THE FAVORITE SULTANA

 ("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.") 
 
 {XII., Oct. 27, 1828.} 


 To please you, Jewess, jewel! 
 I have thinned my harem out! 
 Must every flirting of your fan 
 Presage a dying shout? 
 
 Grace for the damsels tender 
 Who have fear to hear your laugh, 
 For seldom gladness gilds your lips 
 But blood you mean to quaff. 
 
 In jealousy so zealous, 
 Never was there woman worse; 
 You'd have no roses but those grown 
 Above some buried corse. 
 
 Am I not pinioned firmly? 
 Why be angered if the door 
 Repulses fifty suing maids 
 Who vainly there implore? 
 
 Let them live on—to envy 
 My own empress of the world, 
 To whom all Stamboul like a dog 
 Lies at the slippers curled. 
 
 To you my heroes lower 
 Those scarred ensigns none have cowed; 
 To you their turbans are depressed 
 That elsewhere march so proud. 
 
 To you Bassora offers 
 Her respect, and Trebizonde 
 Her carpets richly wrought, and spice 
 And gems, of which you're fond. 
 
 To you the Cyprus temples 
 Dare not bar or close the doors; 
 For you the mighty Danube sends 
 The choicest of its stores. 
 
 Fear you the Grecian maidens, 
 Pallid lilies of the isles? 
 Or the scorching-eyed sand-rover 
 From Baalbec's massy piles? 
 
 Compared with yours, oh, daughter 
 Of King Solomon the grand, 
 What are round ebon bosoms, 
 High brows from Hellas' strand? 
 
 You're neither blanched nor blackened, 
 For your tint of olive's clear; 
 Yours are lips of ripest cherry, 
 You are straight as Arab spear. 
 
 Hence, launch no longer lightning 
 On these paltry slaves of ours. 
 Why should your flow of tears be matched 
 By their mean life-blood showers? 
 
 Think only of our banquets 
 Brought and served by charming girls, 
 For beauties sultans must adorn 
 As dagger-hilts the pearls. 


 

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