1827.J A Spanish Legend. 658 



The rose inlaid upon the white, 



Provided that the rest is pretty, 

 To rae's a most delicious sight, 



Now seldom seen the more's the pity ; 

 And yet, I own, I like a cheek 



On which the sun has set his tinges, 

 Lit by a pair of eyes that speak 



Just what they like beneath their fringes. 



Those sweet, soft, silken, sable fringes 



(I hope comparison's no sin), 

 Just like a temple-portal's hinges, 



Op'ning to shew the shrine within; 

 Or, like the dewy twilight veil, 



That dropt upon the cheek of Even, 

 While all below is sweetly pale, 



Rises to shew the lights of Heaven; 



Or, like the Peri's flowery wings, 



That on the Indian air unfolding, 

 As to his love the Spirit springs, 



Shew gems that blind'us in beholding ! 

 I'll never dwell among the Caffres ; 



I'll never willing cross the Line, 

 Where Neptune, 'mid the tarry laughers, 



Dips broiling landsmen in the brine. 



I'll never go to New South Wales, 



Nor hunt for glory at the Pole 

 To feed the sharks, or catch the whales, 



Or tempt a Lapland lady's soul. 

 I'll never willing stir an ell 



Beyond Old England's chalky border, 

 To steal or smuggle, buy or sell, 



To drink cheap wine, or beg an Order. 



Let those do so who long for claret, 



Let those, who'd kiss a Frenchman's toes ; 

 I'll not drink vinegar, nor Star it, 



For any he that wears a nose. 

 I'll not go lounge out life in Calais, 



To dine at half a franc a-head ; 

 To hut like rats in lanes and alleys 



To eat an exile's gritty bread. 



To flirt with shoeless Seraphinas, 



To shrink at every ruffian's shako ; 

 Without a pair of shirts between us, 



Morn, noon, and night to smell tobacco; 

 To live my days in Gallic hovels, 



Untouched by water since the flood ; 

 To wade through streets, where famine grovel* 



In hunger, frippery, and mud. 



Yet had I Zara's pair of sapphires, 



By love or marriage made my own, 

 I'd live and die among the Caffres 



Nay, even take lodgings in Boulogne. 

 The Don felt all their fatal glances 



Through every pore in all his skin ; 

 He felt them, in his midnight trances, 



Through all his brain and marrow spin. 



