from Canto III

71

One large gold bracelet clasp’d each lovely arm,
    Lockless—so pliable from the pure gold
That the hand stretch’d and shut it without harm,
     The limb which it adorn’d its only mould;
So beautiful—its very shape would charm,
     And clinging as if loth to lose its hold,
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin
That e’er by precious metal was held in.

72

Around, as princess of her father’s land,
    A like gold bar above her instep rolled
Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;
     Her hair was starr’d with gems; her veil’s fine fold
Below her breast was fasten’d with a band
     Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl’d
About the prettiest ankle in the world.

73

Her hair’s long auburn waves down to her heel
     Flow’d like an Alpine torrent which the sun
Dyes with his morning light,—and would conceal
     Her person if allow’d at large to run,
And still they seem resentfully to feel
    The silken fillet’s curb, and sought to shun
Their bonds whene’er some Zephyr caught began
To offer his young pinion as her fan.

74

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,
     The very air seem’d lighter from her eyes,
They were so soft and beautiful, and rife
     With all we can imagine of the skies,
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife—
     Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.

75

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged
     (It is the country’s custom), but in vain;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,
     The glossy rebels mock’d the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:
     Her nails were touch’d with henna; but again
The power of art was turn’d to nothing, for
They could not look more rosy than before.

76

The henna should be deeply dyed to make
     The skin relieved appear more fairly fair;
She had no need of this, day ne’er will break
     On mountain tops more heavenly white than her:
The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
     She was so like a vision; I might err,
But Shakspeare also says ‘tis very silly
“To gild refined gold, or paint the lily.”

77

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,
    But a white baracan, and so transparent
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,
     Like small stars through the milky way apparent;
His turban, furl’d in many a graceful fold,
    An emerald aigrette with Haide’s hair in’t
Surmounted as its clasp—a glowing crescent,
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

78

And now they were diverted by their suite,
    Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet,
Which made their new establishment complete;
     The last was of great fame, and liked to show it:
His verses rarely wanted their due feet—
     And for his theme—he seldom sung below it,
He being paid to satirise or flatter,
As the psalm says, “inditing a good matter.”

79

He praised the present, and abused the past,
     Reversing the good custom of old days,
An eastern antijacobin at last
     He turn’d, preferring pudding to no praise—
For some few years his lot had been o’ercast
     By his seeming independent in his lays,
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha
With truth like Southey and with verse like Crashaw.

80

He was a man who had seen many changes,
     And always changed as true as any needle,
His polar star being one which rather ranges,
    And not the fix’d—he knew the way to wheedle:
So vile he ‘scaped the doom which oft avenges;
    And being fluent (save indeed when fee’d ill),
He lied with such a fervour of intention—
There was no doubt he earn’d his laureate pension.