from Canto XVI

111

There were but two exceptions to this keen
     Skirmish of wits o’er the departed; one,
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;
     And Juan too, in general behind none
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
     Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:
In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
He would not join them in a single sally.

112

‘Tis true he saw Aurora look as though
     She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook
Its motive for that charity we owe
     But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
Further; it might or it might not be so.
     But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
Observing little in his reverie,
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.

113

The ghost at least had done him this much good,
     In making him as silent as a ghost,
If in the circumstances which ensued
     He gained esteem where it was worth the most.
And certainly Aurora had renewed
     In him some feelings he had lately lost
Or hardened; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine, that I must deem them real:—

114

The love of higher things and better days;
     The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is called the world, and the world’s ways;
     The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
     Which kindle manhood, but can ne’er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another’s bosom is the zone.

115

Who would not sigh Ai ai tan Kuthereian!
     That hath a memory, or that had a heart?
Alas! her star must wane like that of Dian;
     Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart.
Anacreon only had the soul to tie an
    Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart
Of Eros; but though thou hast played us many tricks,
Still we respect thee, “Alma Venus Genetrix”!

116

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
     Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
    Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
    Waved o’er his couch; he meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.

117

The night was as before: he was undrest,
     Saving his night gown, which is an undress;
Completely “sans culotte,” and without vest;
     In short, he hardly could be clothed with less;
But apprehensive of his spectral guest,
     He sate, with feelings awkward to express,
(By those who have not had such visitations)
Expectant of the ghost’s fresh operations.

118

And not in vain he listened—Hush! what’s that?
     I see—I see—Ah, no!—’tis not—yet ‘tis—
Ye powers! it is the—the—the—Pooh! the cat!
    The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,
     Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

119

Again—what is’t? The wind? No, no,—this time
     It is the sable Friar as before,
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,
     Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.
Again, through shadows of the night sublime,
     When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
The starry darkness round her like a girdle
Spangled with gems—the monk made his blood curdle.

120

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,
     Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
     Sounding like very supernatural water,
Came over Juan’s ear, which throbbed, alas!
    For immaterialism’s a serious matter;
So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tte—tte.