One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely arm,
Lockless-so pliable from the pure gold

That the hand stretched and shut it without harm,
The limb which it adorned, 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 rolled,

Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;

Her hair was starred with gems; her veil's fine fold Below her breast was fastened with a band

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furled
About the prettiest ancle in the world.

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
Flowed like an Alpine torrent, which the sun
Dyes with his morning light-and would conceal
Her person if allowed at large to ran,

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 her young pinion as her fan.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,

The very air seemed 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 mocked the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:

Her nails were touched with henna; but again

The
power
of art was turned 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 furled 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.

Among the persons who are there, to amuse and to flatter the host and hostess, is a sort of cosmopolite poet. The satire of this sketch is biting, and the blows are struck with good will; but it is nevertheless true in many respects, and good in all. The poet,' says Lord Byron,

Praised the present and abused the past,
Reversing the good custom of old days;

An eastern anti-jacobin at last

He turned, 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 fixed-he knew the way to wheedle;
So vile, be 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;
And being fluent-save indeed when fed ill-

He lied with such a fervour of invention

There was no doubt he earned his laureate pension.

But he had genius-where 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?
Oh!-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 favorite 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 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 picked up several odds and ends
Of free thoughts in his travels for Variety,

He deemed, being in a lone isle, amongst 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.'

The following is his song, which breathes all the patriotic fire of old Greece, together with the most jovial Bacchanalian spirit:

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the hearts of war and peace—
Where Delos rose, and Phœbus 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 Blessed.'

The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea; And, musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed 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 linked among a fettered 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 blessed?
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!

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.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend;

That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! *On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells;

In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;