And patient spirit held aloof his fate : Little he said, and now and then he smiled As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart, [part. With the deep deadly thought that they must

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea,

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue, And all within its arch appear'd to be

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Helles

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.

CXII.

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed,
For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought
He still was in the boat, and had but dozed,
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought,
And wish'd it death in which he had reposed;
And then once more his feelings back were
brought,

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen
A lovely female face of seventeen.

CXIII.

'Twas bending elose o'er his, and the small mouth

Seem'd almost prying into his for breath; And, chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recall'd his answering spirits back from death; And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe Each pulse to animation, till, beneath Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh To these kind efforts made a low reply.

CXIV.

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung; And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, Pillow'd his death-like forehead: then she wrung His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm; And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom-and hers too.

CXV.

And lifting him with care into the cave,

The gentle girl and her attendant-one
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave,
And more robust of figure-then begun
To kindle fire; and as the new flames gave

Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er [sun She was, appear'd, distinct, and tall, and fair.

CXVI.

Her brow was o'erhung with coins of gold, That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd

In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould,

They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land.

CXVII.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,

CXXIII.

[free; less

Which are-(as I must own)-of female growth, And have ten thousand delicate inventions: They made a most superior mess of broth,

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's

Achilles order'd dinner for new comers.

CXXIV.

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair,
Lest they should seem princesses in disguise;
Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air

Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize; And so, in short, the girls they really were

They shall appear before your curious eyes, Mistress and maid: the first was only daughter Of an old man who lived upon the water.

CXXV.

A fisherman he had been in his youth, And still a sort of fisherman was he; But other speculations were, in sooth, Added to his connexion with the sea, Perhaps not so respectable, in truth:

A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him at last the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres.

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:
Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he
But this I know, it was a spacious building,
A sad old fellow was he, if you please; [spilt,
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.

CXXVIII.

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidée,
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.