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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.

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;

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.

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

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.

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
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles
Rejected several suitors, just to learn
How to accept a better in his turn.

CXXIX.

And walking out upon the beach below
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found,
Insensible, not dead, but nearly so,-

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;
But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know,
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,
As far as in her lay, "to take him in,
A stranger," dying, with so white a skin.

CXXX.

But taking him into her father's house
Was not exactly the best way to save,
But like conveying to the cat the mouse,

Or people in a trance into their grave;
Because the good old man had so much "vous,"
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
And sold him instantly when out of danger.

CXXXI.

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies)

To place him in the cave for present rest:

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, Their charity increased about their guest.

And their compassion grew to such a size, It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven

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

CXXXV.

Young Juan slept all dreamless;-but the maid
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den,
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd,
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again.
He slumber'd: yet she thought, at least she said,
(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,)
He had pronounced her name-but she forgot
That at this moment Juan knew it not.

CXXXVI.

And pensive to her father's house she went,
Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant,
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who

She being wiser by a year or two:

A year or two 's an age when rightly spent,
And Zoe spent hers as most women do,
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
Which is acquired in nature's good old college.

CXXXVII.

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon
His rest; the rushing of the neighboring rill,
And the young beams of the excluded sun,
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;
And need he had of slumber yet, for none
Had suffer'd more-his hardships were comparative
To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative."

CXXXVIII.

Not so Haidee; she sadly toss'd and tumbled,
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er,
Dream of a thousond wrecks, o'er which she

stumbled,

And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore
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.

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.

CXXXIX.

But up she got, and up she made them get,
With some pretence about the sun, that makes
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;

And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks
Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet
With mist, and every bird with him awakes,
And night is flung off like a mourning suit
Worn for a husband,- -or some other brute.

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CXL.

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,

I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late I have set up on purpose all the night,

Which hoctong aa nhveiniane car one's fate.

CXLVII.

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek
A purple hectic play'd, like dying day
On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak
Of sufferance vet unon his forehead lav

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