Yet mark their mirth—­ere lenten days begin,
   That penance which their holy rites prepare
   To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,
   By daily abstinence and nightly prayer;
   But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,
   Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,
   To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,
   In motley robe to dance at masking ball,
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.

LXXIX.

   And whose more rife with merriment than thine,
   O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? 
   Though turbans now pollute Sophia’s shrine
   And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: 
   (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!)
   Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,
   All felt the common joy they now must feign;
   Nor oft I’ve seen such sight, nor heard such song,
As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along.

LXXX.

   Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore;
   Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone,
   And timely echoed back the measured oar,
   And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: 
   The Queen of tides on high consenting shone;
   And when a transient breeze swept o’er the wave,
   ’Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne,
   A brighter glance her form reflected gave,
Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave.

LXXXI.

   Glanced many a light caique along the foam,
   Danced on the shore the daughters of the land,
   No thought had man or maid of rest or home,
   While many a languid eye and thrilling hand
   Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand,
   Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still: 
   Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band,
   Let sage or cynic prattle as he will,
These hours, and only these, redeemed Life’s years of ill!

LXXXII.

   But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,
   Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,
   E’en through the closest searment half-betrayed? 
   To such the gentle murmurs of the main
   Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;
   To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd
   Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: 
   How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!

LXXXIII.

   This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,
   If Greece one true-born patriot can boast: 
   Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace,
   The bondsman’s peace, who sighs for all he lost,
   Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,
   And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
   Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most —
   Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!