CX.

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till
This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will.

At length she rose up, and began to walk
Slowly along the room, but silent still,

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye-
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

CXI.

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak-but paused,
And then moved on again with rapid pace;

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused
By deep emotion :-you may sometimes trace

A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased

By all the demons of all passions, show'd
Their work even by the way in which he trode.

CXII.

"Slave!

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba :-
Bring the two slaves! she said in a low tone,
But one which Baba did not like to brave,

And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate,
For fear of any error, like the late.

CXIII.

"The Georgian and her paramour," replied

The imperial bride-and added, "Let the boat

Be ready by the secret portal's side:

You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat,

Despite her injured love and fiery pride;

And of this Baba willingly took note,

And begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard,
She would revoke the order he had heard.

CXIV.

"To hear is to obey," he said; "but still, Sultana, think upon the consequence :

It is not that I shall not all fulfil

Your orders, even in their severest sense; But such precipitation may end ill,

Even at your own imperative expense; I do not mean destruction and exposure In case of any premature disclosure;

CXV.

"But your own feelings.-Even should all the rest Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide Already many a once love-beaten breast

Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide-
You love this boyish, new seraglio guest,
And if this violent remedy be tried-
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you,
That killing him is not the way to cure you."

CXVI.

"What dost thou know of love or feeling?—wretch! Begone! she cried, with kindling eyes, " and do My bidding!" Baba vanish'd; for to stretch

His own remonstrance further, he well knew, Might end in acting as his own "Jack Ketch;" And, though he wish'd extremely to get through This awkward business without harm to others, He still preferr'd his own neck to another's.

CXVII.

Away he went then upon his commission,

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase Against all women, of whate'er condition, Especially sultanas and their ways;

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision,

Their never knowing their own mind two days, The trouble that they gave, their immorality, Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.

CXVIII.

And then he call'd his brethren to his aid,
And sent one on a summons to the pair,
That they must instantly be well array'd,
And, above all, be comb'd even to a hair,
And brought before the empress, who had made
Inquiries after them with kindest care :
At which Dudù look'd strange, and Juan silly;
But go they must at once, and will I-nill I.

CXIX.

And here I leave them at their preparation
For the imperial presence, wherein whether
Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration,

Or got rid of the parties altogether,
Like other angry ladies of her nation—-

Are things the turning of a hair or feather May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.

CXX.

I leave them for the present, with good wishes, Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange Another part of history; for the dishes

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change: And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes,

Although his situation now seems strange And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.

NOTE TO CANTO VI.

Stanza Ixxv.

A "wood obscure," like that where Dante found.

Nel mezzo del Cammin' di nostra vita

Mi ritrovai per una Selva oscura, &c., &c., &c.

OH Love! oh Glory! what are ye? who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight:

There's not a meteor in the polar sky

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high Our eyes in search of either lovely light; A thousand and a thousand colours they Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

And such as they are, such my present tale is, A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,

A versified aurora borealis,

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. When we know what all are, we must bewail us, But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime

To laugh at all things; for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things—but a show ?

III.

They accuse me-me-the present writer of The present poem, of-I know not what,A tendency to under-rate and scoff

At human power and virtue, and all that; And this they say in language rather rough. Good God! I wonder what they would be at? I say no more than has been said in Dante's Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes;

IV.

By Swift, Machiavel, and Larochefoucault ;
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,

Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes.-We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.