第124章

But apprehensive of his spectral guest, He sate with feelings awkward to express (By those who have not had such visitations), Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.

And not in vain he listen'd;- Hush! what 's that?

I see- I see- Ah, no!- 't is not- yet 't is-Ye powers! it is the- the- the- Pooh! the cat!

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!

So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

Again- what is 't? The wind? No, no- this time It is the sable friar as before, With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.

Again through shadows of the night sublime, When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems- the monk made his blood curdle.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!

For immaterialism 's a serious matter;

So that even those whose faith is the most great In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete.

Were his eyes open?- Yes! and his mouth too.

Surprise has this effect- to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through As wide as if a long speech were to come.

Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:

His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?- the door.

It open'd with a most infernal creak, Like that of hell. 'Lasciate ogni speranza Voi che entrate!' The hinge seem'd to speak, Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza;

Or- but all words upon such themes are weak:

A single shade 's sufficient to entrance Hero- for what is substance to a spirit?

Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?

The door flew wide,- not swiftly, but, as fly The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight,-And then swung back; nor close- but stood awry, Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood The sable friar in his solemn hood.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken The night before; but being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken;

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking;

His own internal ghost began to awaken Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking-Hinting that soul and body on the whole Were odds against a disembodied soul.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced- the shade retreated;

But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated:

The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

Juan put forth one arm- Eternal powers!

It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall;

He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal.

How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.

But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes glared, And rather variably for stony death:

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared, The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.

A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd;

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud.

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust His other arm forth- Wonder upon wonder!

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.

He found, as people on most trials must, That he had made at first a silly blunder, And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood:

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole Forth into something much like flesh and blood;

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, And they reveal'd- alas! that e'er they should!

In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace- Fitz-Fulke!