CIV. "Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, CV. She sate, but not alone;-I know not well People should hold their tongues in any case; But there were she and Juan, face to faceWhen two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, But very difficult, to shut their eyes. CVI. How beautiful she look'd !-her conscious heart Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong! How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led alongThe precipice she stood on was immense, So was her creed in her own innocence. CVII. She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: CVIII. When people say, "I've told you fifty times," In But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, CIX. Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, One hand on Juan carelessly was thrown, Quite by mistake-she thought it was her own; CX. 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; 'Twas 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. CXI. The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees She should have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, CXII. I cannot know what Juan thought of this, Love is so very timid when 'tis new: She blush'd and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. CXIII. The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: Sees half the business in a wicked way CXIV. There is a dangerous silence in that hour, A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul Of calling wholly back its self-controul; CXV. And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, Which trembled like the bosom, where 'twas placed; But then the situation had its charm, And then- -God knows what next-I can't go on; I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. CXVI. Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, Your system claims o'er the controulless core CXVII. And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, CXVIII. 'Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward To those that could invent him a new pleasure; Methinks the requisition's rather hard, And must have cost his Majesty a treasure: CXIX. Oh Pleasure! you're 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, I'm very sorry, very much ashamed, CXX. Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take Start not! still chaster reader-she'll be nice hence Forward, and there is no great cause to quake; This liberty is a poetic licence, Which some irregularity may make In the design; and as I have a high sense Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit To beg his pardon when I err a bit. CXXI. This licence is to hope the reader will For want of facts, would all be thrown away), In sight, that several months have pass'd; we'll say 'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure About the day-the era's more obscure. CXXII. We'll talk of that anon-'Tis sweet to hear By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep: "Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; "Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. CXXIII. 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home : 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come : 'Tis 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. |