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Poem	("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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