XXXII.

The table was well furnish'd with refreshment
Of all kinds that could tempt the appetite;
And as Don Juan was not keeping Lent,

He now indulg'd in all that could excite
The langour of past pleasure to its bent.

The graceful Fitz-Fulke was not slow t' invite: Her sweet caresses added, not a little,

To heighten all the rest-he was at home t'a tittle.

XXXIII.

Thus pass'd their first enamour'd déjeûné,
Regardless of the world; its frowns or smiles.
The Don brought his blythe fancy into play,
Her Grace did summon her endearing wiles
To captivate her paramour for aye;

And well she might inveigle in her toils,
One so endow'd-so fully fram'd by nature
To be enslav'd by beauty's form and feature.

XXXIV.

His late enjoyment with the lovely Circé
Made it imperative he should recruit.
He was not troubled with inappetency;

Therefore (like Eve, on sweet forbidden fruit)
He show'd the viands very little mercy.

The hostess had variety to suit

Their appetites-anchovy-potted meats—

Beef Tongue-Ham-Jam-Jellies, and other sweets;

XXXV.

And eggs (if need were) to enrich their coffee;
(Better than mustard)-Her bright phial, sparkling

With her "Elixir magique," proffer'd she;
While with her snowy arm his neck encircling,

And smiles that told of heart-felt ecstacy,

She woo'd her "Juan"-her "most beauteous strip

ling,"

To melting joys, too vivid for narration,

Or aught but their own wild o'erflowing passion.

XXXVI.

I know not, Byron, whether yes, or no,

Thy Fitz-Fulke is thy fertile brain's creation;
But it is all the same, if it be so,

Or that she's painted from the ranks of fashion.
There is a model (few there be who know)-

If not a Duchess, she might fill such station As gracefully, and thy unfinish'd picture

Is heighten'd, ev'ry touch, from Madam-Nature.

XXXVII.

The model's a good model,1 and so like

Thy first sketch, Byron, in every feature

That thou hast drawn, it could not fail to strike
Thy humble 'squire, as being the very creature
For him to finish by,-a most court-like

And voluptuous dame-the duplicature
Of thy description-the very tracing
Of thine outline, all qualities embracing—2

XXXVIII.

The voice of thy sweet lyre personified—

The painting echoed-impress of thy seal.
It could not be the same, for long ago

Thine own Fitz-Fulke hath faded (if 'twas real);
Not so that picture—those bright colours glow
In all their pristine beauty, and reveal
The master-hand whose pencil gives to art,
That which nought else but Nature can impart.

1 "Our plot is a good plot."-Shakespeare, Henry IV, act ii. sc. 3.
2 Don Juan, canto xiv., stanzas 63, 64.

XXXIX.

And now another beauteous "Fitz-Fulke" springs up.
As fair-as graceful-as voluptuous-
"Mechante"-"intriguing"-to the full as much up,
In all love's mysteries as e'er was Venus,
When wooing her Adonis to her lip up,
And he refus'd to kiss!--the ignoramus!
Vidé the Bard of Avon's matchless lay,
Shrin'd on Parnassus' summit, in eternal day.

Oh Love!

XL.

what art thou ?-let us analyse. That "love is lust,"3 hath been said long ago: We do not think so, and 'tis with surprise

We find there are so few who seem to know What that sweet passion really is. Their eyes

Are dazzled when first love its brightest hue, And magic form, presents,—such glittering rays Beguile the mind and leave us in a maze.

XLI.

Love, like a rainbow, charms the sight and sense;
The heavenly arch with triple colour blent,
So sweetly soft, yet vivid and intense,

Through every gorgeous hue and gentle teint,
True picture is of love, that doth dispense

His magic painting to the lover's glint.

Through shower and sunshine brightest gleams the bow. And true-love's tears the happiest moments know.

XLII.

'Tis vain t' appeal to youth to tell us aught

Of love's bright compound (for it is compounded

I Don Juan, canto xiv, stanza 63.

2 Ibid, canto xiv. stanzas 93, 94, 95; canto xv. stanza 5.

Lust, through certain strainers well refin'd,

Is gentle Love, and charms all womankind.-Pope.

Of several passions, and, when highly wrought,
Sometimes becomes a dang'rous, most confounded
Source of dissension. So at Troy was fought

A ten years' war, on no more basis grounded
Than a frail woman's fickle love, transferr'd
From the right owner, to a base neatherd).

XLIII.

In the last Canto we have held that "Love is
In
every place the same;" or something like it.
We mean true love. But there are many species
Of this same article, and we would strike it
Home to our readers, that no contraries

Are here involved; and that we do not forfeit
Our firm consistency in saying it varies
As do each individual's vagaries.

XLIV.

For love (insidious love), sweetly, while new,
May flatter ye his joys will never end,
And bid ye list' the ring-dove's soft coo-coo;
Beware, lest some long-trusted bosom friend,
(With sentiments and feelings—just like you-

And priz'd the more for that), your heart-strings rend;
And while you fancy friend and love are true,
Some April day you hear a loud cuckoo !

XLV.

However, holy-faithful, some may be,
We certainly do meet strange derelictions
From love's pure, perfect, heav'nly quality,

Which seems confin'd within some slight restrictions.

The recipe so far as I can see,

We may refer to. There are few prescriptions

"Love is so fairy-like a part of us, that even a fairy cannot make it different from us-that is to say, when we love truly.”—Sir E. L. Bnlwer's " Pilgrims of the Rhine," chap x.

So near the truth as thine, friend Byron, (Canto
The sixth, and stanza fifteenth, reader turn to.)1

XLVI.

It would be vain t' enumerate all the shades,

Or lights, of love that flit on this world's surface, Like ghosts, and sorely haunt young men and maids, Who sometimes fly, but are more apt to give chase. Nor is it one class only, but all grades

Are subject to this hunt-the-slipper love-chase. 'Twas so at first, and will be, never doubt it ;Could population well go on without it?

XLVII.

XLVIII.

And yet, we are reminded, there was once

A virgin ("rest her soul, she's, long since, dead),"3 Who, pitying much this bad world, did announce

A coming SHILOH, and forthwith 'tis said,

1 "A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown,
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind)

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne,
A sincere woman's breast,-for over-warm
Or over-cold annihilates the charm."

2 Johanna Southcote.

Don Juan, canto vi. stanza 15.

"One that was a woman, Sir;
Hamlet, act v.

But, rest her soul, she's dead."