The darkness of her Oriental eye
Accorded with her Moorish origin
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin); When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.
She married (I forget the pedigree)
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
His blood less noble than such blood should be; At such alliances his sires would frown,
In that point so precise in each degree
That they bred in and in, as might be shown, Marrying their cousins--nay, their aunts, and nieces, Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.
This heathenish cross restored the breed again, Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh; For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain: But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,
'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.
However this might be, the race went on Improving still through every generation, Until it centred in an only son,
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Who left an only daughter; my narration May have suggested that this single one Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
I shall have much to speak about), and she
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.
Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either; and there would arise
A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: Her stature tall--I hate a dumpy woman.
Wedded she was some years, and to a man Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE
'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,
Especially in countries near the sun:
And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,' Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.
'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, And all the fault of that indecent sun, Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, That howsoever people fast and pray,
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.
Happy the nations of the moral North! Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
('T was 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.
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,
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For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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;
And that still keeping up the old connection, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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
'T was 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.
And if she met him, though she smiled no more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
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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.
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, 't is still the same hypocrisy; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late.
Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression, Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; All these are little preludes to possession,
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, And merely tend to show how greatly love is Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.
Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; She felt it going, and resolved to make
The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake; Her resolutions were most truly