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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);

      

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