LX.

   Just at this season Ramazani’s fast
   Through the long day its penance did maintain. 
   But when the lingering twilight hour was past,
   Revel and feast assumed the rule again: 
   Now all was bustle, and the menial train
   Prepared and spread the plenteous board within;
   The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain,
   But from the chambers came the mingling din,
As page and slave anon were passing out and in.

LXI.

   Here woman’s voice is never heard:  apart
   And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move,
   She yields to one her person and her heart,
   Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove;
   For, not unhappy in her master’s love,
   And joyful in a mother’s gentlest cares,
   Blest cares! all other feelings far above! 
   Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears,
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.

LXII.

   In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring
   Of living water from the centre rose,
   Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,
   And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose,
   Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: 
   Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,
   While Gentleness her milder radiance throws
   Along that aged venerable face,
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.

LXIII.

   It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard
   Ill suits the passions which belong to youth: 
   Love conquers age—­so Hafiz hath averred,
   So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth —
   But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth,
   Beseeming all men ill, but most the man
   In years, have marked him with a tiger’s tooth: 
   Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span,
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.

LXIV.

   Mid many things most new to ear and eye,
   The pilgrim rested here his weary feet,
   And gazed around on Moslem luxury,
   Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat
   Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat
   Of sated Grandeur from the city’s noise: 
   And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet;
   But Peace abhorreth artificial joys,
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys.

LXV.

   Fierce are Albania’s children, yet they lack
   Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
   Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
   Who can so well the toil of war endure? 
   Their native fastnesses not more secure
   Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: 
   Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure,
   When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed,
Unshaken rushing on where’er their chief may lead.