I want to Heaven that I were just a lump of clay,

As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, emotion—

Because at least the past is gone,

And for the future—(but I write this feeling dizzy,

Having gotten very drunk today,

So that it looks like I'm standing on the ceiling.

I mean—the future is a big deal—

And so—for heaven's sake—hock and soda water!

Bob Southey! You're a poet—Poet Laureate,

And representative of everyone in the race;

Although it’s true that you ended up being a Tory at

Last,—yours has lately been a common situation;

And now, my Epic Renegade! What are you up to?

With all the Lakers, in and out of position?

A group of musical people, to me

Like "twenty-four blackbirds in a pie;

"After they opened the pie, they started to sing,"

(This old song and new simile still applies),

"A delicate dish to present to the King,"

Or Regent, who enjoys this kind of food;—

And Coleridge has also recently taken flight,

But like a hawk weighed down by its hood,—

Explaining Metaphysics to the nation—[4]

I wish he would explain his Explanation.[2]

You, Bob, are pretty rude, you know.

At being let down by your wish

To surpass all the songbirds down here,

And be the only Blackbird in the bowl;

And then you push yourself too hard, or something like that,

And fall down like the flying fish

Gasping on deck because you're flying too high, Bob,

And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob![3]

And Wordsworth, in a somewhat lengthy "Excursion,"

(I think the quarto has five hundred pages),

Has provided a sample from the extensive version

Of his new system[4] to perplex the sages;[5]

'T is poetry—at least by his claim,

And it might seem that way when the dog star is in full force—

And anyone who understands it would be able

To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

You—Gentlemen! after being away for so long

From better company, you've maintained your own.

At Keswick, and through an ongoing blending

Of each other's thoughts, we've finally grown

To consider it the most logical conclusion,

That poetry has rewards just for you:

There is a limitation in such an idea,

Which makes me wish you'd trade your lakes for the ocean.

I wouldn’t copy the small-minded idea,

Nor turn my self-love into such a low vice,

For all the glory your change brought,

Since gold alone shouldn't have been its price.

You have your salary; was that what you worked for?

And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.[5]

You're shabby folks—true—but poets still,

And properly seated on the Immortal Hill.

Your hairlines might cover up the bald spots on your forehead—

Perhaps some honorable blushes;—let them be—[6]

To you, I envy neither fruit nor branches—

And for the fame you would gain here on Earth,

The field is universal and allows

Scope to all who feel the inherent glow:

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try

'Against you the question with posterity.

For me, who walks alongside ordinary Muses,

Contend not with you on the winged steed,

I hope your destiny gives you what you need when she decides.

The fame you admire and the talent you require;

And remember, a poet loses nothing

In giving his brothers their full due

Of value—and a complaint of today's times

Isn't that the sure way to future recognition?

He who saves his accomplishments for future generations

(Who doesn't often claim the bright return)

Has generally no significant crop to spare it, he

Being hurt only by his own claim;

And even though now and then there are some amazing exceptions

Arise like Titan from the depths of the sea,

The majority of such appellants go

To—God knows where—for no one else can know.

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,[6]

Milton turned to the Avenger, Time,

If Time, the Avenger, curses his wrongs,

And makes the word "Miltonic" mean "Sublime,"

He chose not to express his soul through songs,

Nor turn his talent into a crime;

He did not hate the Sire to praise the Son,

But the tyrant-hater closed, he began.

Think you, could he—the blind Old Man—get up

Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more[7]

The blood of kings with his predictions,

Or be alive again—again all gray

With time and challenges, and those helpless eyes,

And heartless daughters—worn—and pale__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__—and struggling;

Would he adore a sultan? He obeys.

The intellectual weakling Castlereagh?[8]

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, calm criminal!

Dipping its smooth young hands into Erin's blood,

And so for greater destruction learned to breathe rapidly,

Transferred to feast upon a sister shore,

The most lowly tool that Tyranny could desire,

With just enough talent, and nothing extra,

To extend chains by another fixed,

And offer poison that's already mixed.

An speaker with such a collection of meaningless words

Unbelievably—truly disgusting,

That even its biggest flattered won’t dare to praise,

Nor foes—all nations—care to smile,—

Nor can even a lively mistake's spark ignite

From that Ixion grindstone's never-ending work,[8]

That spins and spins to give the world an idea

Of endless suffering and constant movement.

A clumsy person even in its repulsive job,

And messing up, fixing, still leaving behind

Something its masters fear—

States to be limited, and thoughts to be restricted,

Conspiracy or Congress to be made—

Making shackles for everyone—

A tinkerer who fixes old chains,

With the disapproval of both God and Man for its profits.

If we can evaluate things based on our thoughts,

Emasculated to the core It

Has only two purposes: how to serve and how to bind,

Deeming the chain it wears even men can wear,

Eutropius of its many masters,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__—blind

To value freedom, wisdom as intelligence,

Fearless—because no feeling lives in ice,

Its very courage stagnates to a vice.[10]

Where should I go not to see its ties,

For I will never feel them?—Italy!

Your recently revived Roman spirit is feeling down.

Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee[11]—[9]

Your clanking chain and Erin's still fresh wounds,

Have voices—tongues to shout out for me.

Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still—

And Southey still lives to sing them very poorly.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I continue to dedicate,

In straightforward, honest lines, this song is for you.

And if I don't speak in flattering terms,

'T is that I still retain my "buff and blue;"[12]

My political views are still focused on education:

Apostasy is so trendy, too.

To stick to one belief has become quite a Herculean task;

Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?[13]

I want a hero: a rare desire,

When every year and month brings forth a new one,

Till, after boring the newspapers with clichés,

The age realizes he is not the real one;

Of people like these, I wouldn't want to brag,

I'll therefore take our old buddy Don Juan—

We all have seen him, in the pantomime,[15]

Sent to the Devil a bit before his time.

Vernon,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,

Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,

Evil and good have had their share of conversation,

And filled their signposts then, just like Wellesley does now;

Each in their turn like Banquo's kings walk,

Followers of Fame, "nine farrow"[17] of that sow:

France also had Buonaparté__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ and Dumourier[19]

Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette[20]

Were French, and famous people, as we know;

And there were others, hardly forgotten yet,

Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,[21]

With a lot of the military ready,

Incredibly impressive at times,

But not at all suited to my rhymes.

Nelson was once Britain's god of War,

And it still should be that way, but the tide has changed;

There's nothing more to say about Trafalgar,

'Tis with our hero quietly buried;

Because the army has become more popular,

At which the Navy is concerned;

Besides, the Prince is all for the Army.

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

Brave men were living before Agamemnon[22]

And since, being incredibly brave and wise,

A lot like him too, but not exactly the same;

But then they didn't shine on the poet's page,

And so have been forgotten:—I don’t judge anyone,

But I can't find any in today's world.

Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);

So, as I mentioned, I'll bring my friend Don Juan.

Most epic poets plunge "in medias res"[23]

(Horace makes this the main highway for heroes),

And then your hero shares, whenever you want,

What came before—through the events,

While relaxing after dinner,

Beside his mistress in a cozy place,

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cave,

Which serves the happy couple as a tavern.

That’s the usual method, but it’s not mine—

My approach is to start from the start;

The consistency of my design

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sins,

And so I'll start with a line

(Although it took me half an hour to finish),

Narrating a bit about Don Juan's father,

And also of his mom, if you'd prefer.

In Seville, he was born, a charming city,

Famous for oranges and ladies,—he

Whoever hasn't seen it will be greatly missed,

So says the proverb[24]—and I quite agree;[16]

Of all the Spanish towns, none is prettier,

Cadiz, maybe—but you'll see that soon;—

Don Juan's parents lived by the river,

A noble river, known as the Guadalquivir.

His father's name was José-Don, of course,—

A true Hidalgo, free from any blemish

Of Moor or Hebrew descent, he traced his lineage.

Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;

A better knight never got on a horse,

Or, once mounted, ever got down again,

Than José, who fathered our hero, who

Begot—but that's for later——Well, to start over:

His mother was a knowledgeable woman, famous

For every branch of every science we know—

In every Christian language that's ever been named,

With virtues matched only by her intelligence:

She made the smartest people feel really embarrassed,

And even the good silently wish they had what others do.

Feeling so greatly outmatched,

In her own way, through everything she did.

Her memory was a treasure trove: she knew by heart

All Calderón and most of Lope;

So, if any actor forgot their lines,

She could have given him the script for the prompter;

For her Feinagle's were an useless art,[26]

And he himself had to close the shop—he[17]

Could never create a memory as beautiful as

That which decorated the mind of Donna Inez.

Her favorite subject was math.

Her greatest strength was her generosity,

Her attempts at humor (she sometimes tried to be funny) were all very clever and sophisticated,

Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity;[A]

In short, in everything, she was pretty much what I call

A prodigy—her morning dress was lightweight fabric,

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, cotton,

And other stuff, which I won't keep thinking about.

She knew the Latin—that is, "the Lord's Prayer,"

And Greek—the alphabet—I’m pretty sure;

She read a few French romance novels here and there,

Although her way of speaking wasn't perfect;

For native Spanish, she didn't really care much,

At least her conversation was vague;

Her thoughts were equations, her words a puzzle,

As if she thought that mystery would make them better.

She liked the English and Hebrew languages,

And said there was a comparison between them;

She somehow proved it through a sacred song,

But I have to leave the evidence to those who've seen it.

But this is what I heard her say, and I can't be mistaken,

And everyone may consider which way their opinions sway them,

'T is strange—the Hebrew noun which means 'I am,'

The English always used to govern damn.

Some women use their tongues—she looked like she was giving a lecture,

Each eye a sermon, and her brow a lesson,

A well-rounded self-director,

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,[18][27]

The Law's interpreter and the State's reformer,

Whose suicide was almost an exception—

One more sad example that "Everything is pointless,"—

(The jury delivered their verdict in "Insanity!")

In short, she was a living equation,

Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,[28]

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,[29]

Or "Coelebs' Wife"[30] set out in quest of lovers,

Morality's main personification,

In which even Envy can’t find a flaw;

To others' share let "female errors fall,"[31]

For she didn't have even one—the worst of all.

Oh! she was perfect beyond comparison—

Of any modern female saint's comparison;[19]

So far beyond the clever forces of Hell,

Her Guardian Angel had abandoned his post;

Even her smallest movements went just as smoothly.

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:[32]

In virtues, nothing earthly could surpass her,

Save your "incomparable oil," Macassar![33]

Perfect she was, but just like any perfection, it comes with its own flaws.

Insipid in this naughty world of ours,

Where our first parents never learned to kiss

Till they were kicked out of their old homes,

Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss,[B]

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),

Don José, like a direct descendant of Eve,

Went picking various fruits without her permission.

He was the type of person who didn’t pay much attention to things,

With little love for learning or intellectuals,

Who decided to go wherever he wanted,

And never thought his lady was worried;

The world, as always, is wickedly inclined.

To see a kingdom or a household turned upside down,

He whispered that he had a mistress; some said two.

But for domestic quarrels, one will do.

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,

A high opinion of her own good qualities;[20]

Neglect definitely takes a saint to handle it,

And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;[C]

But then she had a real fiery spirit,

And sometimes confused fantasies with reality,

And let few chances slip by

Of getting her lord into trouble.

This was an easy situation with a guy.

Often in the wrong, and never aware;

And even the wisest do their best.

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,

That you might "brain them with their lady's fan;"[34]

And sometimes women hit really hard,

And fans become swords in skilled hands,

And why and for what reason no one understands.

'Tis a shame that educated women ever get married.

With people who have no education,

Or gentlemen, who, although they come from good families and have had a proper upbringing,

Fed up with science talk:

I don't want to say much about this.

I'm a simple guy, and in one place,

But—Oh! you intellectual lords and ladies,

Inform us honestly, haven't they all nagged you?

Don José and his girlfriend argued—why,

Not any of them could figure out,

Though several thousand people decided to give it a shot,

'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;

I hate that low vice—curiosity;

But if there’s anything I excel at,

'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,

Not having any domestic worries of my own.

And so I stepped in, and with the best

Intentions, but their treatment was harsh;

I think the foolish people were taken over,

For I could never find either of them,

Although their porter later confessed—

But that doesn't matter, and the worst is behind us,

For little Juan threw down the stairs at me,

A bucket of cleaning water without realizing it.

A little curly-haired slacker,

And a troublemaking monkey from the day he was born;

His parents never agreed except when it came to pampering.

Upon the most restless troublemaker on earth;

Instead of arguing, if they had just both been in

Their senses would have sent the young master out.

To school, or had him thoroughly punished at home,

To teach him manners for the future.

Don José and Donna Inez led

For a while, a miserable kind of life,

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;[D]

They lived together honorably as a married couple,

They were extremely well-mannered,

And showed no external signs of internal conflict,

Until finally the suppressed fire erupted,

And make sure the business is beyond any doubt.

For Inez called some pharmacists and doctors,

And tried to prove her loving lord was mad,[22][35]

But he had some clear moments,

She then concluded he was just bad;

Yet when they asked her for her statements,

No kind of explanation could be found,

Save that her duty both to man and God[36]

Required this conduct—which seemed very odd.[37]

She kept a journal where she noted his faults,

And opened certain trunks of books and letters,[38]

All of which could be quoted if the opportunity arises;

And then she had all of Seville as her accomplices,

Besides her good old grandmother (who adored);

The listeners of her story became echoers,

Then advocates, interrogators, and judges,

Some for fun, others for old grudges.

And then this kindest and most gentle woman gave birth

With such calmness her husband's troubles,

Just like the Spartan women did back in the day,

Who watched their partners get killed, and bravely chose

Never mention them again—

Calmly, she listened to every slander that came up,

And saw his suffering with such beauty,

That everyone in the world shouted, "What generosity!"

No doubt this patience, when the world is condemning us,

Is philosophical in our former friends;

'Tis also nice to be considered generous,

The more so in achieving our own goals;

And what the lawyers refer to as a "malus animus"

Conduct like this definitely doesn’t include:

Revenge in person is definitely no virtue,

But it's not my fault if others hurt you.

And if our arguments bring up old stories,

And help them with a few more lies.

I'm not to blame, as you know—neither is

Any one else—they had become traditional;

Besides, their revival supports our achievements

By contrast, which is what we were just hoping for:

And science benefits from this revival—

Dead scandals make for great material to dissect.

Their friends had tried at reconciliation,[E]

Then their relatives, who only made things worse.

('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion

To whom it may concern—

I can't say much for friend or even family.

The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,[F]

But hardly any fee was paid on either side.

Unfortunately, Don José died.

He passed away, and unfortunately, because,

According to all the clues I could gather

From knowledgeable lawyers experienced in those types of laws,

(Although their conversation is unclear and careful)

His death managed to ruin a lovely cause;

A thousand pities also with respect

To public sentiment, which on this occasion

Was revealed in a big sensation.

But oh! he died; and buried with him was

The public sentiment and the attorneys' fees:

His house was sold, and his servants were sent away,

A Jewish man took one of his two mistresses,

A priest the other—at least that's what they say:

I asked the doctors after his illness—

He died from a slow fever known as tertian.

And left his widow to deal with her own dislike.

Yet José was an honorable man,

That I have to say, who knew him really well;

Therefore, I won’t look into his weaknesses any more,

Indeed, there weren't many more to share:

And if his passions sometimes got the better of him

Discretion, and weren't so chill

As Numa (also known as Pompilius),

He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.[G]

His worthlessness or worth,

Poor guy! He had a lot of things to hurt him.

Let's own—since it can do no good on earth—[H]

It was a tough moment that found him.

Standing alone next to his empty fireplace,

Where all his household gods lay shivered round him:[39][25]

No choice was left for his feelings or his pride,

Save Death or Doctors' Commons—so he died.[I]

Dying without a will, Juan was the only heir.

To a court case, and properties, and land,

Which, with a long period of being a minor and careful attention,

Promised to turn out well in the right hands:

Inez became the only guardian, which was fair,

And only responded to Nature's rightful requests;

An only son left with his single mother.

Is raised much more wisely than another.

Sagest of women, even of widows, she

Resolved that Juan should be quite a role model,

And deserving of the finest lineage,

(His father was from Castile, his mother from Aragon)

Then, for acts of chivalry,

In case our Lord the King goes to war again,

He learned the skills of riding, fencing, and shooting,

And how to breach a fortress—or a convent.

But what Donna Inez wanted the most,

And looked inside herself every day before everyone.

The educated tutors she hired for him,

Was that his upbringing should be strictly moral:

Much into all his studies, she asked,

And so they were all presented to her first,

Arts, sciences—no field was kept a secret

To Juan, with the exception of natural history.

The languages, especially the extinct,

The sciences, especially the complex ones,

The arts, at least all those that could be described

To be the farthest away from everyday use,

In all these, he was well-read and knowledgeable.

But not a single page of anything that's loose,[26]

Or suggests the continuation of the species,

Was ever endured, so he wouldn't become corrupt.

His classic studies created a small puzzle,

Because of the dirty desires of gods and goddesses,

Who in the earlier ages caused a stir,

But never put on pantaloons or bodices;[40]

His respected teachers sometimes had a struggle,

And for their Æneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,[J]

Were forced to make a strange kind of apology,

For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

Ovid's a player, as half his poems reveal.

Anacreon's values are an even worse example,

Catullus hardly has a good poem,

I don't think Sappho's Ode is a good example,

Although Longinus[41] tells us there is no hymn

Where the Sublime takes flight on much larger wings;

But Virgil's songs are beautiful, except for that awful one.

Beginning with "Formosum Pastor Corydon."__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Lucretius' atheism is too strong

For young stomachs, to show healthy food;

I can't help but think Juvenal was wrong,

Although his true intentions were likely good,

For being so direct in his song,

So much so that it's just rude;

And then what decent person can be biased

To all those sickening epigrams of Martial?

Juan was taught from the best edition,

Expurgated by knowledgeable scholars, who place,

From the schoolboy's perspective, wisely,

The rougher parts; but, afraid to damage

Too much their modest bard by this omission,[K]

And feeling really sorry for his terrible situation,

They only add them all in an appendix,[43]

Which actually saves the hassle of having an index;

For there we have them all "in one swift move,"

Instead of being spread out across the pages;

They stand organized in an impressive group,

To connect with the clever young people of future generations,

Till some less rigid editor shall bend

To call them back into their individual cages,

Instead of just standing around and staring,

Like garden gods—and not very decent either.

The Missal too (it was the family Missal)

Was decorated in a certain way

Which ancient mass books often are, and this all

Kinds of grotesques illuminated; and how they,[28]

Who saw those figures on the edge kiss everyone,

Could focus their eyes on the text and pray,

Is more than I know—But Don Juan's mother

Kept this one for herself and gave her son another.

Sermons he listened to, and lectures he sat through,

And sermons, and stories about all the saints;

To Jerome and to Chrysostom accustomed,

He didn't see such studies as restrictions;

But how faith is gained, and then secured,

So, none of the paints mentioned above

As Saint Augustine in his great Confessions,

Which make the reader envy his transgressions.[44]

This was also a mystery to little Juan—

I can’t help but say that his mom was right,

If that kind of education was the real deal.

She barely trusted him when he was out of her sight;

Her maids were old, and if she hired a new one,

You might be sure she was a complete nightmare;

She did this even while her husband was alive—

I suggest the same to every wife.

Young Juan grew in goodness and charm;

At six, a delightful child, and at eleven

With all the promise of such a beautiful face

As always was given to Man's mature growth:

He studied consistently and made rapid progress,

And appeared, at least, on the right path to Heaven,

For half of his days, he was at church, while the other

Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.

At six, I said, he was a charming kid,

At twelve, he was a nice but reserved boy;

Although as a baby a bit untamed,

They calmed him down among them: to destroy

His natural spirit was not wasted; they worked hard.

At least it looked that way; and his mother's happiness

Was to declare how wise, and calm, and steady,

Her young philosopher had already grown up.

I had my doubts, maybe I still do,

But what I'm saying doesn't really matter:

I knew his dad well and have some skills.

In character—but it wouldn't be fair

From father to son to predict good or bad:

He and his wife made an awkward couple—

But scandal's my dislike—I protest

Against all harmful speech, even when it's meant as a joke.

For my part, I say nothing—nothing—but

This I will say—my reasons are mine alone—

That if I had only one son to put

To school (thank goodness I have none),

'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut

Him learning his catechism by himself,

No—no—I’d send him out early to college,

For that’s where I gained my own knowledge.

For there, one learns—it's not for me to brag,

Though I got it—but I'll skip __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__,

As well as all the Greek I've since lost:

I say that's the spot—but "Verbum sat,"

I think I picked up too, as well as most,

Knowledge of matters—but no matter what—

I never got married—but, I think, I know

That sons shouldn't be educated that way.

Young Juan was now sixteen years old,

Tall, good-looking, slim, but well-built: he seemed

Active, though not as lively, like a page;

And everyone except his mother thought

Him almost man; but she flew in a rage[45]

And bit her lips (or else she might have screamed)

If anyone said that—because being precocious

Was in her eyes the most terrible thing.

Among her many acquaintances, all

Chosen for privacy and loyalty,

There was Donna Julia, whom to call

Pretty were but to give a weak idea

Of the many natural charms she has

As sweetness is to the flower, or salt is to the Ocean,

Her area to Venus, or his bow to Cupid,

(But this last comparison is overused and foolish.)

The darkness of her East Asian eye

Given her Moorish background;

(Her blood wasn’t entirely Spanish; by the way,

In Spain, you know, this is kind of a sin ;)

When proud Granada fell and was forced to flee,

Boabdil cried:__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ of Donna Julia's family

Some went to Africa, while others stayed in Spain—

Her great-great-grandma decided to stay.

She got married (I can't remember the details).

With an Hidalgo, who passed down

His blood is less noble than it should be;

At such alliances, his ancestors would scowl,

In that exact moment down to every detail

That they bred in and in, as could be demonstrated,

Marrying their cousins—no, their aunts and nieces,

Which always ruins the quality if it grows too much.

This uncivilized cross revived the breed once more,

Ruined its blood, but greatly improved its flesh;

For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain

Sprouted a branch as beautiful as new.

The sons were no longer short, and the daughters were no longer plain:

But there's a rumour which I fain would hush,[L]

'T is said that Donna Julia's grandma

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.

However this might be, the race continued.

Always improving with each generation,

Until it focused on an only son,

Who had only one daughter; my story

May have suggested that this single one

Could be, but Julia (whom on this occasion

I will have a lot to talk about), and she

Was married, charming, pure, and twenty-three.

Her eye (I really like pretty eyes)

Was large and dark, hiding half its fire

Until she spoke, then through its gentle disguise

Flashed a look that was more about pride than anger,

And love more than either; and there would come up

A feeling in them that wasn’t desire,

But it might have been, maybe, if not for the soul.

Which fought through and brought the whole thing under control.

Her shiny hair was gathered over her forehead

Bright with intelligence, attractive, and smooth;

Her eyebrow's shape resembled a rainbow,

Her cheek all purple with the glow of youth,

Mounting, at times, to a clear glow,

As if her veins were filled with lightning; she indeed,

Had an elegance and charm that was truly rare:

Her height is impressive—I can’t stand a short, stout woman.

Wedded she was some years, and to a man

Of fifty, and there are plenty of those husbands;

And yet, I think, instead of such a one

'Tis better to have two out of twenty-five,

Especially in countries close to the equator:

And now that I think about it, "mi vien in mente",

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.[M]

'Tis a sad thing, I can't help but say,

And it's all the fault of that inappropriate sun,

Who can’t just leave our vulnerable clay alone,

But will keep baking, broiling, and burning on,

That no matter how people fast and pray,

The body is weak, and so the soul is broken:

What men call bravery, and gods call infidelity,

Is much more common where the climate is humid,

Happy are the nations of the moral North!

Where everything is virtuous, and the winter season

Sends sin, without any clothes on, shivering forth

('T was snow that brought St. Anthony[47] to reason);[33]

Where juries estimate a wife's value,

By laying whatever amount they choose as a fine on

The lover, who has to pay a hefty price,

Because it is a sellable vice.

Alfonso was the name of Julia's master,

A man looking good for his age, and who

Was neither very loved nor very hated:

They lived together like most people do,

Suffering each other's quirks by agreement,

And not exactly one or two;

Yet he was jealous, even if he didn't let it show,

For jealousy doesn't want the world to know about it.

Julia was—yet I never could see why—

With Donna Inez being quite a favorite friend;

Between their tastes, there was little sympathy,

For Julia had never written a single line:

Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they’re lying,

For Malice still assigns some personal motive

That Inez had, before Don Alfonso's marriage,

Forgot with him her very careful behavior;

And that still maintaining the old connection,

Which Time had recently made much more innocent,

She also grew fond of his girlfriend,

And definitely this course was by far the best:

She complimented Julia with her wise guidance,

And praised Don Alfonso's taste;

And if she couldn’t (who can?) silence gossip,

At least she left it with a slimmer handle.

I can't tell if Julia saw the affair.

With the perception of others, or if her own[34]

Discoveries were made, but no one could recognize them.

Of this, at least no symptom was ever shown;

Perhaps she didn’t know, or didn’t care,

Indifferent from the start, or emotionally detached now:

I'm really confused about what to think or say,

She kept her thoughts to herself so tightly.

Juan she saw, and, as a cute kid,

Caressed him often—such a thing might be

Quite innocently done and styled harmlessly,

When she was twenty years old, and he was thirteen;

But I'm not so sure I should have smiled.

When he was sixteen and Julia was twenty-three;

These few short years bring incredible changes,

Especially among sun-burned countries.

Whichever the reason might be, they had become

Changed; for the lady became distant, the young man shy,

Their heads hung low, their greetings barely audible,

And a lot of embarrassment in both eyes;

There will likely be little doubt with some

That Donna Julia knew the reason why,

But as for Juan, he had no more idea

Than he who has never seen the ocean.

Yet Julia's coldness was still kind,

And gently and nervously, her small hand

Withdrew from his, but left behind

A little pressure, exciting, and so dull.

And so subtle, so very subtle, that to the mind

'Twas just a doubt; but never a magician's wand

Wrought change with all Armida's[48] fairy art

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

And if she met him, even if she no longer smiled,

She had a sadness that was even sweeter than her smile,[35]

As if her heart had more profound thoughts to share.

She must not own, but appreciated it more during that time.

For that compression in its fiery center;

Even Innocence itself has many tricks,

And won't dare to trust itself with the truth,

And love learns to be hypocritical from a young age.

But Passion often hides its true nature, yet reveals it.

Even in its darkest moments; like the blackest sky

Foretells the biggest storm, it shows

Its actions through the vainly protected eye,

And in whatever way it shows up

It’s still the same hypocrisy.

Coldness, anger, disdain, or hate,

Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

Then there were sighs, even deeper because they were held back,

And stolen glances, even sweeter because they were taken,

And burning blushes, even without any wrongdoing,

Trembling when encountered, and restlessness when abandoned;

All of these are small introductions to ownership,

Of which young Passion cannot be deprived,

And just show how powerful Love is

Embarrassed at first about starting with a beginner.

Poor Julia's heart was in a complicated place;

She felt it slipping away and decided to make

The highest efforts for herself and her partner,

For the sake of honor, pride, religion, and virtue:

Her goals were truly admirable,

And almost could have made a Tarquin tremble:

She prayed to the Virgin Mary for her grace,

As being the best judge of a lady's case.[49]

She promised she would never see Juan again,

And the next day, he visited his mother,[36]

And looked intensely at the open door,

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

Grateful she was, and yet a little hurt—

Again it opens, it can be no other,

'T is surely Juan now—No! I'm afraid

That night the Virgin was no further prayed.[50]

She now decided that a good woman

Should rather face and conquer temptation,

That flight was low and cowardly, and no man

Should she ever feel even the slightest emotion in her heart,

That is to say, a thought that goes beyond the ordinary.

Preference, something we sometimes feel,

For people who are nicer than others,

But then they just seem like a bunch of brothers.

And even if by some chance—and who really knows?

The Devil is so sneaky—she should find out

That everything inside wasn’t going so well,

And if still free, that the lover in question

Might it be possible, a virtuous wife can calm.

Such thoughts are best when they're behind you;

And if the man asks, it's just a refusal:

I encourage young women to give it a try.

And then, there are things like divine love,

Bright and spotless, unblemished and clear,

Such as the angels think so very highly,

And women, who would feel just as safe,

Platonic, perfect, "just like the love I have;"

Thus Julia said—and thought so, for sure;

And so I'd have her think, if I were the guy

On whom her heavenly daydreams wandered.

Such love is pure and can exist

Between young people without any danger.[37]

A hand might be kissed first, followed by a kiss on the lips;

For my part, I’m not familiar with such actions,

But listen to these freedoms make the ultimate list

Of all the places where love can wander:

If people go too far, it's really a crime,

But it's not my fault—I let them know eventually.

Love, then, but keep Love within its proper limits,

Was Julia's pure determination

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

Exertion can be beneficial sometimes;

And, lit at too pure a shrine to dim its

Ethereal light, with such sweet charm

He could learn from Love and her together—

I honestly have no idea, and neither does Julia.

Fraught with this good intention, and well protected

In mail of proof—her purity of soul[51]—

She, convinced of her strength for the future,

And that her honour was a rock, or mole,[N]

Exceeding wisely from that hour given

With any kind of problematic control;

But whether Julia was up to the task

Is that which needs to be mentioned later.

Her plan seemed both innocent and doable,

And, surely, with a 16-year-old

Not Scandal's fangs could grab onto anything that's easily taken,

Or if they did that, content to imply

Nothing but good filled her heart; she was at peace.

A clear conscience brings so much peace!

Christians have burned each other, fully convinced

That all the Apostles would have acted the way they did.

And if in the meantime her husband passed away,

But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross

Her mind, even in a dream! (and then she sighed)

Never could she get through that usual loss;

But imagine that moment should come,

I just say, let’s assume it—inter nos:

(This should be between us, because Julia thought

In French, but then the rhyme would be pointless.)

I just want to say, let's assume this idea:

Juan, having then grown up to adulthood

Would be perfect for an affluent widow,

Even seven years from now, it wouldn't be too late;

And in the meantime (to pursue this vision)

The trouble, after all, couldn't be that serious,

For he would learn the basics of Love,

I mean the seraph way of those above.

So much for Julia! Now let's move on to Juan.

Poor little guy! He had no idea

Of his own situation, and never got to the real one;

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,[52]

He thought about what he found to be a new one,

But not yet imagined it could be a

Thing quite in order, and not at all concerning,

Which, with a little patience, could become quite charming.

Silent and thoughtful, unoccupied, anxious, sluggish,

His house abandoned for the empty woods,

Tormented by a wound he couldn't understand,

His, like all deep grief, was immersed in solitude:

I'm personally fond of being alone,

But then, I hope it's understood,

By solitude, I mean a Sultan's (not

A hermit’s space, with a forbidden area for a cave.

"Oh Love! in a wilderness like this,

Where Transport and Security converge,

Here is the realm of your perfect happiness,

And here thou art a God indeed divine."[53]

The poet I'm quoting doesn't miss the mark,

With the exception of the second line,

For that same intertwined "Transport and Security"

Are twisted to a somewhat unclear phrase.

The poet definitely intended this and is appealing

To the common sense and perceptions of humanity,

The very thing that everyone feels,

As everyone has discovered through experience, or may discover,

That nobody likes to be interrupted during meals.

Or love.—I won't say more about "entwined"

Or "Transport," as we already knew all that before,

But asking for "Security" will lock the door.

Young Juan walked by the shiny streams,

Thinking unexpressable thoughts; he threw

Himself at last in the leafy corners

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;

There, poets find inspiration for their books,

And once in a while, we read them again,

So that their plan and rhythm are clear,

Unless, like Wordsworth, they turn out to be confusing.

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), chased after

His deep connection with his own higher self,

Until his strong heart, in its powerful state,

Had reduced part, though not all

Of its illness; he did the best he could.

With things not really under control,

And turned, not noticing his situation,

Like Coleridge, as a thinker.[54]

He thought about himself and the entire world,

Of man the amazing, and of the stars,

And how on earth they could have been born:

And then he thought about earthquakes and wars,

How many miles around the moon could it be,

Of air balloons and the many bars

To fully understand the vast skies;—

And then he thought about Donna Julia's eyes.

In thoughts like these, true wisdom can recognize

Sublime longings and high aspirations,

Which some are born with, but most learn.

To burden themselves with it, they don't even know why:

'Twas strange that someone so young should be so concerned

His brain about the action of the sky;[O]

If you think it was Philosophy that did this,

I can't help but think puberty played a role.

He studied the leaves and the flowers,

And heard a voice in all the winds; and then

He thought about wood nymphs and eternal groves,

And how the goddesses came down to humans:

He lost track of the path, he forgot the time,

And when he checked his watch again,

He realized how much old Time had been a victor—

He also realized that he had lost his dinner.

Sometimes he looked at his book,

Boscan,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ or Garcilasso;__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__—by the wind[41]

Even as we turn the page while we look,

So by the creativity of his own mind

Over the mystical leaf, his soul was shaken,

As if it were one where magicians bind

Their spells, and let them go with the passing wind,

According to an old woman's tale.

Thus would he spend his lonely hours.

Dissatisfied, unsure of what he wanted;

Nor glowing daydream, nor poet's song,

Could release his spirit for what it longed for,

A chest where he could rest his head,

And listen to the heartbeat that comes from the love it gave,

With several other things, which I've forgotten,

Or which, at least, I don’t need to mention yet.

Those solitary walks and growing daydreams,

Couldn’t escape the gentle Julia’s gaze;

She noticed that Juan wasn't comfortable.

But what mainly can, and should, surprise,

Is, that Donna Inez did not tease.

Her only son with questions or doubts;

Whether she didn't see it or chose not to,

Or, like all really smart people, couldn't.

This may sound weird, but it's actually quite common;

For example—guys, whose partners take

Leave to overstep the written rights of Woman,

And break the——Which commandment is it that they break?

(I have forgot the number, and think no man

Should I quote too quickly, out of fear of making a mistake;)

I say, when these same guys are jealous,

They make some mistake, which their partners tell us.

A real husband is always suspicious,

But still no less suspects in the wrong place,[P]

Jealous of someone who had no such desires,

Or blindly catering to his own shame,

By keeping a close friend who is incredibly ruthless;

The last one is definitely the case:

And when the partner and friend are completely gone,

He wonders about their wrongdoing, not his own foolishness.

Thus, parents can also be short-sighted at times:

Though observant like a lynx, they never find,

The while the wicked world looks on happily,

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's boyfriend,

Till some crazy misadventure has ruined

The plan of twenty years, and it's all done;

And then the mom cries, the dad swears,

And wonders why in the world he has heirs.

But Inez was really worried and so clear

Of sight, that I have to consider, on this occasion,

She had some other motive that was much closer.

For leaving Juan to face this new temptation,

But I won't reveal what that motive was here;

Maybe to complete Juan's education,

Perhaps to make Don Alfonso aware,

In case he thought his wife was too much of a catch.

It was on a summer day;—

Summer's definitely a really dangerous season,

And so spring is around the end of May;

The sun is definitely the main reason;

But whatever the cause is, one can say,

And be found guilty of more truth than betrayal,

That there are months when nature is more cheerful, —

March has its hares, and May should have its heroine.

'Twas on a summer day—the sixth of June:

I like to be specific about dates,

Not just the age and year, but also the moon;

They are like a resting place for travelers, where the Fates

Change horses, making History change its tune,[Q]

Then race across empires and states,

Leaving at last not much besides chronology,

Except for the posthumous writings of theology.[R]

'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour

Of 6:30—maybe even closer to 7—

When Julia sat in as beautiful a garden

As ever held a beautiful maiden in that pagan paradise

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,[57]

To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,

With all the trophies of successful song—

He earned them well, and may he enjoy them for a long time!

She sat, but not alone; I’m not sure why

How this same interview occurred,

And even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell—

People should keep their opinions to themselves in any case;

No matter how or why this happened,

But there were she and Juan, face to face—

When two faces are like that, it would be smart,

But it’s really hard to close their eyes.

How beautiful she looked! Her aware heart

Glowed in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong:[44]

Oh Love! how perfect is your mystical art,

Strengthening the weak and stepping on the strong!

How self-deceptive is the wisest part

Of the mortals that your charm has guided along!—

The cliff she stood on was massive,

So was her creed in her own innocence.[S]

She thought about her own strength and Juan's youth,

And of the foolishness of all uptight fears,

Winning Morality, and home Truth,

And then, about Don Alfonso's fifty years:

I really wish these last events hadn't happened, honestly,

Because that number hardly ever makes people fond of it,

And through all climates, the snowy and the sunny,

Sounds sick in love, whatever it may be in money.

When people say, "I've told you fifty times,"

They intend to criticize, and they often do;

When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes,"

They make you fear that they’ll recite them too;

In groups of fifty, thieves carry out their crimes;

At fifty love for love is rare, it's true,

But then, there's no doubt that it's just as true,

A good deal can be purchased for fifty Louis.

Julia had honor, virtue, truth, and love

For Don Alfonso; and she inwardly vowed,

By all the vows below to the higher powers,

She would never dishonor the ring she wore,

Nor let a desire remain that wisdom might criticize;

And while she thought about this, along with a lot more,

One hand was thrown carelessly onto Juan,

Quite by mistake—she thought it was hers;

Unknowingly, she leaned on the other.

Which played within the tangles of her hair;[45]

And to deal with thoughts she couldn't suppress

She seemed distracted by her demeanor.

'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother

To leave together this imprudent pair,[T]

She who had watched her son like this for many years—

I'm pretty sure mine wouldn't have done that.

The hand that still held Juan's, gradually

Gently, but clearly confirmed its hold,

As if it were saying, "Arrest me, if you'd like;"

Yet there's no doubt she only intended to hold

His fingers with a perfect Platonic grip;

She would have recoiled as if from a toad or a snake,

Had she imagined that such a thing could stir

A feeling that's risky for a cautious partner.

I can't know what Juan thought about this,

But what he did is pretty much what you would do;

His young lips thanked it with a grateful kiss,

And then, embarrassed by its own happiness, stepped back.

In deep despair, afraid he had done something wrong,—

Love is very shy when it’s new:

She blushed and didn't frown, but she tried to speak,

And she stayed quiet, her voice had become so weak.

The sun went down, and up came the yellow moon:

The Devil's in the moon for trouble; they

Whoever called her pure must have spoken too soon, I think.

Their naming; there isn’t a day,

The longest, not the twenty-first of June,

Sees half the business in a twisted way,

On which three separate hours of moonlight shine—

And then she looks so modest the whole time!

There is a dangerous silence in that hour,

A stillness that allows for the complete soul[46]

To open up completely, without the power

Of calling back its self-control completely;

The silver light that blesses both trees and towers,

Sheds beauty and deep softness over everything,

Breathes also to the heart, and over it throws

A gentle laziness that isn’t exactly rest.

And Julia sat with Juan, half embraced

And half pulling away from the glowing arm,

Which trembled like the chest where it was placed;

Yet she probably thought there was no harm,

Or else it would be easy to pull away her waist;

But then the situation had its appeal,

And then—who knows what comes next—I can't keep going;

I'm almost sorry that I ever started.

Oh Plato! Plato! You've paved the way,

With your mixed-up fantasies, to more

Immoral behavior by the imagined influence

Your system pretends to control the chaotic core

Of human hearts, more than all the long list

Of poets and romancers:—You're dull,

A fake and a fool—and I've been,

At best, just an intermediary.

And Julia's voice faded away, leaving only sighs,

Until it was too late for a meaningful conversation;

The tears were streaming from her soft eyes,

I really wish they hadn't needed to;

But who, unfortunately! can love and still be wise?

Not that Remorse didn't oppose Temptation;

A little longer she tried, and felt a lot of regret,

And whispering "I will never agree"—agreed.

'T is said that Xerxes offered a reward[58]

To anyone who could create a new pleasure for him:[47]

I think the request is tough,

And it must have cost his Majesty a fortune:

For my part, I’m a reasonable-minded poet,

Fond of a little love (which I call downtime);

I don't care for new pleasures, like the old ones.

Are more than enough for me, as long as they stay.

Oh Pleasure! you're indeed a pleasant thing,[59]

Although one must be cursed for you, no doubt:

I make a promise every spring

Of reformation, before the year ends,

But somehow, this sacred promise of mine takes flight,

Yet I still hope it can be maintained overall:

I'm really sorry, and I feel really ashamed,

And I plan to be completely transformed by next winter.

Here my pure Muse must take a liberty—

Start not! still chaster reader—she'll be nice hence-

Forward, and there's no real reason to be afraid;

This freedom is a creative license,

Which some irregularity might cause

In the design, and since I have a strong sense

Of Aristotle and the Rules, it is fitting

To ask for his forgiveness when I mess up a little.

This license is to hope the reader will

Suppose from June 6th (the tragic day,

Without whose era my poetic talent

For lack of facts, everything would be wasted),

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still

In sight, that several months have passed; we'll say

'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure

About the day—the time is more obscure.

We'll talk about that later.—It’s nice to hear

At midnight on the deep blue sea under the moonlight[48]

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,[60]

By distance softened, across the waters flow;

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep

From leaf to leaf; it's sweet to see up high

The rainbow, created from the ocean, stretches across the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark

Bay loudly welcomes us as we get closer to home;

'T is sweet to know there's someone watching over

Our coming, and look brighter when we come;[U]

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark,

Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum

Of bees, the voices of girls, the songs of birds,

The way children speak with a lisp and their first words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

In a wild celebration, everything comes crashing down to the ground,

Purple and flowing: our escapes are sweet.

From city celebrations to country joy;

Sweet to the greedy person are his shiny piles,

Sweet to the father is his firstborn's birth,

Revenge is sweet—especially for women—

Pillage for soldiers, prize money for sailors.

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet[V]

The unexpected death of an elderly woman,

Or gentleman of seventy years old,

Who've made "us youth"[61] wait too—too long already,

For a property, cash, or country home,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady,[49]

That all the Israelites are suitable to crowd its

Next owner for their double-damned post-obits.[W]

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's achievements,

By blood or ink; it's nice to bring something to a close

To argue; it can sometimes be enjoyable to have our conflicts,

Especially with a draining friend:

Sweet is old wine in bottles, beer in kegs;

Dear is the helpless being we protect

Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot[62]

We never forget, even though we are forgotten there.

But even sweeter than this, than these, than everything,

Is first and passionate Love—it stands alone,

Like Adam's memory of his fall;

The Tree of Knowledge has been picked—all is known—

And life has nothing more to remember.

Worthy of this heavenly sin, so revealed,

No doubt in a fable, like the unforgiven

Fire that Prometheus stole for us from Heaven.

Man's a strange creature and makes strange use

Of his own character and the different skills,

And especially likes to create

Some new experiment to showcase his skills;

This is the age of strange things unleashed,

Where various talents discover their unique marketplaces;

You should start with the truth, and when you've lost your

Labour, there's definitely a market for deception.

What completely different discoveries we've encountered!

(Signs of real genius, and of being broke.)

One makes new noses[63], one a guillotine,

One breaks your bones, one puts them back in place;

But vaccination definitely has been

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,[64]

With which the Doctor settled an old score.

By borrowing a new one from an ox.[65]

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes:

And Galvanism has set some corpses grinning,[66]

But has not responded like the device

Of the Humane Society's start,

By which people are freely unchoked:

What amazing new machines have recently been created!

I mentioned that smallpox has been less common lately;

Perhaps it may be followed by the great.[67]

'T is said the great came from America;

Perhaps it might start its journey back,—

The population there is spreading rapidly, they say.

'Tis high time to thin it out in its turn,

With war, or disease, or hunger—no matter what,

So that civilization they may learn;[51]

And which in destruction is the more disgusting evil—

Their real blues, or our pseudo-syphilis?

This is the era of groundbreaking inventions.

For taking lives and saving souls,

All spread with the best intentions:

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern,[68] by which coals