LXIV.

Happy the nations of the moral north!

Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth;

('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); Where juries cast up what a wife is worth

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on The lover, who must pay a handsome price,

Because it is a marketable vice.

LXV.

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,

A man well looking for his years, and who
Was neither much beloved, nor yet abhorr'd;
They lived together as most people do,
Suffering each other's foibles by accord,
And not exactly either one or two;

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

LXVI.

Julia was—yet I never could see why—
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:
Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie,
For malice still imputes some private end)
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

LXVII.

And that still keeping up the old connexion,

Which time had lately render'd much more chaste,

She took his lady also in affection,

And certainly this course was much the best:

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection,

And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;
And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal,
At least she left it a more slender handle.

LXVIII.

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair
With other people's eyes, or if her own
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.

LXIX.

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.

LXX.

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.

LXXI.

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
"Twas 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.

LXXII.

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.

LXXIII.

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, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ;

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.