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 ’twas placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else ’twere 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.
’Tis 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, ’tis 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 ’Twas in November, but I’m not so sure About the day—the era ’s more obscure.
We’ll talk of that anon.—’Tis sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier, By distance mellow’d, o’er the waters sweep; ’Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; ’Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; ’tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home; ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; ’Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark, Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born’s birth, Sweet is revenge—especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who’ve made ‘us youth’ wait too—too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat, Still breaking, but with stamina so steady That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damn’d post-obits.
’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels, By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend: Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot.
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love—it stands alone, Like Adam’s recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been pluck’d—all ’s known— And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filch’d for us from heaven.
Man ’s a strange animal, and makes strange use Of his own nature, and the various arts, And likes particularly to produce Some new experiment to show his parts; This is the age of oddities let loose, Where different talents find their different marts; You’d best begin with truth, and when you’ve lost your Labour, there’s a sure market for imposture.
What opposite discoveries we have seen! (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) One makes new noses, one a guillotine, One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been A kind antithesis to Congreve’s rockets, With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, By borrowing a new one from an ox.
Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes; And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer’d like the apparatus Of the Humane Society’s beginning By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning! I said the small-pox has gone out of late; Perhaps it may be follow’d by the great.
’Tis said the great came from America; Perhaps it may set out on its return,— The population there so spreads, they say ’Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, With war, or plague, or famine, any way, So that civilisation they may learn; And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is— Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?
This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions; Sir Humphry Davy’s lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
Man ’s a phenomenon, one knows not what, And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; ’Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that Pleasure ’s a sin, and sometimes sin ’s a pleasure; Few mortals know what end they would be at, But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gain’d, we die, you know—and then—
What then?—I do not know, no more do you— And so good night.—Return we to our story: ’Twas in November, when fine days are few, And the far mountains wax a little hoary, And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; And the sea dashes round the promontory, And the loud breaker boils against the rock, And sober suns must set at five o’clock.
’Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright With the piled wood, round which the family crowd; There’s something cheerful in that sort of light, Even as a summer sky ’s without a cloud: I’m fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.
’Twas midnight—Donna Julia was in bed, Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead, If they had never been awoke before, And that they have been so we all have read, And are to be so, at the least, once more.— The door was fasten’d, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then ‘Madam—Madam—hist!
‘For God’s sake, Madam—Madam—here’s my master, With more than half the city at his back— Was ever heard of such a curst disaster! ’Tis not my fault—I kept good watch—Alack! Do pray undo the bolt a little faster— They’re on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly— Surely the window ’s not so very high!’
By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, With torches, friends, and servants in great number; The major part of them had long been wived, And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Of any wicked woman, who contrived By stealth her husband’s temples to encumber: Examples of this kind are so contagious, Were one not punish’d, all would be outrageous.