XXXV.

Such were his trophies ;-not of spear and shield,
But leaps and bursts, and sometimes foxes'
Yet I must own, although in this I yield [brushes;
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,-
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd, next day, "if men ever hunted twice?"

XXXVI.

He also had a quality uncommon

To early risers after a long chase,

Who wake in winter ere the the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race,

A quality agreeable to woman,

When her soft liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,He did not fall asleep just after dinner.

XXXVII.

But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humoring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret-cunning rogue!
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ;
In short, there never was a better hearer.

XXXVIII.

And then he danced;-all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of Pantomime ;-he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense-

A thing in footing indispensable:

He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van

Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

XXXIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilia, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigor;
And then he had an ear for music's sound,

Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigor.
Such classic pas-sans flaws-set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified bolero;

XL.

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora,

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The "tout ensemble" of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for, to the dolor Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. XLI.

No marvel then he was a favorite;

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Buch was his tact, he could alike delight

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspir'd. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved "tracasserie," Began to treat him with some small "agacerie."

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguished, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
I'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLIII.

This noble personage began to look

A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licenses must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke. "Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators, when they count on woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd
Some would not deem such women could be found
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard;
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLV.

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke,
Who, one might think, was something in the affair
True, he was absent, and 'twas rumor'd, took

But small concern, about the when, or where.
Or what his consort did: if he could brook

Her gayeties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out

XLVI.

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,

Began to think the Duchess' conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

XLVII.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
'Tis so becoming to the soul and face;
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,

To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with-"Would you had thought twice Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!"

XLVIII.

Oh, Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze When your affairs come round, one way or t'other Go to the coffee-house, and take another?

XLIX.

But this is not my maxim: had it been,
Some heart aches had been spared me; yet I care not,
I would not be a tortoise in his screen

[not: Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear "Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen

That which humanity may bear, or bear not: "Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of wo,

Sadder than owl-songs, or the midnight blast, Is that portentious phrase, "I told you so,"

Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst "bonos mores." With a long memorandum of old stories.

LI.

The Lady Adeline's serene severity

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend. but Juan also shared in her austerity,

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.

LII.

These forty days' advantage of her years-
And hers were those which can face calculation,
Boldly referring to the list of peers,

And noble births, nor dread the enumerationGave her a right to have maternal fears

For a young gentleman's fit education, Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap In female dates, strikes time all of a heap.

LIII.

This may be fix'd somewhere before thirty-
Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
The strictest in chronology and virtue

Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
Oh, time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.

LIV.

But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
'Twas rather her experience that made her sage,
For she had seen the world, and stood its test,
As I have said in-I forget what page;

My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd By this time: but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty.

LV.
At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
She put all coronets into commotion:
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean:
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam, call'd "the happiest of men."

LVI.

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing
Admired, adored! but also so correct, [winters,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
Without the apparel of being circumspect:
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir-and one miscarriage.

LVII.

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her~-
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;

But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify
A woman, so she's good, what does it signify?

LVIII.

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle,

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand;

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,

Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand;

I hate it, as I hate an argument,

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content."

LIX.

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things,

They are so much intertwisted with the earth, So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. To trace all actions to their secret springs Would make indeed some melancholy mirth: But this is not at present my concern, And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.3

LX.

With the kind view of saving an eclât,
Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw
That Juan was unlikely to resist-
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas
In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is)-

LXI.

The Lady Adeline resolved to take
Such measures as she thought might best impedi
The farther progress of this sad mistake.

She thought with some simplicity indeed;
But innocence is bold even at the stake,
And simple in the world, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.

LXII.

It was not that she fear'd the very worst: His grace was an enduring, married man, And was not likely all at once to burst

Into a scene, and swell the client's clan Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded first The magic of her grace's talisman, And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.