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CXXVI.

CXXXIII. A fisher, therefore, was he-though of men,

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse, Like Peter the Apostle,-and he fish'd

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make For wandering merchant vessels, now and then, His couch; and that he might be more at ease,

And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd; And warm, in case by chance he should awake The cargoes he confiscated, and gain

They also gave a petticoat apiece, He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish, By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. CXXVII.

CXXXIV. He was a Greek, and on his isle had built

And thus they left him to his lone repose : (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)

Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, A very handsome house from out his guilt, Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) And there he lived exceedingly at ease;

Just for the present, and in his lull'd head Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, Not even a vision of his former woes [spread A sad old fellow was he, if you please,

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimo But this I know, it was a spacious building,

Unwelcome visions of our former years,
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.
CXXVIII.

CXXXV.
He had an only daughter, call's Haidee,

Young Juan slept all dreamless ;-but the maid The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles;

Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, Besides so very beautiful was she,

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:

And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree

He slumber'd: yet slie thought, at least she said, She grew to womanhood, and between whiles

(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,) Rejected several suitors, just to learn

He had pronounced her name—but she forgot How to accept a better in his turn.

That at this moment Juan knew it not.

CXXXVI.
CXXIX.

And pensive to her father's house she went,
And walking out upon the beach below
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant,

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who
Insensible,-not dead, but nearly so,
Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;

She being wiser by a year or two:

A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 1 But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know, Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,

And Zoë spent hers as most women do,

In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
As far as in her lay, " to take him in,
A stranger,” dying, with so white a skin.

Which is acquired in nature's good old college.

CXXXVII.
CXXX.

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still But taking him into her father's house

Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon Was not exactly the best way to save,

His rest; the rushing of the neighboring rill, But like conveying to the cat the mouse,

And the young beams of the excluded sun, Or people in a trance into their grave;

Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; Because the good old man had so much " vous,"

And need he had of slumber yet, for none Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,

Had suffer'd more-his hardships were comparatire He would have hospitably cured the stranger,

To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative." And sold him instantly when out of danger.

CXXXVIII.
CXXXI.

Not so Haidee; she sadly toss'd and tumbled, And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, (A virgin always on her maid relies)

Dream of a thousind wrecks, o'er which she To place him in the cave for present rest:

stumbled, And when, at last, he open'd his b'ack eyes, And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore; Their charity increased about their guest. And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, And their compassion grew to such a size,

And call’d her father's old slaves up, who swore It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven

Itae several oaths-Armenian, Turk, and Greek,(Saint Paul says 'tis the toll which must be given.) | They knew not what to think of such a freak. CXXXII.

CXXXIX. They made a fire, but such a fire as they

But up she got, and up she made them get, Upon the moment could contrive with such With some pretence about the sun, that makes Materials as were cast up round the bay,

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, Bright Phæbus, while the mountains still are wet A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;

With mist, and every bird with him awakes, But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, And night is flung off like a mourning suit That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. Worn for a husband, -or some other brute.

W

CXXVI.

A fisher, therefore, was he-though of men,
Like Peter the Apostle,-and he fish'd
For wandering merchant vessels, now and then,
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd;
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade,
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.
CXXVII.

CXXVIII.

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee,
The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles;
Besides so very beautiful was she,

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built

(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)
A very handsome house from out his guilt,
And there he lived exceedingly at ease;
Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, Not even a vision of his former woes

A sad old fellow was he, if you please,
But this I know, it was a spacious building,
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.

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CXXXIII.

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse,

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make His couch; and that he might be more at ease,

And warm, in case by chance he should awake
They also gave a petticoat apiece,

She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish,
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.

CXXXII.
They made a fire, but such a fire as they

Upon the moment could contrive with such
Materials as were cast up round the bay,

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay,

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty,
That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty.

CXXXIV.
And thus they left him to his lone repose:
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead,
Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,)
Just for the present, and in his lull'd head

[spread

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes
Unwelcome visions of our former years,
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.

CXXXV.

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