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 dolour
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.

XLI.

No marvel then he was a favourite ;

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

} The chaste, and those who 're not so much inspired. 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, distinguish'd, 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 licences must lovers brook,
Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!
'T will 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.

し

XLV.

But what is odd, none ever named the duke,

Who, one might think, was something in the affair.
True, he was absent, and 't was rumour'd, took
But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook

Her gaieties, 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:
'T is 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 are 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,

1

Some heart-aches had been spared me; yet I care not—

I would not be a tortoise in his screen

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not.

'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen

That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive,

And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous 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

1

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 at 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 :
'T was rather her experience 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've 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 winters,
Admired, adored; but also so correct,

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 simoons whirl the sand;

I hate it, as I hate an argument,

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

LIX.

'T is 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 éclat,
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 perfect cure is)-

LXI.

The Lady Adeline resolved to take

Such measures as she thought might best impede The further progress of this sad mistake.

She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold e'en 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 clients' 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.

LXIII.

Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante,
And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And-what is worst of all-won't let you go:

LXIV.

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a bonne fortune be really bonne.