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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,
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is ;
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,
Perceiving in his absence such expenses,
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
The happiest mortals even after dinner!
A day of gold from out an age of iron

Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;
Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least)'s a siren,
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner;
Lambro's reception at his people's banquet
Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

He-being a man who seldom used a word

Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise
(In general he surprised men with the sword)
His daughter-had not sent before to advise
Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd;

And long he paused to reassure his eyes,
In fact much more astonish'd than delighted,
To find so much good company invited.

He did not know (alas! how men will lie!)
That a report (especially the Greeks)
Avouch'd his death (such people never die),

And put his house in mourning several weeks,—
But now their eyes and also lips were dry;

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,
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure;
The servants all were getting drunk or idling,

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,
He flew into a passion, and in fact
There was no mighty reason to be pleased;
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,
To teach his people to be more exact,
And that, proceeding at a very high rate,
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.

You're wrong. He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat,
With such true breeding of a gentleman,

You never could divine his real thought,
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can
Gird more deceit within a petticoat;
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,
He was so great a loss to good society.


(CANTO III, lxx—lxxvii).

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
Lockless-so pliable from the pure gold,
That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould;

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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,
And clinging as if loath to lose its hold,
The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin
That e'er by precious metal was held in.

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
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun
Dyes with his morning light,—and would conceal
Her person if allow'd at large to run,
And still they seem'd resentfully to feel

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun
Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began
To offer his young pinion as her fan.

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,
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife-

Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged
(It is the country's custom), but in vain;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:

Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
They could not look more rosy than before.




The henna should be deeply dyed to make
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair;
She had no need of this, day ne'er will break
On mountain-tops more heavenly white than her:
The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
She was so like a vision; I might err,
But Shakespeare also says, 'tis very silly
'To gild refined gold, or paint the lily.'

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 !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,


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I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.


A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations ;-all were his !
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set where were they?


And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?


'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?

Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

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.




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