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Here was no lack of innocent diversion
For the imagination or the senses,
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,
Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;
He-being a man who seldom used a word
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise
And long he paused to reassure his eyes,
He did not know (alas! how men will lie!)
And put his house in mourning several weeks,—
The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidée's cheekз. Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, She now kept house upon her own account.
Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,
A life which made them happy beyond measure. 100
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling,
Compared with what Haidée did with his treasure; 'Twas wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving.
Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast,
You're wrong. He was the mildest manner'd man
You never could divine his real thought,
(CANTO III, lxx—lxxvii).
One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
Of all the dresses I select Haidée'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 peas,
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.
So beautiful-its very shape would charm,
Around, as princess of her father's land,
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd 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 trousers furl'd About the prettiest ankle in the world.
Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun
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,
Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged
Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
The henna should be deeply dyed to make
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 Haidée's hair in 't, Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.
THE ISLES OF GREECE
THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And men in nations ;-all were his !
And where are they? and where art thou,
The heroic bosom beats no more!
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
8. 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!' 'Tis but the living who are dumb.