Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, By all the vows below to powers above, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; And while she ponder’d this, besides much more, One hand on Juan’s carelessly was thrown, Quite by mistake—she thought it was her own;
Unconsciously she lean’d upon the other, Which play’d within the tangles of her hair: And to contend with thoughts she could not smother She seem’d by the distraction of her air. ’Twas surely very wrong in Juan’s mother To leave together this imprudent pair, She who for many years had watch’d her son so— I’m very certain mine would not have done so.
The hand which still held Juan’s, by degrees Gently, but palpably confirm’d its grasp, As if it said, ‘Detain me, if you please;’ Yet there’s no doubt she only meant to clasp His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze: She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.
I cannot know what Juan thought of this, But what he did, is much what you would do; His young lip thank’d it with a grateful kiss, And then, abash’d at its own joy, withdrew In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,— Love is so very timid when ’tis new: She blush’d, and frown’d not, but she strove to speak, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.
The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The devil ’s in the moon for mischief; they Who call’d her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile— And then she looks so modest all the while.
There is a dangerous silence in that hour, A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power Of calling wholly back its self-control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, Sheds beauty and deep softness o’er the whole, Breathes also to the heart, and o’er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose.
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced And half retiring from the glowing arm, Which trembled like the bosom where ’twas placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else ’twere easy to withdraw her waist; But then the situation had its charm, And then—God knows what next—I can’t go on; I’m almost sorry that I e’er begun.