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For ever and anon she threw
A prying, pitying glance on me
With her black eyes so wild and free:
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew
No vision it could be,-

But that I lived, and was released
From adding to the vulture's feast:
And when the Cossack-maid beheld
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd,
She smiled and I essay'd to speak,
But fail'd--and she approach'd, and made
With lip and finger signs that said,
I must not strive as yet to break
The silence, till my strength should be
Enough to leave my accents free;
And then her hand on mine she laid,
And smooth'd the pillow for my head,
And stole along on tiptoe tread,
And gently oped the door, and spake
In whispers-ne'er was voice so sweet!
Even music follow'd her light feet!-
But those she call'd were not awake,
And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd,
Another look on me she cast,
Another sign she made, to say,
That I had nought to fear, that all
Were near, at my command or call,
And she would not delay

Her due return; while she was gone
Methought I felt too much alone.

"She came with mother and with sire-
What need of more ?-I will not tire
With long recital of the rest,
Since I became the Cossack's guest:
They found me senseless on the plain-
They bore me to the nearest hut-
They brought me into life again-
Me one day o'er their realm to reign!
Thus the vain fool who strove to glut
His rage, refining on my pain,
Sent me forth to the wilderness,
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone,
To pass the desert to a throne.-
What mortal his own doom may guess?-
Let none despond, let none despair!
To-morrow the Borysthenes

May see our coursers graze at ease
Upon his Turkish bank,—and never
Had I such welcome for a river
As I shall yield when safely there.
Comrades, good night! "—The Hetman threy
His length beneath the oak-tree-shade,
With leafy couch already made,

A bed nor comfortless nor new
To him who took his rest whene'er
The hour arrived, no matter where:-
His eyes the hastening slumbers steep.
And if ye marvel Charles forgot
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, --
The king had been an hour asleep.

BEPPO,

A VENETIAN STORY.

ROSALIND. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a GONDOLA.

As You LIKE IT, Act. IV. Sc. I.

Annotation of the Commentators.

That is, been at Venice. which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was then what Paris is now-the seat of all dissoluteness.

'Tis known, at least is should be, that | The moment night with dusky mant

throughout

All countries of the Catholic persuasion, Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes

about,

The people take their fill of recreation, And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, However high their rank, or low their station,

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, And other things which may be had for asking.

Covers

The skies (and the more duskily the better The time less liked by husbands than bi

lovers

Begins, and prudery flings aside he

fetter; And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, Giggling with all the gallants who bese her;

And there are songs, and quavers, roaring humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming

nd there are dresses splendid, but fantast- | And therefore humbly I would recommend "The curious in fish-sauce," before they

ical,

asks of all times and nations, Turks and
Jews,
nd harlequins and clowns, with feats
gymnastical,
Freeks, Romans, Yankee - doodles, and
Hindoos;

Linds of dress, except the ecclesiastical,
Il people, as their fancies hit, may choose,
But no one in these parts may quiz the
clergy,

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye.

You'd better walk about begirt with briars,
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on
A single stitch reflecting upon friars,
Although you swore it only was in fun;
They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir
the fires

cross

The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or
friend,
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in
gross
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send
By any means least liable to loss),
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Hervey,
Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh
starve ye;

That is to say, if your religion's Roman, And you at Rome would do as Romans do, According to the proverb, – although no

man

If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you,
If protestant, or sickly, or a woman,
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout—
Dine, and be d-d! I don't mean to be
coarse,

Phlegethon with every mother's son,
arsay one mass to cool the cauldron's But that's the penalty, to say no worse.

bubble

The boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double.

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why they usher Lent with so much | glee in,

more than I can tell, although I guess
as we take a glass with friends at
parting,

In the stage-coach
or packet, just at starting.

Of all the places where the Carnival
Was most facetious in the days of yore,
For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball,
And masque, and mime and mystery, and more
Than I have time to tell now, or at all,
Venice the bell from every city bore,
And at the moment when I fix my story,
That sea-born city was in all her glory.

They've pretty faces yet, those same
Venetians,
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet ex-
pressions still,
Such as of old were copied from the

Grecians,
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill;
And like so many Venuses of Titian's
(The best's at Florence-see it, if ye will),
They look when leaning over the balcony,
Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione,

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their

best;

And when you to Manfrini's palace go, That picture (howsoever fine the rest) Is loveliest to my mind of all the show: d thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so, It may perhaps be also to your zest, Take for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, And self; but such a woman! love in life! had lid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, "Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife,

Base they have-no sauces to their stews,
A thing which causes many "poohs" and

"pishes,"

Love in full life and length, not love ideal,

And several oaths (which would not suit No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,

the Muse)

From travellers accustom'd from a boy
To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy;

But something better still, so very real,
That the sweet model must have been the

same;

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She was a married woman; 'tis convenient, | And could not sleep with ease alone at Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule

night;

To view their little slips with eyes more She deem'd the window-frames and shutters

lenient;

Whereas if single ladies play the fool, (Unless, within the period intervenient, A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool)

I don't know how they ever can get over it, Except they manage never to discover it.

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, And made some voyages, too, in other seas, And when he lay in quarantine for pratique (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic,

For thence she could discern the ship with

ease:

He was a merchant trading to Aleppo,
His name Giuseppe, call'd, more briefly,
Верро.

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard,
Saburnt with travel, yet a portly figure;
Though, colour'd, as it were, within a
tanyard,
He was a person both of sense and vigour
A better seaman never yet did man yard:
And the, although her manners show'd no
rigour,

Wa deem'd a woman of the strictest
principle,
So much as to be thought almost invincible.

But several years elapsed since they had met, Some people thought the ship was lost,

and some That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, And did not like the thoughts of steering home; And there were several offer'd any bet, Orthat he would, or that he would not come, Fermost men (till by losing render'd sager) Hall back their own opinions with a wager.

Tis said that their last parting was pathetic,
As partings often are, or ought to be,
And their presentiment was quite prophetic
That they should never more each other see,
Art of morbid feeling, half poetic,
Which I have known occur in two or three)
When kneeling
on the shore upon her sad
knee,
He left this Adriatic Ariadne.

And Laura waited long, and wept a little,
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she
might;
She almost lost all appetite for victual,

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His heart was one of those which most | But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase

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Used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays
Close to the lady as a part of dress,
Her word the only law which he obeys.
His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call
And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and
shawl.

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