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 enumeration-Gave 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.
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.
O 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.
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 have guess'd By this time;- but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty.
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.'
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.
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?
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.'
'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.
With the kind view of saving an eclat, 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 unblest with juries, Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);-The Lady Adeline resolved to take Such measures as she thought might best impede 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.
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.
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:
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.'
And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She call'd her husband now and then apart, And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile;
And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it.
Firstly, he said, 'he never interfered In any body's business but the king's:'
Next, that 'he never judged from what appear'd, Without strong reason, of those sort of things:'
Thirdly, that 'Juan had more brain than beard, And was not to be held in leading strings;'
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 'That good but rarely came from good advice.'
And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth-At least as far as bienseance allows:
That time would temper Juan's faults of youth;
That young men rarely made monastic vows;
That opposition only more attaches-But here a messenger brought in despatches:
And being of the council call'd 'the Privy,'
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, To furnish matter for some future Livy To tell how he reduced the nation's debt;
And if their full contents I do not give ye, It is because I do not know them yet;
But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between mine epic and its index.
But ere he went, he added a slight hint, Another gentle common-place or two, Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, And pass, for want of better, though not new:
