XLVIII.

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so,
But never in his real and serious mood;
Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow,
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood.
With him it never was a word and blow;
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood;
But in his silence there was much to rue,
And his one blow left little work for two.
XLIX.

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded
On to the house, but by a private way,
So that the few who met him hardly heeded,
So little they expected him that day;
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning.

L.

If all the dead could now return to life,

(Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many; For instance, if a husband or his wife

(Nuptial examples are as good as any),

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife,
The present weather would be much more rainy-
Tears shed into the grave of the connexion
Would share most probably its resurrection.
LI.

He enter'd in the house no more his home,
A thing to human feelings the most trying,
And harder for the heart to overcome
Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying:
To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb,
And round its once warm precincts palely lying
The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief,
Beyond a single gentleman's belief.

LV.

But something of the spirit of old Greece
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays,
Such as lit onward to the golden fleece

His predecessors in the Colchian days:
'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace;

Alas! his country show'd no path to praise : Hate to the world and war with every nation lle waged, in vengeance of her degradation.

LVI.

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd
Its power unconsciously full many a time-
A taste seen in the choice of his abode,
A love of music and of scenes sublime,
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd
Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers,
Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours.

LVII.

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed

On that beloved daughter; she had been The only thing which kept his heart unclosed Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, A lonely pure affection unopposed:

There wanted but the loss of this to wean

Ilis feelings from all milk of human kindness,
And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness.
LVIII.

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging

Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock;
The ocean when its yeasty war is waging
Is awful to the vessel near the rock:
But violent things will sooner bear assuaging-
Their fury being spent by its own shock—
Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire
Of a strong human heart, and in a sire.

LIX.

It is a hard, although a common case,

To find our children running restive-they In whom our brightest days we would retrace, Our little selves reform'd in finer clay; Just as old age is creeping on apace,

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company-the gout and stone.

LX.

Yet a fine family is a fine thing

(Provided they don't come in after dinner); 'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling

To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.

LXI.

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate,
And stood within his hall at eventide;
Meantime the lady and her lover sate

At wassail in their beauty and their pride
An ivory inlaid table spread with state

Before them, and fair slaves on every side; Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.

LXII.

The dinner made about a hundred dishes;

Lamb and pistachio-nuts-in short, all meats, And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes; The beverage was various sherbets

Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice,

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 tortoise-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 wine

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 filagree, 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 recal,

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 splendour, Indian mats And Persian carpets, which 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 favourites-(that's To say, by degradation)-mingled there, As plentiful as in a court or fair.

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 pease,

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.2
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 't is 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 behold, 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 eunuchs, and a poet, Which made their new establishment complete;

The last was of great fame, aud 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.»><
LXXIX.

He praised the present, and abused the past,
Reversing the good custom of old days;

An eastern anti-jacobin at last

Hle turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise. For some few years his lot had been o'ercast By his seeming independent in his lays; But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.

LXXX.

He was a man who had seen many changes,
And always changed as true as any needle,
His polar star being one which rather ranges,
And not the fix'd-he knew the way to wheedle;
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;
And being fluent (save indeed when feed ill),
He lied with such a fervour of intention-
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension.
LXXXI.

But he had genius,-when a turncoat has it,

The «vates irritabilis» takes care

That without notice few full moons shall pass it;
Even good men like to make the public stare :-
But to my subject-let me see-what was it?

Oh!-the third canto-and the pretty pair

Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode Of living in their insular abode.

LXXXII.

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less

In company a very pleasant fellow,

Had been the favourite of full many a mess

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; And though his meaning they could rarely guess, Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause,

Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause,

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?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
Must we but blush?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!
What! silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, « Let one living head, But one arise,—we come, we come!»> "T is but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served-but served Polycrates

A tyrant; but our masters then

Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells :
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine:
But, gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep

Where nothing, save the waves and 1, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

LXXXVII.

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung,
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,
Yet in these times he might have done much worse:
His strain display'd some feeling-right or wrong;
And feeling, in a poet, is the source

Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,
And take all colours-like the hands of dyers.
LXXXVIII.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses,
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link

Of ages to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper-even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his !

LXXXIX.

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank

In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank,

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station, In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up as a rare deposit.

XC.

And glory long has made the sages smile;

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, windDepending more upon the historian's style

Than on the name a person leaves behind. Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle; The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe.

XCI.

Milton's the prince of poets-so we say;
A little heavy, but no less divine;

An independent being in his day

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; But his life falling into Johnson's way,

We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college-a harsh sire-odd spouse, For the first Mrs Milton left his house.

XCII.

All these are, certes, entertaining facts,

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; 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.

XCHI.

All are not moralists like Southey, when

Hle prated to the world of «Pantisocracy ;» Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy; Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).

XCIV.

Such names at present cut a convict figure,
The very Botany Bay in moral geography;
Their loyal treason, renegado vigour,

Are good manure for their more bare biography.
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger
Than any since the birthday of typography;
A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the « Excursion,»
Writ in a manner which is my aversion.

XCV.

He there builds up a formidable dyke

Between his own and others' intellect; But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, Are things which in this century don't strike The public mind, so few are the elect; And the new births of both their stale virginitics Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities.

XCVI.

But let me to my story: I must own,

If I have any fault, it is digression;
Leaving my people to proceed alone,

While I soliloquize beyond expression;
But these are my addresses from the throne,

Which put off business to the ensuing session : Forgetting each omission is a loss to

The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.

XCVII

I know that what our neighbours call «< longueurs (We've not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures

Au epic from Bob Southey every spring),— Form not the true temptation which allures

The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring Some fine examples of the épopée, To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.

XCVIIL

We learn from Horace, Honer sometimes sleeps;
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wake-
To show with what complacency he creeps,
With his dear « Waggoners,» around his lakes;
He wishes for « a boat to sail the deeps-
Of Ocean ?-no, of air; and then he makes
Another outery for a little boat,»
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.

Tour 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 revelry 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.

CHI

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 't is 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 doseWhat though 't is but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 't is too like.

CIV.

Some kinder 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 whe's
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.

CV.

Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowd of
To where the last Cæsarian 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!