The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint Of your own footsteps- voices from the urn Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, As if to ask how you can dare to keep A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.
And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, The charms of other days, in starlight gleams, Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.
A picture is the past; even ere its frame Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.
As Juan mused on mutability, Or on his mistress- terms synonymous-No sound except the echo of his sigh Or step ran sadly through that antique house;
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, A supernatural agent- or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass Most people as it plays along the arras.
It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
His garments only a slight murmur made;
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.
Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.
And did he see this? or was it a vapour?
Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd- the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place;
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair Twine like a knot of snakes around his face;
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted.
The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow pass'd away- but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural:
Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies whether short or tall Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.
He stood- how long he knew not, but it seem'd An age- expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd;
Then by degrees recall'd his energies, And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and return'd at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.
All there was as he left it: still his taper Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse Their office; he took up an old newspaper;
The paper was right easy to peruse;
He read an article the king attacking, And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.'
This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook-He shut his door, and after having read A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke, Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.
There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.
He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, And whether it ought not to be disclosed, At risk of being quizz'd for superstition.
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed:
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision Was great, because his master brook'd no less, Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.
He dress'd; and like young people he was wont To take some trouble with his toilet, but This morning rather spent less time upon 't;
Aside his very mirror soon was put;
His curls fell negligently o'er his front, His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut, His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side.
And when he walk'd down into the saloon, He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, Which made him have recourse unto his spoon;
So much distrait he was, that all could see That something was the matter- Adeline The first- but what she could not well divine.
She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd Something, but what 's not stated in my tale.
Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd;
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd.
Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise.
But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less, Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?'
He started, and said, 'Yes- no- rather- yes.'
The family physician had great skill, And being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell The cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.'
'Quite well; yes,- no.'- These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious;
Something like illness of a sudden growth Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious:
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted It was not the physician that he wanted.
Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;
Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late?
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.
Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd A few words of condolence on his state:
