LXIII. These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine China cups, came in at lastGold cups of filigree, made to secure The hand from burning, underneath them placed; Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. LXIV. The hangings of the room were tapestry, made LXV. These oriental writings on the wall, Quite common in those countries, are a kind Of monitors, adapted to recall, Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, And took his kingdom from him.-You will find, Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. LXVI. A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, (For that's the name they like to pray beneath)-But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, Are things that really take away the breath, And show that late hours, wine and love, are able To do not much less damage than the table. LXVII. Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue; Their sofa occupied three parts complete Of the apartment-and appear'd quite new; The velvet cushions-(for a throne more meet)Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. LXVIII. Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, Had done their work of splendor, Indian mats And Persian carpets, the heart bled to stain, Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats, And dwarfs and blacks, and such like, things that gain Their bread as ministers and favorites-(that's To say, by degradation)-mingled there As plentiful as in a court or fair. LXIX. There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The greater part of these were ready spread With viands, and sherbets: in ice, and wineKept for all comers, at all hours to dine. LXX. Of all the dresses I select Haidee'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. LXXI. One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, LXXII. Around, as princess of her father's land, Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; LXXIII. Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 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. LXXIV. 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. LXXV. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tirged, 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. LXXVI. The henna should be deeply dyed to make She was so like a vision; I might err, LXXVII. Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't, Surmounted as its clasp-a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. LXXVIII. And now they were diverted by their suite, And for his theme-he seldom sung below it, As the psalm says, "inditing a good matter." LXXIX. He praised the present and abused the past, Reversing the good custom of old days, An eastern anti-jacobin at last He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praiseFor some few years his lot had been o'ercast By his seeming independent in his lays, But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, With truth like Southey, and with verse Crashaw. LXXX. LXXXIV. He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, And knew the self-loves of the different nations. And, having lived with people of all ranks, Had something ready upon most occasionsWhich got him a few presents and some thanks He varied with some skill his adulations; To "do at Rome as Romans do," a piece Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. LXXXV. Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, He gave the different nations something national 'Twas all the same to him-"God save the King," Or "Calira," according to the fashion all; His muse made increment of any thing, From the high lyrical to the low rational: If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? LXXXVI. In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In England, a six-canto quarto tale; In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on The last war-much the same in Portugal; In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on Would be old Goethe's-(see what says de Staël; like In Italy, he'd ape the "Trecentisti ;" In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ya 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 Bless'd." The mountains look on Marathon- I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, 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? All these are, certes, entertaining facts, Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) Like Cromwell's pranks;-but although truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes, As most essential to their hero's story, C. "Pedlars," and "boats," and "wagons!" Oh! ye Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? [shades That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hissThe "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell" Can sneer at him who drew "Achitophel!" CI. T' our tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone, The lady and her lover, left alone, The rosy flood of twilight sky admired;Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! CII. Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer CIII. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 'tis too like. CIV. Some kind casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print-that I have no devotion, But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way; My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,-all that springs from the great whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. CV. Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood, Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! CVI. The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. CVII. Soft hour!6 which wakes the wish and melts the Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? II. But time, which brings all beings to their level, III. As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wish'd that others held the same opinion: They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. IV. And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, which we must steep First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep; Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. V. Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it was to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary. VI. To the kind reader of our sober clime, This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell'd in the fancies of the time, [despotic; True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet. VII. How I have treated it, I do not know Perhaps no better than they have treated me Who nave imputed such designs as show, Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see; But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: VIII. Young Juan and his lady-love were left With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring Before one charm or hope had taken wing |