Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XV

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue
  Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted,
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue
  Beyond the charmers we have already cited;
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog
  Against her being mention'd as well fitted,
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble
Of single gentlemen who would be double.

And this omission, like that of the bust
  Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,
Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.
  This he express'd half smiling and half serious;
When Adeline replied with some disgust,
  And with an air, to say the least, imperious,
She marvell'd 'what he saw in such a baby
As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?'

Juan rejoin'd — 'She was a Catholic,
  And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion;
Since he was sure his mother would fall sick,
  And the Pope thunder excommunication,
If-' But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique
  Herself extremely on the inoculation
Of others with her own opinions, stated —
As usual — the same reason which she late did.

And wherefore not? A reasonable reason,
  If good, is none the worse for repetition;
If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on,
  And amplify: you lose much by concision,
Whereas insisting in or out of season
  Convinces all men, even a politician;
Or — what is just the same — it wearies out.
So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route?

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice —
  For prejudice it was — against a creature
As pure as sanctity itself from vice,
  With all the added charm of form and feature,
For me appears a question far too nice,
  Since Adeline was liberal by nature;
But nature 's nature, and has more caprices
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way
  With which Aurora on those baubles look'd,
Which charm most people in their earlier day:
  For there are few things by mankind less brook'd,
And womankind too, if we so may say,
  Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked,
Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few
Who look upon them as they ought to do.

It was not envy — Adeline had none;
  Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.
It was not scorn — which could not light on one
  Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.
It was not jealousy, I think: but shun
  Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind.
It was not — but 't is easier far, alas!
To say what it was not than what it was.

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme
  Of such discussion. She was there a guest;
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream
  Of rank 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.

The dashing and proud air of Adeline
  Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine,
  Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays.
Juan was something she could not divine,
  Being no sibyl in the new world's ways;
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,
Because she did not pin her faith on feature.

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame
  Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,
  Half virtues and whole vices being combined;
Faults which attract because they are not tame;
  Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind: —
These seals upon her wax made no impression,
Such was her coldness or her self-possession.

Juan knew nought of such a character —
  High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee;
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:
  The island girl, bred up by the lone sea,
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere,
  Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be,
Nor would be thus: — the difference in them
Was such as lies between a flower and gem.

Having wound up with this sublime comparison,
  Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative,
And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;'
  Scott, the superlative of my comparative —
Scott, 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.

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