XCI. They entered, and for coffee called,-it came, « And how came you to keep away so long? «Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong? XCII. «And are you really, truly, now a Turk? ༥ With other women did any you wive? « Is't true they use their fingers for a fork? ་་ "Well, that's the prettiest shawl-as I'm alive! You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. «And how so many years did you contrive To-Bless me ! did I ever? No, I never «Saw a man grown so yellow! How's XCIII. Beppo! that beard of yours becomes your liver? you not; "It shall be shaved before you're a day older; Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? "How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot << In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder « Should find you out, and make the story known. "How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it's grown! » XCIV. What answer Beppo made to these demands, Is more than I know. He was cast away. About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands, Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, XCV. But he grew rich, and with his riches And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, Manned with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. XCVI. Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash, In our opinions-well, the ship was trim, XCVII. They reached the island, he transferred his lading, And self and live-stock, to another bottom, And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em. However, he got off by this evading, Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; And thus at Venice landed to reclaim His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. XCVIII. His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him (He made the church a present by the way); He then threw off the garments which disguised him, And borrowed the Count's small-clothes for a day : His friends the more for his long absence prized him, Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them. For stories, but I don't believe the half of them. XCIX. Whate'er his youth had suffered, his old age I've heard the Count and he were always friends. My pen is at the bottom of a page, Which being finished, here the story ends; 'Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun. Alas! they had been friends in youth; * K * * * * * * * But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining- The marks of that which once hath been. FARE THEE WELL! FARE thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er can'st know again : Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou would'st at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee Though it smile upon the blow, Founded on another's woe- Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is—that we no more may meet. |