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question; but, no doubt, the moon

      Does these things for us, and whenever newly

      Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon,

      Else how the devil is it that fresh features

      Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

      I hate inconstancy—I loathe, detest,

      Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made

      Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast

      No permanent foundation can be laid;

      Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,

      And yet last night, being at a masquerade,

      I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan,

      Which gave me some sensations like a villain.

      But soon Philosophy came to my aid,

      And whisper'd, 'Think of every sacred tie!'

      'I will, my dear Philosophy!' I said,

      'But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye!

      I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid,

      Or neither—out of curiosity.'

      'Stop!' cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian

      (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian);

      'Stop!' so I stopp'd.—But to return: that which

      Men call inconstancy is nothing more

      Than admiration due where nature's rich

      Profusion with young beauty covers o'er

      Some favour'd object; and as in the niche

      A lovely statue we almost adore,

      This sort of adoration of the real

      Is but a heightening of the 'beau ideal.'

      'T is the perception of the beautiful,

      A fine extension of the faculties,

      Platonic, universal, wonderful,

      Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies,

      Without which life would be extremely dull;

      In short, it is the use of our own eyes,

      With one or two small senses added, just

      To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust.

      Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling,

      For surely if we always could perceive

      In the same object graces quite as killing

      As when she rose upon us like an Eve,

      'T would save us many a heartache, many a shilling

      (For we must get them any how or grieve),

      Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever,

      How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!

      The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,

      But changes night and day, too, like the sky;

      Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,

      And darkness and destruction as on high:

      But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,

      Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye

      Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears,

      Which make the English climate of our years.

      The liver is the lazaret of bile,

      But very rarely executes its function,

      For the first passion stays there such a while,

      That all the rest creep in and form a junction,

      Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,—

      Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,—

      So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,

      Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central,'

      In the mean time, without proceeding more

      In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now

      Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,

      That being about the number I 'll allow

      Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four;

      And, laying down my pen, I make my bow,

      Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead

      For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

      ––––––––

      CANTO THE THIRD.

      ––––––––

      Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping,

      Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,

      And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,

      And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest

      To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,

      Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,

      Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,

      And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

      O, Love! what is it in this world of ours

      Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why

      With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers,

      And made thy best interpreter a sigh?

      As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,

      And place them on their breast—but place to die—

      Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish

      Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

      In her first passion woman loves her lover,

      In all the others all she loves is love,

      Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,

      And fits her loosely—like an easy glove,

      As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her:

      One man alone at first her heart can move;

      She then prefers him in the plural number,

      Not finding that the additions much encumber.

      I know not if the fault be men's or theirs;

      But one thing 's pretty sure; a woman planted

      (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)

      After a decent time must be gallanted;

      Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs

      Is that to which her heart is wholly granted;

      Yet there are some, they say, who have had none,

      But those who have ne'er end with only one.

      'T is melancholy,

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