Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. This he express'd, half smiling and half

serious;

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme

Of such discussion. She was there a guest, A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Ofrank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled

She had so much, or little, of the child.

LVI.

The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her; she saw her blaze

Scott, the superlative of my comparativeScott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen,

Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if

There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire,
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.
LX.

I say, in my slight way I may proceed
To play upon the surface of humanity.
I write the world, nor care if the world read;
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed,
More foes by this same scroll: when I began
it, I

Thought that it might turn out so-now I know

it;

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.

LXI.

The conference or congress (for it ended
As congresses of late do) of the Lady
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended

Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady;

But e'er the matter could be marr'd or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for "dinner ready," But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress,

Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.

LXII.

Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer's able

(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill

Of modern dinners, where more mystery lurks In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, Than witches, b-ches, or physicians brew?

Then there was God knows what à l'Allemande, A l'Espagnole, timballe, and salpiconWith things I can't withstand or understand, Though swallow'd with much zest, upon the whole;

And entremets to piddle with, at hand,

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus' robe triumphale muffles (There's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles.

LXVII.

What are the fillets on the victor's brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch

Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march?

Gone to where victories must, like dinners, go. Further I shall not follow the research;

But oh, ye modern heroes, with your cartridges, When will your names lend lustre e'en to par tridges?

LXVIII.

Those truffles, too, are no bad accessories,

Follow'd by petits puits d'amour *--a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies: So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries,

Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even sans confitures, it no less true is There's pretty picking in those petits puits.

* Petits puits d'amour garnis des confitures, a classical and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second course.

A situation difficult, I ween,

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. Also the conference which we have seen,

Was not such as to encourage him to shine; For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him.

A proud humility, if such there be, Which show'd such deference to what females

say,

As if each charming word were a decree. His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, And taught him when to be reserved or free: He had the art of drawing people out, Without their seeing what he was about.