and of the Sun!
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

ORIENTAL ROYALTY

From 'Don Juan'

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons,
Of whom all such as came of age were stowed--
The former in a palace, where like nuns
They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad,
When she whose turn it was, was wed at once,
Sometimes at six years old--though this seems odd,
'Tis true: the reason is, that the Bashaw
Must make a present to his sire-in-law.

His sons were kept in prison, till they grew
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne,--
One or the other, but which of the two
Could yet be known unto the Fates alone:
Meantime the education they went through
Was princely, as the proofs have always shown;
So that the heir-apparent still was found
No less deserving to be hanged than crowned.

A GRECIAN SUNSET

From 'The Curse of Minerva'

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light:
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows.
On cold AEgina's rock and Idra's isle
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve his palest beam he cast,
When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last.
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered sage's latest day!
Not yet--not yet--Sol pauses on the hill--
The precious hour of parting lingers still:
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frowned before:
But ere he sank below Cithae