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LXIII.

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure,

In small fine China cups, came in at lastGold cups of filigree, made to secure

The hand from burning, underneath them placed; Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd.

LXIV.

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made
Of velvet pannels, each of different hue,
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid:
And round them ran a yellow border too;
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd,
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue,
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters,
From poets, or the moralists their betters.

LXV.

These oriental writings on the wall,

Quite common in those countries, are a kind Of monitors, adapted to recall,

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall,

And took his kingdom from him.-You will find, Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

LXVI.

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic,
A genius who has drunk himself to death,
A rake turn'd methodistic or eclectic-

(For that's the name they like to pray beneath)But most, an alderman struck apoplectic,

Are things that really take away the breath, And show that late hours, wine and love, are able To do not much less damage than the table.

LXVII.

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue; Their sofa occupied three parts complete

Of the apartment-and appear'd quite new; The velvet cushions-(for a throne more meet)— Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.

LXVIII.

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain,

Had done their work of splendor, Indian mats And Persian carpets, the heart bled to stain,

Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats, And dwarfs and blacks, and such like, things that gain Their bread as ministers and favorites-(that's To say, by degradation)-mingled there As plentiful as in a court or fair.

LXIX.

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and
The tables, most of ebony inlaid
With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand,
Or were of torsoise-shell or rare woods made,
Fretted with gold or silver: by command,

The greater part of these were ready spread With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wineKept for all comers, at all hours to dine.

LXX.

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's:

She wore two jelicks-one was of pale yellow; Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise"Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow; With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas,

All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. LXXI.

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
Lockless-so pliable from the pure gold,

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould;
So beautiful-its very shape would charm,
And clinging as if loth to lose its hold,
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin
That e'er by precious metal was held in.

LXXII.

Around, as princess of her father's land,
A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd,3
Announced her rank: twelve rings were on her hand;
Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd
About the prettiest ankle in the world.

LXXIII.

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun
Dyes with his morning light,-and would conceal
Her person if allow'd at large to run;
And still they seem resentfully to feel

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan.

LXXIV.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life, The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, They were so soft and beautiful, and rife

With all we can imagine of the skies, And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife

Too pure even for the purest human ties;. Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel.

LXXV.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged,
(It is the country's custom,) but in vain;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed.
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:

Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for They could not look more rosy than before.

LXXVI.

The henna should be deeply dyed to make
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair:
She had no need of this-day ne'er will break
On mountain tops more heavenly white than her;
The eye might doubt if it were well awake,

She was so like a vision; I might err, But Shakspeare also says 'tis very silly "To gild refined gold, or paint the lily."

LXXVII.

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,
But a white baracan, and so transparent,
The sparkling gems beneath you might oehold,
Like small stars through the milky way apparent;
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold,

An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't, Surmounted as its clasp-a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. LXXVIII.

And now they were diverted by their suite,
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuch's, and a poet,
Which made their new establishment complete;
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it;
His verses rarely wanted their due feet-

And for his theme-he seldom sung below it,
He being paid to satirize or flatter,

As the psalm says, "inditing a good matter."

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LXXXIV.

He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks And knew the self-loves of the different nations And, having lived with people of all ranks,

Had something ready upon most occasionsWhich got him a few presents and some thanks He varied with some skill his adulations; To "do at Rome as Romans do," a piece Of conduct was which he observed in Greece.

LXXXV.

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing,

He gave the different nations something national 'Twas all the same to him-"God save the King," Or "Calira," according to the fashion all; His muse made increment of any thing,

From the high lyrical to the low rational: If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

LXXXVI.

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In England, a six-canto quarto tale; In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on The last war-much the same in Portugal; In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on Would be old Goethe's-(see what says de Staël; like In Italy, he'd ape the "Trecentisti;"

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In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t'ye

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The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Bless'd."

The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;

For, standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of dayAnd when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they! and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

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All these are, certes, entertaining facts,
Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's
Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest acts;

Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) Like Cromwell's pranks ;-but although truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes,

As most essential to their hero's story,
They do not much contribute to his glory.

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C.

"Pedlars," and "boats," and "wagons!" Oh! ye
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? [shades
That trash of such sort not alone evades
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss-
The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell"
Can sneer at him who drew "Achitophel!"

CI.

T' our tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of reyelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired;-
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

CII.

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer.

СІІІ.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 'tis too like.

CIV.

Some kind casuists are pleased to say,

In nameless print-that I have no devotion, But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way;

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,-all that springs from the great whole,

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.

CV.

Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,

Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee'
CVI.

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.

CVII.
Oh Hesperus !5 thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whatever our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
CVIII.

Soft hour!6 which wakes the wish and melts the
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day [heart
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!

CIX.

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd
Amid the roar of liberated Rome,

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb;7
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

CX.

But I'm digressing: what on earth has Nero,
Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero, [moon's?
More than such madmen's fellow-man-the
Sure my invention must be down at zero,

And I grown one of many "wooden spoons"
Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please
To dub the last of honors in degrees.)

CXI.

I feel this tediousness will never do

'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two: They'll never find it out, unless I own The fact, excepting some experienced few;

And then as an improvement 'twill be shown: I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, From Aristotle passim.-See Пointiens.

CANTO IV.

I.

NOTHING SO difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end:
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

II.

But time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp adversity, will teach at last
Man,-and, as we would hope,-perhaps the devil
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this-the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We onder deeply on each past emotion.

III.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,

And wish'd that others held the same opinion: They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow

Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

IV.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,

'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, which we must steep First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring,

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep; Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

V.

Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line:

I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it was to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary.

VI.

To the kind reader of our sober clime,
This way of writing will appear exotic;

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,

Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell'd in the fancies of the time, [despotic; True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings But all these, save the last, being obsolete,

I chose a modern subject as more meet.

VII.

How I have treated it, I do not know

Perhaps no better than they have treated me

Who nave imputed such designs as show,

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see; But if it gives them pleasure, be it so,

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,.
And tells me to resume my story here.

VIII.

Young Juan and his lady-love were left
To their own heart's most sweet society;
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft,

Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring Before one charm or hope had taken wing

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