Even as the page is rustled while we look, | Till some confounded escapade has blighted So by the poesy of his own mind 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 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 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 Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries | And stand convicted of more truth than Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 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; - Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, not smother come; Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, Our coming, and look brighter when we 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 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 license is to hope the reader will 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 Sweet is a legacy; and passing sweet For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, '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; 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, Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use Of his own nature and the various arts, |