Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, But through them gold and gems profusely shone:
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking, Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.
The other female's dress was not unlike, But of inferior materials: she Had not so many ornaments to strike, Her hair had silver only, bound to be Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free;
Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes As black, but quicker, and of smaller size.
And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, Which are (as I must own) of female growth, And have ten thousand delicate inventions:
They made a most superior mess of broth, A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's Achilles ordered dinner for new comers.
I 'll tell you who they were, this female pair, Lest they should seem princesses in disguise;
Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize;
And so, in short, the girls they really were They shall appear before your curious eyes, Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter Of an old man who lived upon the water.
A fisherman he had been in his youth, And still a sort of fisherman was he;
But other speculations were, in sooth, Added to his connection with the sea, Perhaps not so respectable, in truth:
A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres.
A fisher, therefore, was he,- though of men, Like Peter the Apostle,- and he fish'd For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd;
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.
He was a Greek, and on his isle had built (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)
A very handsome house from out his guilt, And there he lived exceedingly at ease;
Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt, A sad old fellow was he, if you please;
But this I know, it was a spacious building, Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.
He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles;
Besides, so very beautiful was she, Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Rejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn.
And walking out upon the beach, below The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Insensible,- not dead, but nearly so,-Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;
But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, As far as in her lay, 'to take him in, A stranger' dying, with so white a skin.
But taking him into her father's house Was not exactly the best way to save, But like conveying to the cat the mouse, Or people in a trance into their grave;
Because the good old man had so much 'nous,'
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, He would have hospitably cured the stranger, And sold him instantly when out of danger.
And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies)
To place him in the cave for present rest:
And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, Their charity increased about their guest;
And their compassion grew to such a size, It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven (St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given).
They made a fire,- but such a fire as they Upon the moment could contrive with such Materials as were cast up round the bay,-Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty.
He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, For Haidee stripped her sables off to make His couch; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case by chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, She and her maid- and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.
And thus they left him to his lone repose:
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows), Just for the present; and in his lull'd head Not even a vision of his former woes Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread Unwelcome visions of our former years, Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.
Young Juan slept all dreamless:- but the maid, Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, And turn'd, believing that he call'd again.
He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), He had pronounced her name- but she forgot That at this moment Juan knew it not.
And pensive to her father's house she went, Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, She being wiser by a year or two:
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge Which is acquired in Nature's good old college.
The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, And the young beams of the excluded sun, Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;
And need he had of slumber yet, for none Had suffer'd more- his hardships were comparative To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narrative.'
Not so Haidee: she sadly toss'd and tumbled, And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;
