Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,

According to some good old woman's tale.

Thus would he while his lonely hours away
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,
Could yield his spirit that for which it
panted,-

A bosom whereon he his head might lay, And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,

With several other things, which I forget, Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

The plan of twenty years, and all is over, And then the mother cries, the father swears, And wonders why the devil he got heirs.

But Inez was so anxious and so clear
Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.

It was upon a day, a summer's day ;Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, And so is spring about the end of May; The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,

That there are months

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease
Her only son with question or surmise;
Whether it was she did not see, or would not,
Or, like all very clever people, could not.

March has its hares,

treason, which nature grows more merry inand May must have its heroine.

'Twas on a summer's day-the sixth of June: I like to be particular in dates, Not only of the age, and year, but moon: They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Change horses, making history change its tune,

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, Excepting the post-obits of theology.

Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six-perhaps still nearer seven, When Julia sate within as pretty a bower As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet,and Anacreon-Moore, To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,

With all the trophies of triumphant songHe won them well, and may he wear them long!

She sate, but not alone; I know not well How this same interview had taken place, And even if I knew, I should not tellPeople should hold their tongues in any case; No matter how or why the thing befel, But there were she and Juan face to faceWhen two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no

wrong.

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:

-

not smother

come;

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.

Oh Pleasure! you're 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 license,
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 license 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

"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 recal
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;