XCI.

They entered, and for coffee called,-it came,
A beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it's not the same.
Now Laura, much recovered, or less loth
To speak, cries: «< Beppo! what's your pagan name?
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth!

« And how came you to keep away so long? «Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong?

XCII.

«And are you really, truly, now a Turk?

༥

With

other women did any

you wive? « Is't true they use their fingers for a fork?

་་

"Well, that's the prettiest shawl-as I'm alive! You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. «And how so many years did you contrive To-Bless me ! did I ever? No, I never «Saw a man grown so yellow! How's

XCIII.

Beppo! that beard of yours becomes

your liver?

you not; "It shall be shaved before you're a day older; Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? "How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot << In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder « Should find you out, and make the story known. "How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it's grown! » XCIV.

What answer Beppo made to these demands,

Is more than I know. He was cast away.

About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands,
Became a slave of course, and for his pay

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands

Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay,
He joined the rogues and prospered, and became
A renegado of indifferent fame.

XCV.

But he grew rich, and with his riches
grew so
Keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
And not be always thieving on the main ;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,

And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu; she was a fine polacca,

Manned with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.

XCVI.

Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash,
He then embarked, with risk of life and limb,
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash;
He said that Providence protected him—
For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash

In our opinions-well, the ship was trim,
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on,
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.

XCVII.

They reached the island, he transferred his lading, And self and live-stock, to another bottom,

And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em. However, he got off by this evading,

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; And thus at Venice landed to reclaim

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.

XCVIII.

His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him (He made the church a present by the way); He then threw off the garments which disguised him,

And borrowed the Count's small-clothes for a day : His friends the more for his long absence prized him,

Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them. For stories, but I don't believe the half of them.

XCIX.

Whate'er his youth had suffered, his old age
With wealth and talking made him some amends';
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage,

I've heard the Count and he were always friends. My pen is at the bottom of a page,

Which being finished, here the story ends; 'Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above:
And life is thorny; and youth is vain:
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain:

* K * * * * * * *

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.
Coleridge's Christabel.

FARE THEE WELL!

FARE thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er can'st know again : Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou would'st at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe-
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away :
Still thine own its life retaineth-

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is—that we no more may meet.