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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.

       O 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.

       O 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

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