XI.

But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre
May sit like that of Nessus, and recal

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. Titus exclaim'd, «I've lost a day!» Of all

The nights and days most people can remember
(I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd),
I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd.
XII.

And Juan, on retiring for the night,

Felt restless and perplexed, and compromised; He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright

Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; If he had known exactly his own plight,

He probably would have philosophised;
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied
Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd.
XIII.

He sigh'd;-the next resource is the full moon,
Where all sighs are deposited; and now,

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone

As clear as such a climate will allow; And Juan's mind was in the proper tone

To bail her with the apostrophe-«< Oh, thou!»
Of amatory egotism the tuism,

Which further to explain would be a truism.
XIV.

But lover, poet, or astronomer,

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err);

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told;

The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways,
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.

XV.

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed
For contemplation rather than his pillow;
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,

Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, With all the mystery by midnight caused;

Below his window waved (of course) a willow; And he stood gazing out on the cascade. That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. XVI.

Upon his table or his toilet-which

Of these is not exactily ascertained(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd,)

A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche,
Where many a Gothie ornament remain'd,

In chisel'd stone and painted glass, and all
That time has left our fathers of their hall.

XVII.

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw His chamber-door wide open-and went forth Into a gallery, of a sombre hae,

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, Of knights and dames heroic and chaste 100, As doubtless should be people of high birth. But by dim lights the portraits of the dead Ilave something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

XVIII.

The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints
Look living in the moon; and as you turn
Backward and forward to the echoes faint

OF
your own footsteps-voices from the urn
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern,
As if to ask how can you dare to keep

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep!
XIX.

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,

The charms of other days, in starlight gleams
Glimmer on high; their buried locks stili wave
Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams
On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.
A picture is the past; even ere its frame
Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.
XX.

As Juan mused on mutability,

Or on his mistress-terms synonymous-
No sound except the echo of his sigh

Or step ran sadly through that antique house,
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,
A supernatural agent-or a mouse,
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass
Most people, as it plays along the arras.

XXI.

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd,
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
His garments only a slight murmur made;

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by,
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

XXII.

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint

Of such a spirit in these halls of old,

But thought, like most men, there was nothing in t Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superstition's miut,

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

XXIII.

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd-the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place;

And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,

Yet could not speak or move, but, on its base

As stands a statue, stood. he felt his hair

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; Ile tax'd his tongue for words, which were not grante To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

XXIV.

The third time, after a still longer pause,

The shadow pass'd away-but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the law, Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.

XXV.

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd.
An age-expectant, powerless, with his eyes
Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd;
Then by degrees recall'd his energies,

And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream,
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,
Walking already, and return'd at length
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.
XXVI.

All there was as he left it; still his taper

Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,
Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;

He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse
Their office; he took up an old newspaper;
The paper was right easy to peruse;
He read an article the king attacking,
And a long eulogy of « Patent Blacking.»>

XXXII.

But seeing him all cold and silent still,
And every body wondering more or less,
Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill?

He started, and said, « Yes-no-rather-yes.»
The family physician had great skill,

And, being present, now began to express
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell
The cause, but Juan said, « he was quite well.»
XXXIII.

«Quite well; yes, no.»-These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious;

Something like illness of a sudden growth
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious.
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted,
It was not the physician that he wanted.

XXXIV.

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate,
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd,
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,

At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;
Then ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of late?
Her grace replied, his grace was rather pain'd
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges

Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

XXXV.

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd

A few words of condolence on his state:

« You look,»> quoth he, « as if you 'd had your rest Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.»>

« What friar?» said Juan; and he did his best
To put the question with an air sedate,

Or careless; but the effort was not valid
To hinder him from growing still more pallid.
XXXVI.

«Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?
The spirit of these walls?»-« In truth not I.»
Why fame-but fame you know's sometimes a liar-
Tells an odd story, of which by the by:
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,

Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed, The friar of late has not been oft perceived.

XXXVII.

«The last time was-->> « I pray,» said Adeline(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, And from its context thought she could divine Connexions stronger than he chose to avow With this same legend),—« if you but design

To jest, you'll chuse some other theme just now, Because the present tale has oft been told, And is not much improved by growing old.»

XXXVIII.

« Jest!» quoth Milor, « Why, Adeline, yon know
That we ourselves-'t was in the honey-moon-
Saw--» « Well, no matter, 't was so long ago;
But come, I'll set your story to a tune,»
Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow,

She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touch'd, and plaintively began to play

The air of <<'T was a Friar of Orders Grey.»

6.

Say nought to him as he walks the ball,
And he il say nought to you:
Ile sweeps along in his dusky pall,
As o'er the grass the dew.
Then gramercy! for the Black Friar;
Heaven sain him! fair or foul:
And whatsoever may be his prayer,
Let ours be for his soul.

XLI.

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires

Died from the touch that kindled them to sound; And the pause follow'd, which, when song expires, Pervades a moment those who listen round; And then of course the circle much admires, Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, The tones, the feeling, and the execution, To the performer's diffident confusion.

XLII.

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,
As if she rated such accomplishment
As the mere pastime of an idle day,

Pursued an instant for her own content,
Would now and then as 't were without display,
Yet with display in fact, at times relent
To such performances with haughty smile,
To show she could, if it were worth her while.
XLIII.

Now this (but we will whisper it aside)
Was-pardon the pedantic illustration-
Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride,
As did the Cynie on some like occasion;
Deeming the sage would be much mortified,
Or thrown into a philosophic passion,

3.

And whether for good, or whether for ill,

It is not mine to say;

But still to the house of Amundeville,

He abideth night and day.

By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, ile thts on the bridal eve;

And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death He comes-but not to grieve.

4.

When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn,
And when aught is to befal

That ancient line, in the pale moon-shine

He walks from hall to hall.

His form you may trace, but not his face, 'Tis shadow'd by his cowl;

But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, And they seem of a parted soul.

5.

But beware! beware of the Black Friar,

He still retains his sway,

For he is yet the church's heir,

Whoever may be the lay. Amundeville is lord by day,

But the monk is lord by night;

Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal To question that friar's right.

Was much consoled by his own repartee.1

XLIV.

Thus Adefine would throw into the shade

(By doing easily whene'er she chose, What dilettanti do with vast parade),

Their sort of half profession: for it grows

To something like this when too oft display'd,
And that it is so every body knows

Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T other.
Show off-to please their company or mother.

XLV.

Oh! the long evenings of duets and trios!
The admirations and the speculations;
The « Mamma Mias!» and the « Amor Mios!»
The Tanti Palpitis» on such occasions:
The « Lasciamis,» and quavering « Addios!»
Amongst our own most musical of nations:
With « Tu mi chamases» from Portingale,
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.3

XLVI.

In Babylon's bravuras-as the home

Heart-ballads of Green Eriu or Grey Highlands, That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands,

The calentures of music which o'ercome

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands,

No more to be beheld but in such visions,—

Was Adeline well versed as compositions.

XLVII.

She also had a twilight tinge of « Blue,»

Could write rhymes,and compose more than she wrote; Made epigrams occasionally too

Upon her friends, as every body ought. But still from that sublimer azure hue,

So much the present dye, she was remote; Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet,

And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.

XLVIII.

Aurora-since we are touching upon taste,

Which now-a-days is the thermometer By whose degrees all characters are class'd— Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err, The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste Had more of her existence, for in her There was a depth of feeling to embrace Thoughts boundless, deep, but silent too as space.

XLIX.

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace,
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind,
If she had any, was upon her face,

And that was of a fascinating kind.

A little turn for mischief you might trace

Also thereon, but that's not much; we find Few females without some such gentle leaven, For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. L.

I have not heard she was at all poetic,

Though once she was seen reading the « Bath Guide,» And << Hayley's Triumphs,» which she deem'd pathetic, Because, she said, her temper had been tried So much, the bard had really been prophetic

Of what she had gone through with,-since a bride. But of all verse what most insured her praise Were sonnets to herself, or «< bouts rimés.»

LI.

T were difficult to say what was the object
Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay
To bear on what appear'd to her the subject
Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day.
Perhaps she merely had the simple project

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, Though why I cannot say—at least this minute. LH.

But so far the immediate effect

Was to restore him to his self-propriety, A thing quite necessary to the elect,

Who wish to take the tone of their society: In which you cannot be too circumspect,

Whether the mode be persillage or piety, But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. LIII.

And therefore Juan now began to rally

His spirits, and without more explanation, To jest upon such themes in many a sally. ller grace too also seized the same occasion, With various similar remarks to tally,

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration Of this same mysti: friar's curious doings, About the present family's deaths aud wooings.

LIV.

Of these few could say more than has been said;
They pass'd as such things do, for superstition
With some, while others, who had more in dread
The theme, half credited the strange tradition;
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head;
But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision,
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it)
Ilad stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it.
LV.

And then, the mid-day having worn to one,
The company prepared to separate:
Some to their several pastimes, or to none;
Some wondering 't was so early, some so late.
There was a goodly match, too, to be run

Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate,
And a young race-horse of old pedigree,
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see.
LVI.

There was a picture-dealer who had brought
A special Titian, warranted original,
So precious that it was not to be bought,

Though princes the possessor were besieging all.
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought
The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all
His subjects by his gracious acceptation)
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation.
LVII.

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,——
The friend of artists, if not arts,-the owner,
With motives the most classical and pure,

So that he would have been the very donor,
Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer,

So much he deem'd his patronage an honour,
Had brought the capo d'opéra, not for sale,
But for his judgment,-never known to fail.

LVIII.

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic
Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect,
Brought to survey these grey walls, which, though so
thick,

Might have from time acquired some slight defect; Who, after rummaging the abbey through thick

And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect
New buildings of correctest conformation,
And throw down old, which he call'd restoration.
LIX.

The cost would be a trifle-an « old song,»

Set to some thousands (t is the usual burthen Of that same tune, when people hum it long)— The price would speedily repay its worth in An edifice no less sublime than strong,

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in Its glory, through all ages shining sunny,. For Gothic daring shown in English money .4

LX.

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase;
Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage,

And one on tithes which sure are Discord's torches, Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage,

« Untying» squires « to fight against the churches; »5 There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman.

LXI.

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap,
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence;
There was a country girl in a close cap

And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since-
Since-since-in youth I had the sad mishap--
But luckily I've paid few parish fees since)
That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour,
Fresents the problem of a double figure.

LXII.

A reel within a bottle is a mystery,

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out, Therefore the present piece of natural history I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt, And merely state, though not for the consistory, Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. LXIII.

game

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the
And morals of the country from caprices
Of those who 've not a license for the same;
And of all things, excepting tithes and leases,

Perhaps these are most difficult to tame:
Preserving partridges and pretty wenches,
Are puzzles to the most precautious benches.
LXIV.

The present culprit was extremely pale.
Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red
By nature, as in higher dames less hale,

'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail,

Poor soul! for she was country born and bred, And knew no better in her immorality Than to wax white-for blushes are for quality.

LXV.

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiègle eye Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, For she was not a sentimental mourner, Parading all her sensibility,

Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, To be call'd up for her examination.

LXVI.

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent.

The lawyers in the study; and in air

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent From town, viz. architect and dealer, were Both busy (as a general in his tent Writing dispatches) in their several stations, Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations.

LXVII.

But this poor girl was left in the great hali,
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail,
Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the « small »)
A mighty mug of moral double ale:
She waited until Justice could recal

Its kind attentions to their proper pale,
To name a thing in nomenclature rather
Perplexing for most virgins--a child's father.

LXVII.

You see here was enough of occupation
For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses,
There was much bustle too and preparation
Below stairs on the score of second courses,
Because, as suits their rank and situation,

Those who in counties have great land resources, Have public days,» when all men may carouse, Though not exactly what 's call'd «< open house.»

LXIX.

But once a week or fortnight, uninvited
(Thus we translate a general invitation),
All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted,
May drop in without cards, and take their station
At the full board, and sit alike delighted

With fashionable wines and conversation;
And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion,
Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election.
LXX.

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer,

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit,
But county contests cost him rather dearer,
Because the neighbouring Scotch earl of Giftgabbit
Had English influence in the self-same sphere here;
His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit,
Was member for « the other interest » (meaning
The self-same interest, with a different leaning).
LXXI.

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county,
He was all things to all men, and dispensed
To some civility, to others bounty,

And promises to all-which last commenced
To gather to a somewhat large amount, he

Not calculating how much they condensed; But, what with keeping some and breaking others. His word had the same value as another's.