CXVII. Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction, for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, CXVIII. Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done— CXIX. I'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just One should not rail without a decent cause : There was an Irish lady, to whose bust I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model; and if e'er she must Vield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, I destroy a face which mortal thought. pass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. CXX. And such was she, the lady of the cave: Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish) The basquina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay. CXXI. But with our damsel this was not the case: 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. CXXII. The other female's dress was not unlike, Had not so many ornaments to strike; 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. CXXIII. 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 order'd dinner for new comers. CXXIV. I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize; They shall appear before your curious eyes, Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter Of an old man who lived upon the water. CXXV. A firsherman he had been in his youth, Added to his connexion with the sea, A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. CXXVI. A fisher, therefore, was he-though of men, He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd CXXVII. He was a Greek, and on his isle had built CXXVIII. He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: CXXIX. 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. CXXX. But taking him into her father's house Or people in a trance into their grave; CXXXI. 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(Saint Paul says 't is the toll which must be given). |