Julia was-yet I never could see why- sympathy, For not a line had Julia ever penn'd: more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, For that compression in its burning core; And if, in the mean time, her husband died, | Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, But heaven forbid that such a thought should Thinking unutterable things; he threw Himself at length within the leafy nooks cross Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she | Where the wild branch of the cork-forest grew; sigh'd) through, Never could she survive that common loss; There poets find materials for their books, But just suppose that moment should betide, And every now and then we read them I only say suppose it-inter nos, (This should be entre nous,for Julia thought | So that their plan and prosody are eligible, In French, but then the rhyme would go Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unfor nought). intelligible. |