CVII.

The ghost at least had done him this much good, In making him as silent as a ghost,

If in the circumstances which ensued

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. And certainly Aurora had renew'd

In him some feelings he had lately lost
Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine, that I must deem them real :-

CVIII.

The love of higher things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance

The heart in an existence of its own,

Of which another's bosom is the zone.

CIX.

Who would not sigh Αι αι των Κυθέρειαν

That hath a memory, or that had a heart? Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian:

Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. Anacreon only had the soul to tie an

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks, Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genetrix !"(1)

(1)

[
genetrix hominum, divômque voluptas,
Alma Venus!"-LUCRET. lib. i.]

CX.

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows Arrived, retired to his; but to despond Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows

Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.

CXI.

The night was as before: he was undrest,
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress;
Completely sans culotte," and without vest;

66

In short, he hardly could be clothed with less: But apprehensive of his spectral guest,

He sate with feelings awkward to express (By those who have not had such visitations), Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.

CXII.

And not in vain he listen'd;-Hush! what's that?
I see
-I see—Ah, no !-'tis not-yet 't is—
Ye powers! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the cat!
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his !

So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,

Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,

And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

CXIII.

Again-what is't? The wind? No, no,—this time It is the sable friar as before,

With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again through shadows of the night sublime,

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems-the monk made his blood curdle.

CXIV.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, (1)
Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
Sounding like very supernatural water,

Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!
For immaterialism's a serious matter;

So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.

CXV.

Were his eyes open? - Yes! and his mouth too. Surprise has this effect—to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:

His eyes were open, and (as was before

Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?—the door.

(1) See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer-" Karl-Karl-was wollst du mit mich? "

CXVI.

It open'd with a most infernal creak,

Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi che entrate !" The hinge seemed to spea
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza;
Or—but all words upon such themes are weak:
A single shade's sufficient to entrance a
Hero-for what is substance to a spirit?
Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?

CXVII.

The door flew wide, not swiftly, but, as fly

The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight— And then swung back; nor close-but stood awry, Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood The sable friar in his solemn hood.

CXVIII.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before; but being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken;
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking;
His own internal ghost began to awaken
Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking —
Hinting that soul and body on the whole
Were odds against a disembodied soul.

CXIX.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced—the shade retreated; But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated: The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall; He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.(')

CXXI.

But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes glared,
And rather variably for stony death:

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd;
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath,
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud.

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,

Than could the substance of ten thousand soldiers," &c.- Rich. III.