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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.

       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.

       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 the calm and stirless air:

       But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying,

       Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair

       Must breakfast—and betimes, lest they should ask it,

       She drew out her provision from the basket.

       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;

       And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle;

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

       But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey,

       With Scio wine—and all for love, not money.

       And Zoe, 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 Zoe needs must understand;

       And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one,

       Because her mistress would not let her break

       That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake.

       For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek

       A purple hectic play'd like dying day

       On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak

       Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay,

       Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak;

       And his black curls were dewy with the spray,

       Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt,

       Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault.

       And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath,

       Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast,

       Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe,

       Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest,

       Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath,

       Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest;

       In short, he was a very pretty fellow,

       Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow.

       He woke and gazed, and would have slept again,

       But the fair face which met his eyes forbade

       Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain

       Had further sleep a further pleasure made;

       For woman's face was never form'd in vain

       For Juan, so that even when he pray'd

       He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy,

       To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.

       And thus upon his elbow he arose,

       And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek

       The pale contended with the purple rose,

       As with an effort she began to speak;

       Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose,

       Although she told him, in good modern Greek,

       With an Ionian accent, low and sweet,

       That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat.

       Now Juan could not understand a word,

       Being no Grecian; but he had an ear,

       And her voice was the warble of a bird,

       So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear,

       That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard;

       The sort of sound we echo with a tear,

       Without knowing why—an overpowering tone,

       Whence Melody descends as from a throne.

       And Juan gazed as one who is awoke

       By a distant organ, doubting if he be

       Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke

       By the watchman, or some such reality,

       Or by one's early valet's cursed knock;

       At least it is a heavy sound to me,

       Who like a morning slumber—for the night

       Shows stars and women in a better light.

       And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream,

       Or sleep, or whatso'er it was, by feeling

       A most prodigious appetite: the steam

       Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing

       Upon his senses, and the kindling beam

       Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling

       To stir her viands, made him quite awake

       And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak.

       But beef is rare within these oxless isles;

       Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton;

       And, when a holiday upon them smiles,

       A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on:

       But this occurs but seldom, between whiles,

       For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on;

       Others are fair and fertile, among which

       This, though not large, was one of the most rich.

       I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking

       That the old fable of the Minotaur—

       From which our modern morals rightly shrinking

       Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore

       A cow's shape for a mask—was only (sinking

       The allegory) a mere type, no more,

       That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle,

       To make the Cretans bloodier in battle.

       For we all know that English people are

       Fed upon beef—I won't say much of beer,

       Because 't is liquor only, and being far

       From this my subject, has no business here;

       We know, too, they very fond of war,

       A pleasure—like all pleasures—rather dear;

      

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