Part 20

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.

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; 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 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 Shakspeare 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 Haidee’s hair in ’t Surmounted as its clasp—a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, Which made their new establishment complete; The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: His verses rarely wanted their due feet; And for his theme—he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirize or flatter, As the psalm says, ‘inditing a good matter.’

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 praise— For 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 like Crashaw.

He was a man who had seen many changes, And always changed as true as any needle; His polar star being one which rather ranges, And not the fix’d—he knew the way to wheedle: So vile he ’scaped the doom which oft avenges; And being fluent (save indeed when fee’d ill), He lied with such a fervour of intention— There was no doubt he earn’d his laureate pension.

But he had genius,—when a turncoat has it, The ‘Vates irritabilis’ takes care That without notice few full moons shall pass it; Even good men like to make the public stare:— But to my subject—let me see—what was it?— O!—the third canto—and the pretty pair— Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode Of living in their insular abode.

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less In company a very pleasant fellow, Had been the favourite of full many a mess Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; And though his meaning they could rarely guess, Yet still they deign’d to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause, Of which the first ne’er knows the second cause.

But now being lifted into high society, And having pick’d up several odds and ends Of free thoughts in his travels for variety, He deem’d, being in a lone isle, among friends, That, without any danger of a riot, he Might for long lying make himself amends; And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, Agree to a short armistice with truth.

He had travell’d ’mongst 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 occasions— Which 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.

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 ‘Ca ira,’ according to the fashion all: His muse made increment of any thing, From the high lyric down to the low rational: If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?

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 Stael); In Italy he’d ape the ‘Trecentisti;’ In Greece, he sing some sort of hymn like this t’ ye:

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, 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 Thermopylae!

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.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon’s song divine: He served—but served Polycrates— A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.