And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, Above them their dessert grew on its vine, A band of children, round a snow-white ram, Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers Their classic profiles, and glittering dresses, Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, Sigh'd, for their sakes-that they should e'er grow older. Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact). Here was no lack of innocent diversion Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, Ah! what is man? what perils still environ Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; He-being a man who seldom used a word And long he paused to re-assure his eyes, He did not know (alas! how men will lie) And put his house in mourning several weeks,— But now their eyes and also lips were dry; The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidée's cheeks. Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, S Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, A life which made them happy beyond measure. Compared with what Haidée did with his treasure ; 'Twas wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving. Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast You're wrong.-He was the mildest manner'd man A STORMED CITY. (DON JUAN, Canto viii. Stanzas 123-127.) ALL that the mind would shrink from of excesses; All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; As hell-mere mortals who their power abuse— If here and there some transient trait of pity Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty Child, or an aged, helpless man or two What's this in one annihilated city, Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow? Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in after-times. Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation— Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt famine never shall approach the throneThough Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. But let me put an end unto my theme : There was an end of Ismail—hapless town! Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown : |