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 beholder Sigh’d for their sakes—that they should e’er grow older. Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales To a sedate grey 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 absence 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 a wet blanket. He—being a man who seldom used a word Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise (In general he surprised men with the sword) His daughter—had not sent before to advise Of his arrival, so that no one stirr’d; And long he paused to re-assure 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.