by this resurrection-
  Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

  Their friends had tried at reconciliation,
    Then their relations, who made matters worse.
  ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion
    To whom it may be best to have recourse-
  I can't say much for friend or yet relation):
    The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,
  But scarce a fee was paid on either side
  Before, unluckily, Don Jose died.

  He died: and most unluckily, because,
    According to all hints I could collect
  From counsel learned in those kinds of laws
    (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect),
  His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;
    A thousand pities also with respect
  To public feeling, which on this occasion
  Was manifested in a great sensation.

  But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay
    The public feeling and the lawyers' fees:
  His house was sold, his servants sent away,
    A Jew took one of his two mistresses,
  A priest the other- at least so they say:
    I ask'd the doctors after his disease-
  He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian,
  And left his widow to her own aversion.

  Yet Jose was an honourable man,
    That I must say who knew him very well;
  Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan
    Indeed there were not many more to tell;
  And if his passions now and then outran
    Discretion, and were not so peaceable
  As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),
  He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.

  Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,
    Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.
  Let 's own- since it can do no good on earth-
    It was a trying moment that which found him
  Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,
    Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him:
  No choice was left his feelings or his pride,
  Save death or Doctors' Commons- so he died.

  Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir
    To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,
  Which, with a long minority and care,
    Promised to turn out well in proper hands:
  Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,
    And answer'd but to nature's just demands;
  An only son left with an only mother
  Is brought up much more wisely than another.

  Sagest of women, even of widows, she
    Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,
  And worthy of the noblest pedigree
    (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon):
  Then for accomplishments of chivalry,
    In case our lord the king should go to war again,
  He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
  And how to scale a fortress- or a nunnery.

  But that which Donna Inez most desired,
    And saw into herself each day before all
  The learned tutors whom for him she hired,
    Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral;
  Much into all his studies she inquired,
    And so they were submitted first to her, all,
  Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery
  To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.

  The languages, especially the dead,
    The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
  The arts, at least all such as could be said
    To be the most remote from common use,
  In all these he was much and deeply read;
    But not a page of any thing that 's loose,
  Or hints continuation of the species,
  Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious.

  His classic studies made a little puzzle,
    Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,
  Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,
    But never put on pantaloons or bodices;
  His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,
    And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,
  Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology,
  For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

  Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him,
    Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
  Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
    I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,
  Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn
    Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:
  But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one
  Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'

  Lucretius' irreligion is too strong,
    For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;
  I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,
    Although no doubt his real intent was good,
  For speaking out so plainly in his song,
    So much indeed as to be downright rude;
  And then what proper person can be partial
  To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?

  Juan was taught from out the best edition,
    Expurgated by learned men, who place
  Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,
    The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface
  Too much their modest bard by this omission,
    And pitying sore his mutilated case,
  They only add them all in an appendix,
  Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;

  For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,'
    Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages;
  They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop,
    To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,
  Till some less rigid editor shall stoop
    To call them back into their separate cages,
  Instead of standing staring all together,
  Like garden gods- and not so decent either.

  The Missal too (it was the family Missal)
    Was ornamented in a sort of way
  Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all
    Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,
  Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,
    Could turn their optics to the text and pray,
  Is more than I know- But Don Juan's mother
  Kept this herself, and gave her son another.

  Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,
    And homilies, and lives of all the saints;
  To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,
    He did not take such studies for restraints;
  But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,
    So well not one of the aforesaid paints
  As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,
  Which make the reader envy his transgressions.

  This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan-
    I can't but say that his mamma was right,
  If such an education was the true one.
    She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;
  Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,
    You might be sure she was a perfect fright;
  She did this during even her husband's life-
  I recommend as much to every wife.

  Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace;
    At six a charming child, and at eleven
  With all the promise of as fine a face
    As e'er to man's maturer growth was given:
  He studied steadily, and grew apace,
    And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven,
  For half his days were pass'd at church, the other
  Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.

  At six, I said, he was a charming child,
    At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;
  Although in infancy a little wild,
    They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy
  His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd,
    At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy
  Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,
  Her young philosopher was grown already.

  I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,
    But what I say is neither here nor there:
  I knew his father well, and have some skill
    In character- but it would not be fair
  From sire to son to augur good or ill:
    He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair-
  But scandal 's my aversion- I protest
  Against all evil speaking, even in jest.

  For my part I say nothing- nothing- but
    This I will say- my reasons are my own-
  That if I had an only son to put
    To school (as God be praised that I have none),
  'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut
    Him up to learn his catechism alone,
  No- no- I 'd send him out betimes to college,
  For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.

  For there one learns- 't is not for me to boast,
    Though I acquired- but I pass over that,
  As well as all the Greek I since have lost:
    I say that there 's the place- but 'Verbum sat.'
  I think I pick'd up too, as well as most,
    Knowledge of matters- but no matter what-
  I never married- but, I think, I know
  That sons should not be educated so.

  Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
    Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd
  Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;
    And everybody but his mother deem'd
  Him almost man; but she flew in a rage
    And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)
  If any said so, for to be precocious
  Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.

  Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
    Selected for discretion and devotion,
  There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
    Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
  Of many charms in her as natural
    As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
  Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid
  (But this last simile is trite and stupid).

  The darkness of her Oriental eye
    Accorded with her Moorish origin
  (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;
    In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);
  When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,
    Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
  Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,
  Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.

  She married (I forget the pedigree)
    With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
  His blood less noble than such blood should be;
    At such alliances his sires would frown,
  In that point so precise in each degree
    That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
  Marrying their cousins- nay, their aunts, and nieces,
  Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

  This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
    Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;
  For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
    Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
  The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
    But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,
  'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma
  Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.

  However this might be, the race went on
    Improving still through every generation,
  Until it centred in an only son,
    Who left an only daughter; my narration
  May have suggested that this single one
    Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
  I shall have much to speak about), and she
  Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

  Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes)
    Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
  Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
    Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
  And love than either; and there would arise
    A something in them which was not desire,
  But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
  Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.

  Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
    Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;
  Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,
    Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
  Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
    As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,
  Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:
  Her stature tall- I hate a dumpy woman.

  Wedded she was some years, and to a man
    Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;
  And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE
    'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,
  Especially in countries near the sun:
    And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,'
  Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
  Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

  'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
    And all the fault of that indecent sun,
  Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
    But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
  That howsoever people fast and pray,
    The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
  What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
  Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.

  Happy the nations of the moral North!
    Where all is virtue, and the winter season
  Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
    ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
  Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,
    By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on
  The lover, who must pay a handsome price,
  Because it is a marketable vice.

  Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,
    A man well looking for his years, and who
  Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:
    They lived together, as most people do,
  Suffering each other's foibles by accord,
    And not exactly either one or two;
  Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
  For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

  Julia was- yet I never could see why-
    With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
  Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
    For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:
  Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,
    For malice still imputes some private end)
  That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,
  Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

  And that still keeping up the old connection,
    Which time had lately render'd much more chaste,
  She took his lady also in affection,
    And certainly this course was much the best:
  She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection,
    And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;
  And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,
  At least she left it a more slender handle.

  I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair
    With other people's eyes, or if her own
  Discoveries made, but none could be aware
    Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;
  Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,
    Indifferent from the first or callous grown:
  I 'm really puzzled what to think or say,
  She kept her counsel in so close a way.

  Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,
    Caress'd him often- such a thing might be
  Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,
    When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;
  But I am not so sure I should have smiled
    When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;
  These few short years make wondrous alterations,
  Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.

  Whate'er the cause might be, they had become
    Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
  Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
    And much embarrassment in either eye;
  There surely will be little doubt with some
    That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
  But as for Juan, he had no more notion
  Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.

  Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,
    And tremulously gentle her small hand
  Withdrew itself from his, but left behind
    A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
  And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
    'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand
  Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art
  Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.

  And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
    She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
  As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
    She must not own, but cherish'd more the while
  For that compression in its burning core;
    Even innocence itself has many a wile,
  And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
  And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

  But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
    Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
  Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
    Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
  And in whatever aspect it arrays
    Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;
  Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
  Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

  Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
    And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
  And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
    Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
  All these are little preludes to possession,
    Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
  And merely tend to show how greatly love is
  Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.

  Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;
    She felt it going, and resolved to make
  The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
    For honour's, pride's, 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;
  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:
    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), so pursued
    His self-communion with his own high soul,
  Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,
    Had mitigated part, though not the whole
  Of its disease; he did the best he could
    With things not very subject to control,
  And turn'd, without perceiving his condition,
  Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

  He thought about himself, and the whole earth
    Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
  And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
    And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,
  How many miles the moon might have in girth,
    Of air-balloons, and of the many bars
  To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;-
  And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.

  In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
    Longings sublime, and aspirations high,
  Which some are born with, but the most part learn
    To plague themselves withal, they know not why:
  'T was strange that one so young should thus concern
    His brain about the action of the sky;
  If you think 't was philosophy that this did,
  I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

  He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,
    And heard a voice in all the winds; and then
  He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
    And how the goddesses came down to men:
  He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,
    And when he look'd upon his watch again,
  He found how much old Time had been a winner-
  He also found that he had lost his dinner.

  Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,
    Boscan, or Garcilasso;- by the wind
  Even as the page is rustled while we look,
    So by the poesy of his own mind
  Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,
    As if 't were one whereon magicians bind
  Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,
  According to some good old woman's tale.

  Thus would he while his lonely hours away
    Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
  Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,
    Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,
  A bosom whereon he his head might lay,
    And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,
  With- several other things, which I forget,
  Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

  Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,
    Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;
  She saw that Juan was not at his ease;
    But that which chiefly may, and must surprise,
  Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease
    Her only son with question or surmise:
  Whether it was she did not see, or would not,
  Or, like all very clever people, could not.

  This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common;
    For instance- gentlemen, whose ladies take
  Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
    And break the- Which commandment is 't they break?
  (I have forgot the number, and think no man
    Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)
  I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous,
  They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.

  A real husband always is suspicious,
    But still no less suspects in the wrong place,
  Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,
    Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,
  By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;
    The last indeed 's infallibly the case:
  And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly,
  He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.

  Thus parents also are at times short-sighted;
    Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover,
  The while the wicked world beholds delighted,
    Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,
  Till some confounded escapade has blighted
    The plan of twenty years, and all is over;
  And then the mother cries, the father swears,
  And wonders why the devil he got heirs.

  But Inez was so anxious, and so clear
    Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
  She had some other motive much more near
    For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
  But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;
    Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
  Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
  In case he thought his wife too great a prize.

  It was upon a day, a summer's day;-
    Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,
  And so is spring about the end of May;
    The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
  But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,
    And stand convicted of more truth than treason,
  That there are months which nature grows more merry in,-
  March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

  'T was on a summer's day- the sixth of June:-
    I like to be particular in dates,
  Not only of the age, and year, but moon;
    They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates
  Change horses, making history change its tune,
    Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,
  Leaving at last not much besides chronology,
  Excepting the post-obits of theology.

  'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour
    Of half-past six- perhaps still nearer seven-
  When Julia sate within as pretty a bower
    As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven
  Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,
    To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
  With all the trophies of triumphant song-
  He won them well, and may he wear them long!

  She sate, but not alone; I know not well
    How this same interview had taken place,
  And even if I knew, I should not tell-
    People should hold their tongues in any case;
  No matter how or why the thing befell,
    But there were she and Juan, face to face-
  When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,
  But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

  How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart
    Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.
  Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,
    Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,
  How self-deceitful is the sagest part
    Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along-
  The precipice she stood on was immense,
  So was her creed in her own innocence.

  She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,
    And of the folly of all prudish fears,
  Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,
    And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:
  I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth,
    Because that number rarely much endears,
  And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,
  Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.

  When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,'
    They mean to scold, and very often do;
  When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,'
    They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;
  In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
    At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true,
  But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
  A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

  Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,
    For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
  By all the vows below to powers above,
    She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
  Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
    And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
  One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
  Quite by mistake- she thought it was her own;

  Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,
    Which play'd within the tangles of her hair:
  And to contend with thoughts she could not smother
    She seem'd by the distraction of her air.
  'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother
    To leave together this imprudent pair,
  She who for many years had watch'd her son so-
  I 'm very certain mine would not have done so.

  The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees
    Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp,
  As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;'
    Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp
  His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze:
    She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,
  Had she imagined such a thing could rouse
  A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

  I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
    But what he did, is much what you would do;
  His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,
    And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew
  In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,-
    Love is so very timid when 't is new:
  She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,
  And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

  The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:
    The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they
  Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon
    Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
  The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
    Sees half the business in a wicked way
  On which three single hours of moonshine smile-
  And then she looks so modest all the while.

  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.

  And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced
    And half retiring from the glowing arm,
  Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;
    Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,
  Or else 't were 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.

  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 controulless 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.

  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.

  'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward
    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.

  Oh Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing,
    Although one must be damn'd 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 reclaim'd.

  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, 't is fit
  To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

  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 pass'd; we 'll say
  'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure
  About the day- the era 's more obscure.

  We 'll talk of that anon.- 'T is sweet to hear
    At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
  The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
    By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep;
  'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;
    'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep
  From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high
  The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

  'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
    Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
  'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark
    Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
  'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,
    Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum
  Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
  The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

  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.

  Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
    The unexpected death of some old lady
  Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
    Who 've made 'us youth' 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-damn'd post-obits.

  'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
    By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
  To strife; 't is 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 spot
  We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

  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 pluck'd- 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 filch'd for us from heaven.

  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.

  What opposite discoveries we have seen!
    (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)
  One makes new noses, 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,
  With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,
  By borrowing a new one from an ox.

  Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
    And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,
  But has not answer'd like the apparatus
    Of the Humane Society's beginning
  By which men are unsuffocated gratis:
    What wondrous new machines have late been spinning!
  I said the small-pox has gone out of late;
  Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great.

  'T is said the great came from America;
    Perhaps it may set out on its return,-
  The population there so spreads, they say
    'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn,
  With war, or plague, or famine, any way,
    So that civilisation they may learn;
  And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is-
  Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?

  This is the patent-age of new inventions
    For killing bodies, and for saving souls,
  All propagated with the best intentions;
    Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals
  Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
    Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,
  Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
  Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.

  Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what,
    And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;
  'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that
    Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure;
  Few mortals know what end they would be at,
    But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure,
  The path is through perplexing ways, and when
  The goal is gain'd, we die, you know- and then-

  What then?- I do not know, no more do you-
    And so good night.- Return we to our story:
  'T was in November, when fine days are few,
    And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
  And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;
    And the sea dashes round the promontory,
  And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
  And sober suns must set at five o'clock.

  'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;
    No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
  By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
    With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;
  There 's something cheerful in that sort of light,
    Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud:
  I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
  A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

  'T was midnight- Donna Julia was in bed,
    Sleeping, most probably,- when at her door
  Arose a clatter might awake the dead,
    If they had never been awoke before,
  And that they have been so we all have read,
    And are to be so, at the least, once more;-
  The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist
  First knocks were heard, then 'Madam- Madam- hist!

  'For God's sake, Madam- Madam- here 's my master,
    With more than half the city at his back-
  Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!
    'T is not my fault- I kept good watch- Alack!
  Do pray undo the bolt a little faster-
    They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack
  Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly-
  Surely the window 's not so very high!'

  By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,
    With torches, friends, and servants in great number;
  The major part of them had long been wived,
    And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber
  Of any wicked woman, who contrived
    By stealth her husband's temples to encumber:
  Examples of this kind are so contagious,
  Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous.

  I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion
    Could enter into Don Alfonso's head;
  But for a cavalier of his condition
    It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,
  Without a word of previous admonition,
    To hold a levee round his lady's bed,
  And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword,
  To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd.

  Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep
    (Mind- that I do not say- she had not slept),
  Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;
    Her maid Antonia, who was an adept,
  Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,
    As if she had just now from out them crept:
  I can't tell why she should take all this trouble
  To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.

  But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,
    Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who
  Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,
    Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two,
  And therefore side by side were gently laid,
    Until the hours of absence should run through,
  And truant husband should return, and say,
  'My dear, I was the first who came away.'

  Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,
    'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean?
  Has madness seized you? would that I had died
    Ere such a monster's victim I had been!
  What may this midnight violence betide,
    A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?
  Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?
  Search, then, the room!'- Alfonso said, 'I will.'

  He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere,
    Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat,
  And found much linen, lace, and several pair
    Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,
  With other articles of ladies fair,
    To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat:
  Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords,
  And wounded several shutters, and some boards.

  Under the bed they search'd, and there they found-
    No matter what- it was not that they sought;
  They open'd windows, gazing if the ground
    Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;
  And then they stared each other's faces round:
    'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought,
  And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,
  Of looking in the bed as well as under.

  During this inquisition, Julia's tongue
    Was not asleep- 'Yes, search and search,' she cried,
  'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!
    It was for this that I became a bride!
  For this in silence I have suffer'd long
    A husband like Alfonso at my side;
  But now I 'll bear no more, nor here remain,
  If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.

  'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,
    If ever you indeed deserved the name,
  Is 't worthy of your years?- you have threescore-
    Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same-
  Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore
    For facts against a virtuous woman's fame?
  Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso,
  How dare you think your lady would go on so?

  'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold
    The common privileges of my sex?
  That I have chosen a confessor so old
    And deaf, that any other it would vex,
  And never once he has had cause to scold,
    But found my very innocence perplex
  So much, he always doubted I was married-
  How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried!

  'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er
    I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?
  Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,
    Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?
  Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,
    I favor'd none- nay, was almost uncivil?
  Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,
  Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?

  'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani
    Sing at my heart six months at least in vain?
  Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,
    Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain?
  Were there not also Russians, English, many?
    The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,
  And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer,
  Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year.

  'Have I not had two bishops at my feet,
    The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez?
  And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?
    I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:
  I praise your vast forbearance not to beat
    Me also, since the time so opportune is-
  Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger,
  Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?

  'Was it for this you took your sudden journey.
    Under pretence of business indispensable
  With that sublime of rascals your attorney,
    Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible
  Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he
    Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible,
  Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee,
  And not from any love to you nor me.

  'If he comes here to take a deposition,
    By all means let the gentleman proceed;
  You 've made the apartment in a fit condition:
    There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need-
  Let every thing be noted with precision,
    I would not you for nothing should be fee'd-
  But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.'
  'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.'

  'There is the closet, there the toilet, there
    The antechamber- search them under, over;
  There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,
    The chimney- which would really hold a lover.
  I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care
    And make no further noise, till you discover
  The secret cavern of this lurking treasure-
  And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure.

  'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown
    Doubt upon me, confusion over all,
  Pray have the courtesy to make it known
    Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal
  Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown-
    I hope he 's young and handsome- is he tall?
  Tell me- and be assured, that since you stain
  My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.

  'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,
    At that age he would be too old for slaughter,
  Or for so young a husband's jealous fears
    (Antonia! let me have a glass of water).
  I am ashamed of having shed these tears,
    They are unworthy of my father's daughter;
  My mother dream'd not in my natal hour
  That I should fall into a monster's power.

  'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous,
    You saw that she was sleeping by my side
  When you broke in upon us with your fellows:
    Look where you please- we 've nothing, sir, to hide;
  Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us,
    Or for the sake of decency abide
  A moment at the door, that we may be
  Drest to receive so much good company.

  'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
    The little I have said may serve to show
  The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er
    The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:
  I leave you to your conscience as before,
    'T will one day ask you why you used me so?
  God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!-
  Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?'

  She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
    She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
  Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
    Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
  Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,
    To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
  Its snow through all;- her soft lips lie apart,
  And louder than her breathing beats her heart.

  The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;
    Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room,
  And, turning up her nose, with looks abused
    Her master and his myrmidons, of whom
  Not one, except the attorney, was amused;
    He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,
  So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,
  Knowing they must be settled by the laws.

  With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood,
    Following Antonia's motions here and there,
  With much suspicion in his attitude;
    For reputations he had little care;
  So that a suit or action were made good,
    Small pity had he for the young and fair,
  And ne'er believed in negatives, till these
  Were proved by competent false witnesses.

  But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,
    And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;
  When, after searching in five hundred nooks,
    And treating a young wife with so much rigour,
  He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes,
    Added to those his lady with such vigour
  Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour,
  Quick, thick, and heavy- as a thunder-shower.

  At first he tried to hammer an excuse,
    To which the sole reply was tears and sobs,
  And indications of hysterics, whose
    Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs,
  Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:
    Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's;
  He saw too, in perspective, her relations,
  And then he tried to muster all his patience.

  He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,
    But sage Antonia cut him short before
  The anvil of his speech received the hammer,
    With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,
  Or madam dies.'- Alfonso mutter'd, 'D- n her,'
    But nothing else, the time of words was o'er;
  He cast a rueful look or two, and did,
  He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.

  With him retired his 'posse comitatus,'
    The attorney last, who linger'd near the door
  Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as
    Antonia let him- not a little sore
  At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus'
    In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore
  An awkward look; as he revolved the case,
  The door was fasten'd in his legal face.

  No sooner was it bolted, than- Oh shame!
    Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind!
  How can you do such things and keep your fame,
    Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind?
  Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name!
    But to proceed- for there is more behind:
  With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,
  Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed.

  He had been hid- I don't pretend to say
    How, nor can I indeed describe the where-
  Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay,
    No doubt, in little compass, round or square;
  But pity him I neither must nor may
    His suffocation by that pretty pair;
  'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut
  With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.

  And, secondly, I pity not, because
    He had no business to commit a sin,
  Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,
    At least 't was rather early to begin;
  But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
    So much as when we call our old debts in
  At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,
  And find a deuced balance with the devil.

  Of his position I can give no notion:
    'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
  How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
    Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,
  When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,
    And that the medicine answer'd very well;
  Perhaps 't was in a different way applied,
  For David lived, but Juan nearly died.

  What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back
    The moment he has sent his fools away.
  Antonia's skill was put upon the rack,
    But no device could be brought into play-
  And how to parry the renew'd attack?
    Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:
  Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,
  But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek.

  He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand
    Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair;
  Even then their love they could not all command,
    And half forgot their danger and despair:
  Antonia's patience now was at a stand-
    'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,'
  She whisper'd, in great wrath- 'I must deposit
  This pretty gentleman within the closet:

  'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night-
    Who can have put my master in this mood?
  What will become on 't- I 'm in such a fright,
    The devil 's in the urchin, and no good-
  Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?
    Why, don't you know that it may end in blood?
  You 'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,
  My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.

  'Had it but been for a stout cavalier
    Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)-
  But for a child, what piece of work is here!
    I really, madam, wonder at your taste
  (Come, sir, get in)- my master must be near:
    There, for the present, at the least, he's fast,
  And if we can but till the morning keep
  Our counsel- (Juan, mind, you must not sleep).'

  Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,
    Closed the oration of the trusty maid:
  She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone,
    An order somewhat sullenly obey'd;
  However, present remedy was none,
    And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd:
  Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,
  She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.

  Alfonso paused a minute- then begun
    Some strange excuses for his late proceeding;
  He would not justify what he had done,
    To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding;
  But there were ample reasons for it, none
    Of which he specified in this his pleading:
  His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,
  Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.'

  Julia said nought; though all the while there rose
    A ready answer, which at once enables
  A matron, who her husband's foible knows,
    By a few timely words to turn the tables,
  Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,-
    Even if it should comprise a pack of fables;
  'T is to retort with firmness, and when he
  Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.

  Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,-
    Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known,
  But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds-
    But that can't be, as has been often shown,
  A lady with apologies abounds;-
    It might be that her silence sprang alone
  From delicacy to Don Juan's ear,
  To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear.

  There might be one more motive, which makes two;
    Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,-
  Mention'd his jealousy but never who
    Had been the happy lover, he concluded,
  Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true,
    His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded;
  To speak of Inez now were, one may say,
  Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way.

  A hint, in tender cases, is enough;
    Silence is best, besides there is a tact
  (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,
    But it will serve to keep my verse compact)-
  Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough,
    A lady always distant from the fact:
  The charming creatures lie with such a grace,
  There 's nothing so becoming to the face.

  They blush, and we believe them; at least I
    Have always done so; 't is of no great use,
  In any case, attempting a reply,
    For then their eloquence grows quite profuse;
  And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh,
    And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose
  A tear or two, and then we make it up;
  And then- and then- and then- sit down and sup.

  Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon,
    Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,
  And laid conditions he thought very hard on,
    Denying several little things he wanted:
  He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,
    With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted,
  Beseeching she no further would refuse,
  When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes.

  A pair of shoes!- what then? not much, if they
    Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these
  (No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
    Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,
  Was but a moment's act.- Ah! well-a-day!
    My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze-
  Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
  And then flew out into another passion.

  He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
    And Julia instant to the closet flew.
  'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake- not a word-
    The door is open- you may yet slip through
  The passage you so often have explored-
    Here is the garden-key- Fly- fly- Adieu!
  Haste- haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet-
  Day has not broke- there 's no one in the street:

  None can say that this was not good advice,
    The only mischief was, it came too late;
  Of all experience 't is the usual price,
    A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:
  Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice,
    And might have done so by the garden-gate,
  But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown,
  Who threaten'd death- so Juan knock'd him down.

  Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light;
    Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!'
  But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight.
    Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire,
  Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night;
    And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher;
  His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar,
  And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.

  Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it,
    And they continued battling hand to hand,
  For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it;
    His temper not being under great command,
  If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,
    Alfonso's days had not been in the land
  Much longer.- Think of husbands', lovers' lives!
  And how ye may be doubly widows- wives!

  Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
    And Juan throttled him to get away,
  And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;
    At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,
  Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,
    And then his only garment quite gave way;
  He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,
  I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

  Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found
    An awkward spectacle their eyes before;
  Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd,
    Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door;
  Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground,
    Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more:
  Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about,
  And liking not the inside, lock'd the out.

  Here ends this canto.- Need I sing, or say,
    How Juan naked, favour'd by the night,
  Who favours what she should not, found his way,
    And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight?
  The pleasant scandal which arose next day,
    The nine days' wonder which was brought to light,
  And how Alfonso sued for a divorce,
  Were in the English newspapers, of course.

  If you would like to see the whole proceedings,
    The depositions, and the cause at full,
  The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings
    Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul,
  There 's more than one edition, and the readings
    Are various, but they none of them are dull;
  The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,
  Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.

  But Donna Inez, to divert the train
    Of one of the most circulating scandals
  That had for centuries been known in Spain,
    At least since the retirement of the Vandals,
  First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain)
    To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles;
  And then, by the advice of some old ladies,
  She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz.

  She had resolved that he should travel through
    All European climes, by land or sea,
  To mend his former morals, and get new,
    Especially in France and Italy
  (At least this is the thing most people do).
    Julia was sent into a convent: she
  Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better
  Shown in the following copy of her Letter:-

  'They tell me 't is decided; you depart:
    'T is wise- 't is well, but not the less a pain;
  I have no further claim on your young heart,
    Mine is the victim, and would be again;
  To love too much has been the only art
    I used;- I write in haste, and if a stain
  Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears;
  My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

  'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
    State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
  And yet can not regret what it hath cost,
    So dear is still the memory of that dream;
  Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast,
    None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
  I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-
  I 've nothing to reproach, or to request.

  'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
    'T is woman's whole existence; man may range
  The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;
    Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
  Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
    And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
  Men have all these resources, we but one,
  To love again, and be again undone.

  'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
    Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
  For me on earth, except some years to hide
    My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;
  These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
    The passion which still rages as before-
  And so farewell- forgive me, love me- No,
  That word is idle now- but let it go.

  'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
    But still I think I can collect my mind;
  My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set,
    As roll the waves before the settled wind;
  My heart is feminine, nor can forget-
    To all, except one image, madly blind;
  So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
  As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

  'I have no more to say, but linger still,
    And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
  And yet I may as well the task fulfil,
    My misery can scarce be more complete:
  I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
    Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,
  And I must even survive this last adieu,
  And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'

  This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
    With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new:
  Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,
    It trembled as magnetic needles do,
  And yet she did not let one tear escape her;
    The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,'
  The motto cut upon a white cornelian;
  The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

  This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether
    I shall proceed with his adventures is
  Dependent on the public altogether;
    We 'll see, however, what they say to this:
  Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather,
    And no great mischief 's done by their caprice;
  And if their approbation we experience,
  Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year hence.

  My poem 's epic, and is meant to be
    Divided in twelve books; each book containing,
  With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,
    A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
  New characters; the episodes are three:
    A panoramic view of hell 's in training,
  After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
  So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer.

  All these things will be specified in time,
    With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,
  The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,
    Which makes so many poets, and some fools:
  Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme,
    Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
  I 've got new mythological machinery,
  And very handsome supernatural scenery.

  There 's only one slight difference between
    Me and my epic brethren gone before,
  And here the advantage is my own, I ween
    (Not that I have not several merits more,
  But this will more peculiarly be seen);
    They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore
  Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
  Whereas this story 's actually true.

  If any person doubt it, I appeal
    To history, tradition, and to facts,
  To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,
    To plays in five, and operas in three acts;
  All these confirm my statement a good deal,
    But that which more completely faith exacts
  Is that myself, and several now in Seville,
  Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.

  If ever I should condescend to prose,
    I 'll write poetical commandments, which
  Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those
    That went before; in these I shall enrich
  My text with many things that no one knows,
    And carry precept to the highest pitch:
  I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle,
  Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'

  Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
    Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
  Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
    The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:
  With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,
    And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:
  Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor
  Commit- flirtation with the muse of Moore.

  Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,
    His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his;
  Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'
    (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this);
  Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:
    This is true criticism, and you may kiss-
  Exactly as you please, or not,- the rod;

  If any person should presume to assert
    This story is not moral, first, I pray,
  That they will not cry out before they 're hurt,
    Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say
  (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)
    That this is not a moral tale, though gay;
  Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show
  The very place where wicked people go.

  If, after all, there should be some so blind
    To their own good this warning to despise,
  Led by some tortuosity of mind,
    Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
  And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,'
    I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;
  Should captains the remark, or critics, make,
  They also lie too- under a mistake.

  The public approbation I expect,
    And beg they 'll take my word about the moral,
  Which I with their amusement will connect
    (So children cutting teeth receive a coral);
  Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect
    My epical pretensions to the laurel:
  For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
  I 've bribed my grandmother's review- the British.

  I sent it in a letter to the Editor,
    Who thank'd me duly by return of post-
  I 'm for a handsome article his creditor;
    Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,
  And break a promise after having made it her,
    Denying the receipt of what it cost,
  And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
  All I can say is- that he had the money.

  I think that with this holy new alliance
    I may ensure the public, and defy
  All other magazines of art or science,
    Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I
  Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,
    Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,
  And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
  Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

  'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa
    Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so
  Say I; by which quotation there is meant a
    Hint that some six or seven good years ago
  (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)
    I was most ready to return a blow,
  And would not brook at all this sort of thing
  In my hot youth- when George the Third was King.

  But now at thirty years my hair is grey
    (I wonder what it will be like at forty?
  I thought of a peruke the other day)-
    My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
  Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,
    And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
  Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
  And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

  No more- no more- Oh! never more on me
    The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
  Which out of all the lovely things we see
    Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
  Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:
    Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
  Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power
  To double even the sweetness of a flower.

  No more- no more- Oh! never more, my heart,
    Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
  Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
    Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:
  The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art
    Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
  And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment,
  Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

  My days of love are over; me no more
    The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
  Can make the fool of which they made before,-
    In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
  The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
    The copious use of claret is forbid too,
  So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
  I think I must take up with avarice.

  Ambition was my idol, which was broken
    Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;
  And the two last have left me many a token
    O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
  Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken,
    'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'- a chymic treasure
  Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes-
  My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

  What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill
    A certain portion of uncertain paper:
  Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
    Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
  For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
    And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'
  To have, when the original is dust,
  A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

  What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King
    Cheops erected the first pyramid
  And largest, thinking it was just the thing
    To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
  But somebody or other rummaging,
    Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
  Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
  Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

  But I being fond of true philosophy,
    Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
  All things that have been born were born to die,
    And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
  You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
    And if you had it o'er again- 't would pass-
  So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
  And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'

  But for the present, gentle reader! and
    Still gentler purchaser! the bard- that 's I-
  Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
    And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!'
  We meet again, if we should understand
    Each other; and if not, I shall not try
  Your patience further than by this short sample-
  'T were well if others follow'd my example.

  'Go, little book, from this my solitude!
    I cast thee on the waters- go thy ways!
  And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
    The world will find thee after many days.'
  When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood,
    I can't help putting in my claim to praise-
  The four first rhymes are Southey's every line:
  For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.
                CANTO THE SECOND.

  OH ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
    Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
  I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
    It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
  The best of mothers and of educations
    In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
  Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he
  Became divested of his native modesty.

  Had he but been placed at a public school,
    In the third form, or even in the fourth,
  His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
    At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
  Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
    But then exceptions always prove its worth-
  A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
  Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

  I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
    If all things be consider'd: first, there was
  His lady-mother, mathematical,
    A- never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
  A pretty woman (that 's quite natural,
    Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
  A husband rather old, not much in unity
  With his young wife- a time, and opportunity.

  Well- well, the world must turn upon its axis,
    And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
  And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
    And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
  The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
    The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
  A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
  Fighting, devotion, dust,- perhaps a name.

  I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz-
    A pretty town, I recollect it well-
  'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
    (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
  And such sweet girls- I mean, such graceful ladies,
    Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
  I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
  Nor liken it- I never saw the like:

  An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
    New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle,
  No- none of these will do;- and then their garb!
    Their veil and petticoat- Alas! to dwell
  Upon such things would very near absorb
    A canto- then their feet and ankles,- well,
  Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready
  (And so, my sober Muse- come, let 's be steady-

  Chaste Muse!- well, if you must, you must)- the veil
    Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand,
  While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale,
    Flashes into the heart:- All sunny land
  Of love! when I forget you, may I fail
    To- say my prayers- but never was there plann'd
  A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
  Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

  But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
    Her son to Cadiz only to embark;
  To stay there had not answer'd her intent,
    But why?- we leave the reader in the dark-
  'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,
    As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,
  To wean him from the wickedness of earth,
  And send him like a dove of promise forth.

  Don Juan bade his valet pack his things
    According to direction, then received
  A lecture and some money: for four springs
    He was to travel; and though Inez grieved
  (As every kind of parting has its stings),
    She hoped he would improve- perhaps believed:
  A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)
  Of good advice- and two or three of credit.

  In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
    Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school
  For naughty children, who would rather play
    (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;
  Infants of three years old were taught that day,
    Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool:
  The great success of Juan's education,
  Spurr'd her to teach another generation.

  Juan embark'd- the ship got under way,
    The wind was fair, the water passing rough:
  A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,
    As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough;
  And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray
    Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough:
  And there he stood to take, and take again,
  His first- perhaps his last- farewell of Spain.

  I can't but say it is an awkward sight
    To see one's native land receding through
  The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
    Especially when life is rather new:
  I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,
    But almost every other country 's blue,
  When gazing on them, mystified by distance,
  We enter on our nautical existence.

  So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck:
    The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore,
  And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck,
    From which away so fair and fast they bore.
  The best of remedies is a beef-steak
    Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before
  You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
  For I have found it answer- so may you.

  Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,
    Beheld his native Spain receding far:
  First partings form a lesson hard to learn,
    Even nations feel this when they go to war;
  There is a sort of unexprest concern,
    A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar:
  At leaving even the most unpleasant people
  And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

  But Juan had got many things to leave,
    His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,
  So that he had much better cause to grieve
    Than many persons more advanced in life;
  And if we now and then a sigh must heave
    At quitting even those we quit in strife,
  No doubt we weep for those the heart endears-
  That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

  So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews
    By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:
  I 'd weep,- but mine is not a weeping Muse,
    And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;
  Young men should travel, if but to amuse
    Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on
  Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,
  Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

  And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought,
    While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea,
  'Sweets to the sweet' (I like so much to quote;
    You must excuse this extract, 't is where she,
  The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought
    Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he
  Reflected on his present situation,
  And seriously resolved on reformation.

  'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried,
    'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
  But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
    Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:
  Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide!
    Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er,
  Farewell, too, dearest Julia!- (Here he drew
  Her letter out again, and read it through.)

  'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear-
    But that 's impossible, and cannot be-
  Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
    Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
  Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
    Or think of any thing excepting thee;
  A mind diseased no remedy can physic
  (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).

  'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker),
    Oh, Julia! what is every other wo?
  (For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor;
    Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
  Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)-
    Oh, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)-
  Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!'
  (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

  He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,
    Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,
  Beyond the best apothecary's art,
    The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
  Or death of those we dote on, when a part
    Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:
  No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,
  But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I

  Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold
    Out through a fever caused by its own heat,
  But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
    And find a quincy very hard to treat;
  Against all noble maladies he 's bold,
    But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
  Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,
  Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

  But worst of all is nausea, or a pain
    About the lower region of the bowels;
  Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
    Shrinks from the application of hot towels,
  And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
    Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else
  Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar,
  Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?

  The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,'
    Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;
  For there the Spanish family Moncada
    Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:
  They were relations, and for them he had a
    Letter of introduction, which the morn
  Of his departure had been sent him by
  His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

  His suite consisted of three servants and
    A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
  Who several languages did understand,
    But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow,
  And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land,
    His headache being increased by every billow;
  And the waves oozing through the port-hole made
  His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

  'T was not without some reason, for the wind
    Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
  And though 't was not much to a naval mind,
    Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale,
  For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
    At sunset they began to take in sail,
  For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
  And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

  At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift
    Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,
  Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,
    Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
  Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift
    Herself from out her present jeopardy,
  The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound
  The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

  One gang of people instantly was put
    Upon the pumps and the remainder set
  To get up part of the cargo, and what not;
    But they could not come at the leak as yet;
  At last they did get at it really, but
    Still their salvation was an even bet:
  The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,
  While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

  Into the opening; but all such ingredients
    Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,
  Despite of all their efforts and expedients,
    But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known
  To all the brother tars who may have need hence,
    For fifty tons of water were upthrown
  By them per hour, and they had all been undone,
  But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

  As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,
    And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce,
  And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet
    Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use.
  The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late
    A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,
  A gust- which all descriptive power transcends-
  Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

  There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset;
    The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,
  And made a scene men do not soon forget;
    For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,
  Or any other thing that brings regret,
    Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:
  Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers,
  And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

  Immediately the masts were cut away,
    Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,
  The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay
    Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.
  Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they
    Eased her at last (although we never meant
  To part with all till every hope was blighted),
  And then with violence the old ship righted.

  It may be easily supposed, while this
    Was going on, some people were unquiet,
  That passengers would find it much amiss
    To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;
  That even the able seaman, deeming his
    Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,
  As upon such occasions tars will ask
  For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

  There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
    As rum and true religion: thus it was,
  Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,
    The high wind made the treble, and as bas
  The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms
    Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:
  Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,
  Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.

  Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for
    Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,
  Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
    It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
  As if Death were more dreadful by his door
    Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,
  Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,
  Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.

  'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be
    All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No!
  'T is true that death awaits both you and me,
    But let us die like men, not sink below
  Like brutes;'- and thus his dangerous post kept he,
    And none liked to anticipate the blow;
  And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,
  Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

  The good old gentleman was quite aghast,
    And made a loud and pious lamentation;
  Repented all his sins, and made a last
    Irrevocable vow of reformation;
  Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)
    To quit his academic occupation,
  In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,
  To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.

  But now there came a flash of hope once more;
    Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone,
  The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,
    The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
  They tried the pumps again, and though before
    Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown,
  A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale-
  The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.

  Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
    And for the moment it had some effect;
  But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,
    Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?
  But still 't is best to struggle to the last,
    'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd:
  And though 't is true that man can only die once,
  'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

  There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence,
    Without their will, they carried them away;
  For they were forced with steering to dispense,
    And never had as yet a quiet day
  On which they might repose, or even commence
    A jurymast or rudder, or could say
  The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,
  Still swam- though not exactly like a duck.

  The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
    But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope
  To weather out much longer; the distress
    Was also great with which they had to cope
  For want of water, and their solid mess
    Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
  Was used- nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight,
  Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

  Again the weather threaten'd,- again blew
    A gale, and in the fore and after hold
  Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew
    All this, the most were patient, and some bold,
  Until the chains and leathers were worn through
    Of all our pumps:- a wreck complete she roll'd,
  At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
  Like human beings during civil war.

  Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
    In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
  Could do no more: he was a man in years,
    And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,
  And if he wept at length, they were not fears
    That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
  But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,-
  Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

  The ship was evidently settling now
    Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
  Some went to prayers again, and made a vow
    Of candles to their saints- but there were none
  To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow;
    Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one
  That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution,
  Who told him to be damn'd- in his confusion.

  Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some put on
    Their best clothes, as if going to a fair;
  Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun,
    And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair;
  And others went on as they had begun,
    Getting the boats out, being well aware
  That a tight boat will live in a rough sea,
  Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.

  The worst of all was, that in their condition,
    Having been several days in great distress,
  'T was difficult to get out such provision
    As now might render their long suffering less:
  Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;
    Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress:
  Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter
  Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.

  But in the long-boat they contrived to stow
    Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet;
  Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;
    Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get
  A portion of their beef up from below,
    And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,
  But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon-
  Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

  The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
    Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
  And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
    As there were but two blankets for a sail,
  And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
    Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail;
  And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
  To save one half the people then on board.

  'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down
    Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
  Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
    Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail,
  Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
    And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
  And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
  Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

  Some trial had been making at a raft,
    With little hope in such a rolling sea,
  A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,
    If any laughter at such times could be,
  Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
    And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
  Half epileptical and half hysterical:-
  Their preservation would have been a miracle.

  At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,
    And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
  That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
    For yet they strove, although of no great use:
  There was no light in heaven but a few stars,
    The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
  She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
  And, going down head foremost- sunk, in short.

  Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell-
    Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,
  Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
    As eager to anticipate their grave;
  And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
    And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
  Like one who grapples with his enemy,
  And strives to strangle him before he die.

  And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
    Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
  Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
    Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
  Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
    Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
  A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
  Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

  The boats, as stated, had got off before,
    And in them crowded several of the crew;
  And yet their present hope was hardly more
    Than what it had been, for so strong it blew
  There was slight chance of reaching any shore;
    And then they were too many, though so few-
  Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
  Were counted in them when they got afloat.

  All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls
    Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas!
  When over Catholics the ocean rolls,
    They must wait several weeks before a mass
  Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
    Because, till people know what 's come to pass,
  They won't lay out their money on the dead-
  It costs three francs for every mass that 's said.

  Juan got into the long-boat, and there
    Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
  It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care,
    For Juan wore the magisterial face
  Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair
    Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:
  Battista; though (a name call'd shortly Tita),
  Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

  Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,
    But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
  Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave
    As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,
  And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;
    They could not rescue him although so close,
  Because the sea ran higher every minute,
  And for the boat- the crew kept crowding in it.

  A small old spaniel,- which had been Don Jose's,
    His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,
  For on such things the memory reposes
    With tenderness- stood howling on the brink,
  Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!),
    No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;
  And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd
  Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.

  He also stuff'd his money where he could
    About his person, and Pedrillo's too,
  Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,
    Not knowing what himself to say, or do,
  As every rising wave his dread renew'd;
    But Juan, trusting they might still get through,
  And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
  Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

  'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,
    That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,
  Though on the wave's high top too much to set,
    They dared not take it in for all the breeze:
  Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,
    And made them bale without a moment's ease,
  So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,
  And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.

  Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still
    Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
  Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill
    Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:
  Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
    And present peril all before surpass'd,
  They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter,
  And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

  The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
    Of the continuance of the gale: to run
  Before the sea until it should grow fine,
    Was all that for the present could be done:
  A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine
    Were served out to the people, who begun
  To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
  And most of them had little clothes but rags.

  They counted thirty, crowded in a space
    Which left scarce room for motion or exertion;
  They did their best to modify their case,
    One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion,
  While t'other half were laid down in their place
    At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian
  Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,
  With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

  'T is very certain the desire of life
    Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,
  When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,
    Survive through very desperate conditions,
  Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife
    Nor shears of Atropos before their visions:
  Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
  And makes men miseries miseries of alarming brevity.

  'T is said that persons living on annuities
    Are longer lived than others,- God knows why,
  Unless to plague the grantors,- yet so true it is,
    That some, I really think, do never die;
  Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,
    And that 's their mode of furnishing supply:
  In my young days they lent me cash that way,
  Which I found very troublesome to pay.

  'T is thus with people in an open boat,
    They live upon the love of life, and bear
  More than can be believed, or even thought,
    And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear;
  And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,
    Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there;
  She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
  Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

  But man is a carnivorous production,
    And must have meals, at least one meal a day;
  He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,
    But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;
  Although his anatomical construction
    Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,
  Your labouring people think beyond all question,
  Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

  And thus it was with this our hapless crew;
    For on the third day there came on a calm,
  And though at first their strength it might renew,
    And lying on their weariness like balm,
  Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue
    Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,
  And fell all ravenously on their provision,
  Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

  The consequence was easily foreseen-
    They ate up all they had, and drank their wine,
  In spite of all remonstrances, and then
    On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?
  They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!
    And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,
  But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,
  It would have been more wise to save their victual.

  The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
    And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child:
  The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,
    The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild-
  With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)
    What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild:
  So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating,
  Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating.

  On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,
    And Juan, who had still refused, because
  The creature was his father's dog that died,
    Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,
  With some remorse received (though first denied)
    As a great favour one of the fore-paws,
  Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
  Devour'd it, longing for the other too.

  The seventh day, and no wind- the burning sun
    Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea,
  They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
    Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
  They glared upon each other- all was done,
    Water, and wine, and food,- and you might see
  The longings of the cannibal arise
  (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

  At length one whisper'd his companion, who
    Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
  And then into a hoarser murmur grew,
    An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;
  And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,
    'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:
  And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
  And who should die to be his fellow's food.

  But ere they came to this, they that day shared
    Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes;
  And then they look'd around them and despair'd,
    And none to be the sacrifice would choose;
  At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,
    But of materials that much shock the Muse-
  Having no paper, for the want of better,
  They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.

  The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed,
    In silent horror, and their distribution
  Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,
    Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;
  None in particular had sought or plann'd it,
    'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,
  By which none were permitted to be neuter-
  And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.

  He but requested to be bled to death:
    The surgeon had his instruments, and bled
  Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath,
    You hardly could perceive when he was dead.
  He died as born, a Catholic in faith,
    Like most in the belief in which they 're bred,
  And first a little crucifix he kiss'd,
  And then held out his jugular and wrist.

  The surgeon, as there was no other fee,
    Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;
  But being thirstiest at the moment, he
    Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins:
  Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,
    And such things as the entrails and the brains
  Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow-
  The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.

  The sailors ate him, all save three or four,
    Who were not quite so fond of animal food;
  To these was added Juan, who, before
    Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could
  Feel now his appetite increased much more;
    'T was not to be expected that he should,
  Even in extremity of their disaster,
  Dine with them on his pastor and his master.

  'T was better that he did not; for, in fact,
    The consequence was awful in the extreme;
  For they, who were most ravenous in the act,
    Went raging mad- Lord! how they did blaspheme!
  And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd,
    Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream,
  Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,
  And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.

  Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction,
    And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows;
  And some of them had lost their recollection,
    Happier than they who still perceived their woes;
  But others ponder'd on a new dissection,
    As if not warn'd sufficiently by those
  Who had already perish'd, suffering madly,
  For having used their appetites so sadly.

  And next they thought upon the master's mate,
    As fattest; but he saved himself, because,
  Besides being much averse from such a fate,
    There were some other reasons: the first was,
  He had been rather indisposed of late;
    And that which chiefly proved his saving clause
  Was a small present made to him at Cadiz,
  By general subscription of the ladies.

  Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd,
    But was used sparingly,- some were afraid,
  And others still their appetites constrain'd,
    Or but at times a little supper made;
  All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd,
    Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead:
  At length they caught two boobies and a noddy,
  And then they left off eating the dead body.

  And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be,
    Remember Ugolino condescends
  To eat the head of his arch-enemy
    The moment after he politely ends
  His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea
    'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends,
  When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty,
  Without being much more horrible than Dante.

  And the same night there fell a shower of rain,
    For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth
  When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain
    Men really know not what good water 's worth;
  If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
    Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,
  Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
  You 'd wish yourself where Truth is- in a well.

  It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer
    Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,
  Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,
    And when they deem'd its moisture was complete
  They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher
    Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet
  As a full pot of porter, to their thinking
  They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking.

  And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,
    Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd;
  Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,
    As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd
  To beg the beggar, who could not rain back
    A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd
  To taste of heaven- If this be true, indeed
  Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

  There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
    And with them their two sons, of whom the one
  Was more robust and hardy to the view,
    But he died early; and when he was gone,
  His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
    One glance at him, and said, 'Heaven's will be done!
  I can do nothing,' and he saw him thrown
  Into the deep without a tear or groan.

  The other father had a weaklier child,
    Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate;
  But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
    And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
  Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
    As if to win a part from off the weight
  He saw increasing on his father's heart,
  With the deep deadly thought that they must part.

  And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised
    His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
  From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,
    And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come,
  And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,
    Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
  He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
  Into his dying child's mouth- but in vain.

  The boy expired- the father held the clay,
    And look'd upon it long, and when at last
  Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay
    Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past,
  He watch'd it wistfully, until away
    'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast;
  Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering,
  And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.

  Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through
    The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea,
  Resting its bright base on the quivering blue;
    And all within its arch appear'd to be
  Clearer than that without, and its wide hue
    Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free,
  Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then
  Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men.

  It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon,
    The airy child of vapour and the sun,
  Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion,
    Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun,
  Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion,
    And blending every colour into one,
  Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle
  (For sometimes we must box without the muffle).

  Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen-
    It is as well to think so, now and then;
  'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman,
    And may become of great advantage when
  Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men
    Had greater need to nerve themselves again
  Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope-
  Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.

  About this time a beautiful white bird,
    Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size
  And plumage (probably it might have err'd
    Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes,
  And tried to perch, although it saw and heard
    The men within the boat, and in this guise
  It came and went, and flutter'd round them till
  Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still.

  But in this case I also must remark,
    'T was well this bird of promise did not perch,
  Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark
    Was not so safe for roosting as a church;
  And had it been the dove from Noah's ark,
    Returning there from her successful search,
  Which in their way that moment chanced to fall,
  They would have eat her, olive-branch and all.

  With twilight it again came on to blow,
    But not with violence; the stars shone out,
  The boat made way; yet now they were so low,
    They knew not where nor what they were about;
  Some fancied they saw land, and some said 'No!'
    The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt-
  Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns,
  And all mistook about the latter once.

  As morning broke, the light wind died away,
    When he who had the watch sung out and swore,
  If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray,
    He wish'd that land he never might see more;
  And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay,
    Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore;
  For shore it was, and gradually grew
  Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.

  And then of these some part burst into tears,
    And others, looking with a stupid stare,
  Could not yet separate their hopes from fears,
    And seem'd as if they had no further care;
  While a few pray'd (the first time for some years)-
    And at the bottom of the boat three were
  Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head,
  And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.

  The day before, fast sleeping on the water,
    They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind,
  And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her,
    Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind
  Proved even still a more nutritious matter,
    Because it left encouragement behind:
  They thought that in such perils, more than chance
  Had sent them this for their deliverance.

  The land appear'd a high and rocky coast,
    And higher grew the mountains as they drew,
  Set by a current, toward it: they were lost
    In various conjectures, for none knew
  To what part of the earth they had been tost,
    So changeable had been the winds that blew;
  Some thought it was Mount AEtna, some the highlands,
  Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.

  Meantime the current, with a rising gale,
    Still set them onwards to the welcome shore,
  Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale:
    Their living freight was now reduced to four,
  And three dead, whom their strength could not avail
    To heave into the deep with those before,
  Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd
  The spray into their faces as they splash'd.

  Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done
    Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to
  Such things a mother had not known her son
    Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;
  By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
    They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
  But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
  In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

  As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen
    Unequal in its aspect here and there,
  They felt the freshness of its growing green,
    That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air,
  And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen
    From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare-
  Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep
  Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.

  The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man,
    And girt by formidable waves; but they
  Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran,
    Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay:
  A reef between them also now began
    To show its boiling surf and bounding spray,
  But finding no place for their landing better,
  They ran the boat for shore,- and overset her.

  But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir,
    Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont;
  And having learnt to swim in that sweet river,
    Had often turn'd the art to some account:
  A better swimmer you could scarce see ever,
    He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont,
  As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided)
  Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.

  So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark,
    He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply
  With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark,
    The beach which lay before him, high and dry:
  The greatest danger here was from a shark,
    That carried off his neighbour by the thigh;
  As for the other two, they could not swim,
  So nobody arrived on shore but him.

  Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,
    Which, providentially for him, was wash'd
  Just as his feeble arms could strike no more,
    And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd
  Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore
    The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd;
  At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he
  Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea:

  There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung
    Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave,
  From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung,
    Should suck him back to her insatiate grave:
  And there he lay, full length, where he was flung,
    Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave,
  With just enough of life to feel its pain,
  And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain.

  With slow and staggering effort he arose,
    But sunk again upon his bleeding knee
  And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those
    Who long had been his mates upon the sea;
  But none of them appear'd to share his woes,
    Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three,
  Who died two days before, and now had found
  An unknown barren beach for burial ground.

  And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast,
    And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand
  Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd:
    He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand
  Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast),
    And, like a wither'd lily, on the land
  His slender frame and pallid aspect lay,
  As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.

  How long in his damp trance young Juan lay
    He knew not, for the earth was gone for him,
  And Time had nothing more of night nor day
    For his congealing blood, and senses dim;
  And how this heavy faintness pass'd away
    He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb,
  And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life,
  For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.

  His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed,
    For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought
  He still was in the boat and had but dozed,
    And felt again with his despair o'erwrought,
  And wish'd it death in which he had reposed;
    And then once more his feelings back were brought,
  And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen
  A lovely female face of seventeen.

  'T was bending dose o'er his, and the small mouth
    Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
  And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth
    Recall'd his answering spirits back from death;
  And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe
    Each pulse to animation, till beneath
  Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh
  To these kind efforts made a low reply.

  Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung
    Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm
  Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung;
    And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,
  Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung
    His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
  And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew
  A sigh from his heaved bosom- and hers, too.

  And lifting him with care into the cave,
    The gentle girl and her attendant,- one
  Young, yet her elder, and of brow less gr