Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto III

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).

Here was no lack of innocent diversion
  For the imagination or the senses,
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,
  All pretty pastimes in which no offence is;
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,
  Perceiving in his absence such expenses,
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
  The happiest mortals even after dinner —
A day of gold from out an age of iron
  Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;
Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren,
  That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner;
Lambro's reception at his people's banquet
Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

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