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They separated at an early hour;

That is, ere midnight—which is London's noon:
But in the country, ladies seek their bower
A little earlier than the waning moon.
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower-
May the rose call back its true color soon!
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,

CANTO XIV.

I.

Ir from great Nature's or our own abyss
Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this

Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
II.

But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences ?

III.

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,

Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may, after all, turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,

When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

IV.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way

Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

V.

'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where
And there's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it :—when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns,-you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

VI.

'Tis true, you don't-but, pale and struck with terror,
Retire: but look into your past impression!
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession,
The lurking bias, be it truth or error,

To the unknown; a secret preposession, [not,
To plunge with all your fears-but where? You know

And lower the price of rouge-at least some winters. And that's the reason why you do-or do not.

VII. But what's this to the purpose? you will say. Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is-'tis my way.

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, I write what's uppermost without delay;

This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis,

To build up common things with common-places. VIII.

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, "Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind blows; "

And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows;
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death,

A shadow which the onward soul behind throws,
And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.

The world is all before me-or behind;

For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind ;

Of passions, too, I've proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme;

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke
The other that's to say, the clergy-who
Upon my head have bid their thunders break
In pious libels by no means a few,
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind is full,
And now because I feel it growing dull.

But "why then publish?"-There are no rewards
Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn,-why do you play at cards? [dreary.
Why drink? Why read?-To make some hour less
It occupies me to turn back regards

On what I've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery;
And what I write I cast upon the stream,
To swim or sink-I have had at least my dream.

XII.

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When we have made our love, and gamed our

Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score; Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There's little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those "ci-devant jeunes hommes" who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.

XIX.

'Tis said-indeed a general complaint

That no one has succeeded in describing
The monde, exactly as they ought to paint.

Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; choosing-And that their books have but one style in commonMy lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.

I think that were I certain of success,
I hardly could compose another line:
So long I've battled either more or less,
That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling 'tis not easy to express,
And yet 'tis not affected, I opine.
In play, there are two pleasures for your
The one is winning, and the other losing.
XIII.
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
She gathers a repertory of facts,
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
But mostly sings of human things and acts-
And that's one cause she meets with contradiction;
For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
And were her object only what's call'd glory,
With more ease too she'd tell a different story.

XX.

But this can't well be true, just now; for writers
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential:
I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters,
Especially when young, for that's essential.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers

Of, what they deem themselves most conse. The real portrait of the highest tribe ? [quential 'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe.

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"Haud ignara loquor:" these are nugæ, “quarum And when upon a silent, sullen day,

Pars parva fui," but still art and part.
Now I could much more easily sketch a haram,

A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,

With a Sirocco, for example, blowing,When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,

And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing,

Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em And the sky shows that very ancient gray,

For reasons which I choose to keep apart. "Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit,"

The sober sad antithesis to glowing,'Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant,

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.

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XXXV.

Such were his trophies ;-not of spear and shield,
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes'
Yet I must own,—although in this I yield [brushes;
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,-
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd, next day, "if men ever hunted twice?" XXXVI.

He also had a quality uncommon

To early risers after a long chase,

Who wake in winter ere the the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race,

A quality agreeable to woman,

When her soft liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,He did not fall asleep just after dinner.

XXXVII.

But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humoring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret-cunning rogue!
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;
In short, there never was a better hearer.

XXXVIII.

And then he danced;-all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of Pantomime ;-he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense-

A thing in footing indispensable:

He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van

Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

XXXIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigor;
And then he had an ear for music's sound,

Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigor.
Such classic pas-sans flaws-set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified bolero;

XL.

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora,

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The "tout ensemble" of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for, to the dolor Of bards and prosers, words are void of color.

XLI.

To marvel then he was a favorite;

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspir'd. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved "tracasserie," Began to treat him with some small "agacerie."

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguished, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
I'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLIII.

This noble personage began to look

A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licenses must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke! "Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators, when they count on woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;
Some would not deem such women could be found
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard;
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLV.

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke,
Who, one might think, was something in the affair
True, he was absent, and 'twas rumor'd, took
But small concern, about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook

Her gayeties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.

XLVI.

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,
Began to think the Duchess' conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

XLVII.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
"Tis so becoming to the soul and face;
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,

To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with-"Would you had thought twice Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!"

XLVIII.

Oh, Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough,
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : When your affairs come round, one way or t'other Go to the coffee-house, and take nother 2

XLIX.

But this is not my maxim: had it been,
Some heart aches had been spared me; yet I care not,
I would not be a tortoise in his screen

[not: Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear 'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen

That which humanity may bear, or bear not: "Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of wo,

Sadder than owl-songs, or the midnight blast, Is that portentious phrase, "I told you so,"

Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst "bonos mores"" With a long memorandum of old stories.

LI.

The Lady Adeline's serene severity

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend. But Juan also shared in her austerity,

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd:
His inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.
LII.

These forty days' advantage of her years-
And hers were those which can face calculation,
Boldly referring to the list of peers,

And noble births, nor dread the enumerationGave her a right to have maternal fears

For a young gentleman's fit education, Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap In female dates, strikes time all of a heap.

LIII.

This may be fix'd somewhere before thirty-
Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
The strictest in chronology and virtue

Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
Oh, time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.

LIV.

But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
"Twas rather her experience that made her sage,
For she had seen the world, and stood its test,
As I have said in-I forget what page;

My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd By this time: but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty.

LV.

At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
She put all coronets into commotion:
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean:
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam, call'd "the happiest of men."

LVI.

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing
Admired, adored! but also so correct, [winters,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
Without the apparel of being circumspect;
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir-and one miscarriage.

LVII.

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her-
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;

But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify
A woman, so she's good, what does it signify?
LVIII.

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle,

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand;

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,

Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand; I hate it, as I hate an argument,

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content."

LIX.

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things,

They are so much intertwisted with the earth, So that the branch a goodly verdure mugs, I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. To trace all actions to their secret springs Would make indeed some melancholy mirth: But this is not at present my concern, And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.3

LX.

With the kind view of saving an eclât,
Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw

That Juan was unlikely to resist-
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas

In England ranks quite on a different list From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is)

LXI.

The Lady Adeline resolved to take

Such measures as she thought might best impede The farther progress of this sad mistake.

She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold even at the stake,

And simple in the world, and doth not need Nor use those palisades by dames erected, Whose virtue lies in never being detected.

LXII.

It was not that she fear'd the very worst: His grace was an enduring, married man, And was not likely all at once to burst

Into a scene, and swell the client's clan Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded first The magic of her grace's talisman, And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

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