And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, And sherbet cooling in the porous vase;
Above them their dessert grew on its vine, The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er, Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd their mellow store.
A band of children, round a snow-white ram,
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers
His sober head, majestically tame,
Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.
Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks,
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,
The innocence which happy childhood blesses,
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks,
So that the philosophical bebolder
Sigh'd for their sakes-that they should e'er grow older.
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales
To a sedate gray circle of old smokers,
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,
Of charms to make good gold, and cure bad ails,
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers,
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
For the imagination or the senses,
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is;
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,
Perceiving in his abscence such expenses,
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
The happiest mortals even after dinner-
A day of gold from out an age of iron
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;
Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren,
That lures to flay alive the young beginner;
Lambro's reception at his people's banquet
Was such as fire accords to wet a blanket.
He-being a man who seldom used a word
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise
(In general he surprised men by the sword)
His daughter-had not sent before to advise
Of his arrival, so that no one stirr❜d;
And long he paused to reassure his eyes,
In fact much more astonish'd than delighted,
To find so much good company invited.
He did not know (Alas! how men will lie!)
That a report (especially the Greeks)
Avouch'd his death, (such people never die,)
And put his house in mourning several weeks,
But now their eyes and also lips were dry;
The bloom too had return'd to Haidee's cheeks.
Her tears too being return'd into their fount,
She now kept house upon her own account.
Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure;
The servants all were getting drunk or idling,
A life which made them happy beyond measure.
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling,
Compared with what Haidee 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
He flew into a passion, and in fact
There was no mighty reason to be pleased;
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,
To teach his people to be more exact,
And that, proceeding at a very high rate,
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.
You're wrong.-
-He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat;
With such true breeding of a gentleman,
You never could devine his real thought;
Nor courtier could, and scarcely woman can
Gird more deceit within a petticoat;
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,
He was so great a loss to good society.
Advancing to the nearest dinner tray,
Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,
Boded no good, whatever it express'd,
He asked the meaning of this holiday;
The vinous Greek, to whom he had address'd
His question, much too merry to divine
The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine,
And without turning his facetious head,
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air,
Presented the overflowing cup, and said,
Talking's dry work, I have no time to spare." A second hiccup'd, "Our old master's dead,
"You'd better ask our mistress who's his heir." "Our mistress!" quoth a third:-"Our mistress!-pooh!"You mean our master-not the old, but new."
These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom
They thus address'd-and Lambro's visage fell-
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom
Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell
The expression, and endeavouring to resume
His smile, requested one of them to tell
The name and quality of his new patron,
Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron.
"I know not," quoth the fellow,
"He is, or whence he came-and little care; "But this I know, that this roast capon's fat,
"And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare; "And if you are not satisfied with that,
"Direct your questions to my neighbour there; "He'll answer all for better or for worse, "For none likes more to hear himself converse."*
I said that Lambro was a man of patience,
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding,
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations,
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding;
He bore these sneers against his near relations,
His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding,
The insults too of every servile glutton,
Who all the time were eating up his mutton.
Now in a person used to much command-
To bid men come, and go, and come again-
To see his orders done too out of hand-
Whether the word was death, or but the chain-
It may seem strange to find his manners bland;
Yet such things are, which I cannot explain,
Though doubtless he who can command himself
Is good to govern-almost as a Guelf,
Not that be was not sometimes rash or so,
But never in his real and serious mood;
*Rispone allor' Margatte, a dir tel tosto,
10 non credo piu al nero ch' all'azzurro;
Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto,
E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro;
Nella cervigia, e quando io n' ho nel mosto,
E molto piu nell' espro che il mangurro;
Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede,
E crede che sia saivo chi gli crede.
Pulci Morgante Maggiore, Canto 18, Stanza 151.
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