As thus Juanna spoke, Dudù turn'd round,
And hid her face within Juanna's breast;
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found
The colour of a budding rose's crest.
I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound
The mystery of this rupture of their rest;
All that I know is, that the facts I state
Are true as truth has ever been of late.
And so good night to them,—or, if you will,
Good morrow-for the cock had crown, and light
Began to clothe each Asiatic hill,
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight
Of the long caravan, which in the chill
Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.
With the first ray, or rather gray of morn,
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale
As passion rises, with its bosom worn,
Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil:
The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,
Which Fable places in her breast of wail,
Is lighter far of heart and voice than those
Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.
And that's the moral of this composition,
If people would but see its real drift ;—
But that they will not do without suspicion,
Because all gentle readers have the gift
Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision;
While gentle writers also love to lift
Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural—
The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.
Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour,-
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried
Aloud because his feelings were too tender
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,—
So beautiful that art could little mend her,
Though pale with conflicts between love and pride So agitated was she with her error,
She did not even look into the mirror.
Also arose about the self-same time,
Perhaps a little later, her great lord,
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime,
And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd,
A thing of much less import in that clime—
At least to those of incomes which afford
The filling up their whole connubial cargo—
Than where two wives are under an embargo.
He did not think much on the matter, nor
Indeed on any other: as a man,
He liked to have a handsome paramour
At hand, as one may like to have a fan,
And therefore of Circassians had good store,
As an amusement after the divan;
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty,
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty.
And now he rose; and after due ablutions,
Exacted by the customs of the east,
And prayers and other pious evolutions,
He drank six cups of coffee at the least,
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians,
Whose victories had recently increased,
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores,
As greatest of all sovereigns and w——s.
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander!
Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend Thine ear, if it should reach,—and now rhymes wander Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander
Of murmuring liberty's wide waves, which blend
Their roar even with the Baltic's,- -so you be
Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me.
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon,
That hater of mankind, would be a shame,
A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on:
But people's ancestors are history's game;
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on
All generations, I should like to know
What pedigree the best would have to show?
Had Catherine and the sultan understood
Their own true interests, which kings rarely know, Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude,
There was a way to end their strife, although
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good,
Without the aid of prince or plenipo:
She to dismiss her guards, and he his harem,
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em.
But as it was, his highness had to hold
His daily council upon ways and means,
How to encounter with this martial scold,
This modern Amazon and queen of queans;
And the perplexity could not be told
Of all the pillars of the state, which leans
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.
Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone,
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place
For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone,'
And rich with all contrivances which grace
Those gay recesses :-many a precious stone
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers,
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours.
Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble,'
Vied with each other on this costly spot;
And singing birds without were heard to warble;
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot
Varied each ray ;-but all descriptions garble
The true effect, and so we had better not
Be too minute, an outline is the best,-
A lively reader's fancy does the rest.
And here she summon'd Baba, and required
Don Juan at his hands, and information
Of what had past since all the slaves retired,
And whether he had occupied their station;
If matters had been managed as desired,
And his disguise with due consideration
Kept up; and, above all, the where and how
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied
To this long catechism of questions ask'd
More easily than answer'd,-that he had tried
His best to obey in what he had been task'd ;
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide,
Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ;
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource
To which embarrass'd people have recourse.
Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience,
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations; And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; And as his speech grew still more broken-knee'd, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle.
When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew
To bode him no great good, he deprecated
Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through---
He could not help the thing which he related:
Then out it came at length that to Dudu
Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on The holy camel's hump, besides the koran.
The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom
The discipline of the whole harem bore,
As soon as they re-enter'd their own room,
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door,
Had settled all; nor could he then presume
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more,
Without exciting such suspicion as
Might make the matter still worse than it was.
He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure,
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact
'T was certain that his conduct had been pure,
Because a foolish or imprudent act
Would not alone have made him insecure,
But ended in his being found out and sack'd,
And thrown into the sea. Thus Baba spoke
Of all save Dudù's dream, which was no joke.
This he discreetly kept in the back-ground,
And talk'd away-and might have talk'd till now,
any further answer that he found,
So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow;
Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round,
As if she had received a sudden blow,
And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly
O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily.
Although she was not of the fainting sort,
Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd
It was but a convulsion, which, though short,
Can never be described; we all have heard
And some of us have felt thus all amort,
When things beyond the common have occurr'd; Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony
What she could ne'er express-then how should I?
She stood a moment, as a Pythoness
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and fullOf inspiration gather'd from distress,
When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull
The heart asunder ;-then, as more or less
Their speed abated or their strength grew dull,
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees.
Her face declined and was unseen; her hair
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,
Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,
A low, soft ottoman), and black despair
Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.
Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping
Conceal'd her features better than a veil ;
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale :
Would that I were a painter! to be grouping
All that a poet drags into detail!
Oh that my words were colours! but their tints
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.
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