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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

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