LVII. Richly caparisoned, a ready row Of arméd horse, and many a warlike store, Circled the wide-extending court below; Above, strange groups adorned the corridore; And oft-times through the area's echoing door Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away: The Turk--the Greek--the Albanian--and the Moor, Here mingled in their many-hued array, While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day.[ff] LVIII. The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see; The crimson-scarféd men of Macedon; The Delhi with his cap of terror on, And crooked glaive--the lively, supple Greek And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son; The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, Master of all around, too potent to be meek, LIX. Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups,[157] Scanning the motley scene that varies round; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play, are found; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; Hark! from the Mosque the nightly solemn sound, The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, "There is no god but God!--to prayer--lo! God is great!" LX. Just at this season Ramazani's fast[158] Through the long day its penance did maintain: But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again: Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant Gallery now seemed made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in.[159] LXI. Here woman's voice is never heard: apart, And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move,[fg] She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove: For, not unhappy in her Master's love,[fh] And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, Blest cares! all other feelings far above! Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears Who never quits the breast--no meaner passion shares. LXII. In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, ALI reclined, a man of war and woes:[160] Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While Gentleness her milder radiance throws[161] Along that agéd venerable face, The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. LXIII.