A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, He chose from several animals he saw-A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance;
These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper altogether.
Then having settled his marine affairs, Despatching single cruisers here and there, His vessel having need of some repairs, He shaped his course to where his daughter fair Continued still her hospitable cares;
But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, His port lay on the other side o' the isle.
And there he went ashore without delay, Having no custom-house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way About the time and place where he had been:
He left his ship to be hove down next day, With orders to the people to careen;
So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.
Arriving at the summit of a hill Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, He stopp'd.- What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam!
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill-With love for many, and with fears for some;
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.
The approach of home to husbands and to sires, After long travelling by land or water, Most naturally some small doubt inspires-A female family 's a serious matter (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires-But they hate flattery, so I never flatter);
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.
An honest gentleman at his return May not have the good fortune of Ulysses;
Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses;
The odds are that he finds a handsome urn To his memory- and two or three young misses Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches,-And that his Argus- bites him by the breeches.
If single, probably his plighted fair Has in his absence wedded some rich miser;
But all the better, for the happy pair May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care As cavalier servente, or despise her;
And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.
And oh! ye gentlemen who have already Some chaste liaison of the kind- I mean An honest friendship with a married lady-The only thing of this sort ever seen To last- of all connections the most steady, And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen)-Yet for all that keep not too long away, I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a day.
Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad;
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, Or that of any other strong emotion;
He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.
He saw his white walls shining in the sun, His garden trees all shadowy and green;
He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, The distant dog-bark; and perceived between The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen Of arms (in the East all arm)- and various dyes Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies.
And as the spot where they appear he nears, Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears- alas! no music of the spheres, But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling!
A melody which made him doubt his ears, The cause being past his guessing or unriddling;
A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, A most unoriental roar of laughter.
And still more nearly to the place advancing, Descending rather quickly the declivity, Through the waved branches o'er the greensward glancing, 'Midst other indications of festivity, Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, To which the Levantines are very partial.
And further on a group of Grecian girls, The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, Were strung together like a row of pearls, Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too having Down her white neck long floating auburn curls (The least of which would set ten poets raving);
Their leader sang- and bounded to her song, With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.
And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, Small social parties just begun to dine;
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 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 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).
