Lord Byron - 3 books to know Juvenalian Satire

Discoveries made, but none could be aware

Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,

Indifferent from the first or callous grown:

I 'm really puzzled what to think or say,

She kept her counsel in so close a way.

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,

Caress'd him often—such a thing might be

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,

When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;

But I am not so sure I should have smiled

When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;

These few short years make wondrous alterations,

Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become

Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,

And much embarrassment in either eye;

There surely will be little doubt with some

That Donna Julia knew the reason why,

But as for Juan, he had no more notion

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,

And tremulously gentle her small hand

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind

'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand

Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.

And if she met him, though she smiled no more,

She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while

For that compression in its burning core;

Even innocence itself has many a wile,

And will not dare to trust itself with truth,

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays

Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,

And in whatever aspect it arrays

Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,

Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,

And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,

And burning blushes, though for no transgression,

Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;

All these are little preludes to possession,

Of which young passion cannot be bereft,

And merely tend to show how greatly love is

Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;

She felt it going, and resolved to make

The noblest efforts for herself and mate,

For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake;

Her resolutions were most truly great,

And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:

She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace,

As being the best judge of a lady's case.

She vow'd she never would see Juan more,

And next day paid a visit to his mother,

And look'd extremely at the opening door,

Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another;

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore—

Again it opens, it can be no other,

'T is surely Juan now—No! I 'm afraid

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.

She now determined that a virtuous woman

Should rather face and overcome temptation,

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man

Should ever give her heart the least sensation;

That is to say, a thought beyond the common

Preference, that we must feel upon occasion

For people who are pleasanter than others,

But then they only seem so many brothers.

And even if by chance—and who can tell?

The devil 's so very sly—she should discover

That all within was not so very well,

And, if still free, that such or such a lover

Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell

Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over;

And if the man should ask, 't is but denial:

I recommend young ladies to make trial.

And then there are such things as love divine,

Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure,

Such as the angels think so very fine,

And matrons who would be no less secure,

Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;'

Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure;

And so I 'd have her think, were I the man

On whom her reveries celestial ran.

Such love is innocent, and may exist

Between young persons without any danger.

A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;

For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger,

But hear these freedoms form the utmost list

Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:

If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,

But not my fault—I tell them all in time.

Love, then, but love within its proper limits,

Was Julia's innocent determination

In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its

Exertion might be useful on occasion;

And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its

Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion

He might be taught, by love and her together—

I really don't know what, nor Julia either.

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced

In mail of proof—her purity of soul—

She, for the future of her strength convinced.

And that her honour was a rock, or mole,

Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed

With any kind of troublesome control;

But whether Julia to the task was equal

Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel.

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,

And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable,

Or if they did so, satisfied to mean

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable—

A quiet conscience makes one so serene!

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded

That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

And if in the mean time her husband died,

But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross

Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd)

Never could she survive that common loss;

But just suppose that moment should betide,

I only say suppose it—inter nos.

(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought

In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.)

I only say suppose this supposition:

Juan being then grown up to man's estate

Would fully suit a widow of condition,

Even seven years hence it would not be too late;

And in the interim (to pursue this vision)

The mischief, after all, could not be great,

For he would learn the rudiments of love,

I mean the seraph way of those above.

So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan.

Poor little fellow! he had no idea

Of his own case, and never hit the true one;

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,

He puzzled over what he found a new one,

But not as yet imagined it could be

Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,

Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,

His home deserted for the lonely wood,

Tormented with a wound he could not know,

His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:

I 'm fond myself of solitude or so,

But then, I beg it may be understood,

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not

A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.

'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,

Where transport and security entwine,

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.'

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,