from Canto I

191

She had resolved that he should travel through
     All European climes, by land or sea,
To mend his former morals, and get new,
     Especially in France and Italy,
(At least this is the thing most people do).
     Julia was sent into a convent; she
Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better
Shown in the following copy of her letter:

192

“They tell me ‘tis decided; you depart:
     ‘Tis wise—’tis well, but not the less a pain;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
     Mine is the victim, and would be again;
To love too much has been the only art
     I used;—I write in haste, and if a stain
Be on this sheet, ‘tis not what it appears,
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

193

“I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
     State, station, heaven, mankind’s, my own esteem,
And yet can not regret what it hath cost,
     So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, ‘tis not to boast,
    None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest—
I’ve nothing to reproach, or to request.

194

“Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
     ‘Tis woman’s whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,
     Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
     And few there are whom these can not estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one.
To love again, and be again undone.

195

“You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
     Beloved and loving many; all is o’er
For me on earth, except some years to hide
     My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core;
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
     The passion which still rages as before,
And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No,
That word is idle now—but let it go.

196

“My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
     But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit’s set,
     As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget—
     To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul.

197

“I have no more to say, but linger still,
     And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,
     My misery can scarce be more complete:
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
    Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,
And I must even survive this last adieu,
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!”

198

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
     With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new;
Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,
     It trembled as magnetic needles do,
And yet she did not let one tear escape her;
    The seal a sunflower; “Elle vous suit partout,”
The motto, cut upon a white cornelian;
The wax was superfine, its hue vermillion.

199

This was Don Juan’s earliest scrape; but whether
     I shall proceed with his adventures is
Dependent on the public altogether;
     We’ll see, however, what they say to this,
Their favour in an author’s cap’s a feather,
     And no great mischief’s done by their caprice;
And if their approbation we experience,
Perhaps they’ll have some more about a year hence.

200

My poem’s epic, and is meant to be
     Divided in twelve books; each book containing,
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,
     A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
New characters; the episodes are three:
     A panorama view of hell’s in training,
After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
So that my name of Epic’s no misnomer.