LXIII. DON JUAN. These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, In small fine China cups, came in at last- The hand from burning, underneath them placed; These oriental writings on the wall, Quite common in those countries, are a kind Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind LXX. Of all the dresses I select Haidee's: She wore two jelicks-one was of pale yellow; All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 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 LXXIV. Round her she made an atmosphere of life, With all we can imagine of the skies, Too pure even for the purest human ties; LXXV. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tirged, 624 LXXVII. Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't, 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." LXXXIV. He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, Had something ready upon most occasions- LXXXV. Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, He gave the different nations something national: From the high lyrical to the low rational: LXXXVI. In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 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, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow And men in nations ;-all were his! 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? 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. |