Yet I must own,- although in this I yield 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?'
He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere 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;
But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring 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.
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.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigour;
And then he had an ear for music's sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour.
Such classic pas- sans flaws- set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero;
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.
No marvel then he was a favourite;
A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoilt, 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 are not so much inspired.
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 'tracasserie,'
Began to treat him with some small 'agacerie.'
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!'
O 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.
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 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.
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.
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.
