CXXXII.

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.

CXXXIII.

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse,

For Haidee stripp'd 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 day-break
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.

CXXXIV.

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.

CXXXV.

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.

CXXXVI.

And pensive to her father's house she went,
Enjoining silence strict to Zoë, 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 Zoë spent hers as most women do,
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
Which is acquired in nature's good old college.

CXXXVII.

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.

CXXXVIII.

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;
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore
In several oaths-Armenian, Turk, and Greek,—
They knew not what to think of such a freak.

But up

CXXXIX.

she got, and up she made them get, With some pretence about the sun, that makes Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;

And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet With mist, and every bird with him awakes, And night is flung off like a mourning suit Worn for a husband, or some other brute.

CXL.

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,
I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late
I have sat up on purpose all the night,
Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate;
And so all ye, who would be in the right

In health and purse, begin your day to date
From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore,
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.

CXLI.

And Haidee met the morning face to face;
Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race
From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush,
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base,
That overpowers some Alpine river's rush,
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread
Or the Red Sea-but the sea is not red.

CXLII.

And down the cliff the island virgin came,

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew,
While the sun smiled on her with his first flame,
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew,
Taking her for a sister; just the same

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two,
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair,
Had all the advantage too of not being air.

CXLIII.

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd,
All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept;

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe

(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept

And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, Should reach his blood; then o'er him, still as death, Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn breath

CXLIV.

And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying
Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying,
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air:
at Zoë the meantime some eggs was frying,
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair
Just breakfast, and betimes-lest they should ask it,
she drew out her provision from the basket.

CXLV.

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be; Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little,

And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea; d so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle;

{ can't say that she gave them any tea,

Pat there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, With Scio wine,-and all for love, not money.

CXLVI.

And Zoë, when the eggs were ready, and

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan; But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, And without word, a sign her finger drew on Her lip, which Zoë needs must understand;

And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, Because her mistress would not let her break That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake.

VOL. XI.

9