give. She ordered cushions to be given me, and took care to place me in the corner, which is the place of honour. I confess, though the Greek lady had before given me a great opinion of her beauty, I was so struck with admiration that I could not for some time speak to her, being wholly taken up with gazing. After my first surprise was over, I endeavoured, by nicely examining her face, to find out some imperfection, without any fruit of my search but my being clearly convinced of the error of that vulgar notion that a face exactly proportioned and perfectly beautiful would not be agreeable.

Add to all this a behaviour so full of grace and sweetness, such easy motions, with an air so majestic, yet free from stiffness or affectation, that I am persuaded could she be suddenly transported upon the most polite throne of Europe, nobody would think her other than a queen, though educated in a country we call barbarous. To say all in a word, our most celebrated English beauties would vanish near her.

I think I have read somewhere that women always speak in rapture when they speak of beauty, and I cannot imagine why they should not be allowed to do so. I rather think it a virtue to be able to admire without any mixture of desire or envy. The gravest writers have spoken with great warmth of some celebrated pictures and statues. The workmanship of Heaven certainly excels all our weak imitations, and, I think, has a much better claim to our praise. For my part, I am not ashamed to own that I took more pleasure in looking on the beauteous

Fatima than the finest piece of sculpture could have given me.

She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, though she appeared too young to be their mother. Her fair maids were ranged below the sofa to the number of twenty, and put me in mind of the pictures of the ancient nymphs. She made them a sign to play and dance. Four of them immediately began to play some soft airs on instruments, between a lute and a guitar, which they accompanied with their voices, while the others danced by turns.

When the dance was over, four fair slaves came into the room with the silver censers in their hands, and perfumed the air with amber, aloes-wood, and other scents. After this they served me coffee, upon their knees, in the finest Japan china. The lovely Fatima entertained me all this while in the most polite, agreeable manner, calling me often the beautiful sultana, and desiring my friendship with the best grace in the world, lamenting that she could not entertain me in my own language.

When I took my leave, two maids brought in a fine silver basket of embroidered handkerchiefs. She begged I would wear the richest for her sake, and gave the others to my woman and interpretress. When I retired, I could not help thinking that I had been some time in Mohammed's paradise, so much was I charmed with what I had seen. I know not how the relation of it appears to you, but I wish it may give you part of my pleasure.

Letter to the Countess of Mar, by LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

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34. THE ISLES OF GREECE.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships by thousands lay below,

And men in nations-all were his !
He counted them at break of day,
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now,

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

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