LXXII. And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the goût,Taste or the gout,-pronounce it as inclines Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do, But after, there are sometimes certain signs

Which prove plain English truer of the two.
Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-
But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.
LXXIII.

The simple olives, best allies of wine,
Must I pass over in my bill of fare?

I must, although a favorite "plat" of mine
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where:
On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine,
The grass my table cloth, in open air,
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes,
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.
LXXIV.

Amid this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl,
And vegetables, all in masquerade,
The guests were placed according to their roll,
But various as the various meats display'd:
Don Juan sate next an "à l'Espagnole "-

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;
But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest.

LXXIX.

And look'd as much as if to say, "I said it; "-
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend,
Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it,
Both in the case of lover and of friend,
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,

To bring what was a jest to a serious end;
For all men prophecy what is or was,
And hate those who won't let them come to pass.
LXXX.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,
Slight but select, and just enough to express,
To females of perspicuous comprehensions,
That he would rather make them more than less.
Aurora at the last (so history mentions,

Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke,
(See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd
Opinions two, which at first sight may look
Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook,

Or none at all-which seems a sorry jest;
But if a writer should be quite consistent,
How could he possibly show things existent?
LXXXVIII.

If people contradict themselves, can I

Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self-but that's a lie;

I never did so, never will-how should I?
He who doubts all things, nothing can deny;
Truth's fountains may be clear-her streams are
muddy,

And cut through such canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

LXXXIX.

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,

Are false, but may be render'd also true By those who saw them in a land that's arable. "Tis wonderful what fable will not do! 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable: But what's reality? Who has its clue? Philosophy? No; she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

XC.

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear;
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right,
God help us! Since we've need on our career
To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'Tis time that some new prophet should appear
Or old indulge man with a second-sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
Without a small refreshment from the spheres.
XCI.

But here again, why will I thus entangle
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
So much as I do any kind of wrangle;

And yet such is my folly, or my fate,
I always knock my head against some angle
About the present, past, or future state;
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

XCII.

But though I am a temperate theologian,
And also meek as a metaphysician,
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,

As Eldon on a lunatic commission,-
In politics, my duty is to show John

Bull something of the lower world's condition. It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.

XCIII.

But politics, and policy, and piety,

Are topics which I sometimes introduce,
Not only for the sake of their variety,
But as subservient to a moral use;
Because my business is to dress society,

And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. And now, that we may furnish with some matter ai Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

XCIV.

And now I will give up all argument:

And positively henceforth no temptation Shall "fool me to the top of my bent;"

Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. Indeed I never knew what people meant

By deeming that my Muse's conversation Was dangerous;-1 think she is as harmless As some who labor more and yet may charm less XCV.

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?

No; but you've heard-I understand-be dumb. And don't regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most

Of these things, or by a ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious :For certain reasons my belief is serious.

XCVI.

Serious? You laugh:-you may; that will I not; My smiles must be sincere or not at all.

I say I do believe a haunted spot

Exists-and where? That shall I not reeall, Because I'd rather it should be forgot.

"Shadows the soul of Richard" may appal: In short, upon that subject I've some qualms, very Like those of the philosophy of Malmsbury.7

XCVII.

The night (I sing by night-sometimes an owl,
And now and then a nightingale)—is dim,
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl
Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl-
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate-
I think too that 1 have sate up too late:

XCVIII.

And therefore, though 'tis by no means my way To rhyme at noon-when I have other things To think of, if I ever think,-I say

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,
And prudently postpone, until midday,
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings
Shadows;-but you must be in my condition
Before you learn to call this superstition.
XCIX.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
"Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,

[stern,

The charms of other days, in starlight gleams Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. A picture is the past; even ere its frame Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. XX.

As Juan mused on mutability,

Or on his mistress-terms synonymousNo sound except the echo of his sigh

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,

A supernatural agent-or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass Most people, as it plays along the arrass.

XXI.

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd,
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
His garments only a slight murmur made;

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by,
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

XXII.

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint

Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in't Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint,

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper And did he see this? or was it a vapor?

XXIII.

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd-the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,

Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair

Twine like a lot of snakes around his face; He tax'd his tongue for words which were not granted To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

XXIV.

The third time, after a still longer pause,

The shadow pass'd away—but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.

XXV.

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd
An age-expectant, powerless, with his eyes
Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gloam'd;
Then by degrees recall'd his energies,

And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream,
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,
Waking already, and return'd at length
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

XXVI.

All there was as he left it; still his taper

Burnt, and not blue, as modern taper's use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor; He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse Their office; he took up an old newspaper; The paper was right easy to peruse: He read an article the king attacking, And a long eulogy of "Patent Blacking."

XXVII.

This savor'd of this world; but his hand shook-
He shut his door, and after having read
A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed.
There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook,
With what he'd seen his phantasy he fed,
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept
Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.