3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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      All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow,

      And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her,

      Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her.

      One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,

      Lockless—so pliable from the pure gold

      That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,

      The limb which it adorn'd its only mould;

      So beautiful—its very shape would charm;

      And, clinging as if loath to lose its hold,

      The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin

      That e'er by precious metal was held in.

      Around, as princess of her father's land,

      A like gold bar above her instep roll'd

      Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;

      Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold

      Below her breast was fasten'd with a band

      Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;

      Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd

      About the prettiest ankle in the world.

      Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel

      Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun

      Dyes with his morning light,—and would conceal

      Her person if allow'd at large to run,

      And still they seem resentfully to feel

      The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun

      Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began

      To offer his young pinion as her fan.

      Round her she made an atmosphere of life,

      The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes,

      They were so soft and beautiful, and rife

      With all we can imagine of the skies,

      And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife—

      Too pure even for the purest human ties;

      Her overpowering presence made you feel

      It would not be idolatry to kneel.

      Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged

      (It is the country's custom), but in vain;

      For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,

      The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,

      And in their native beauty stood avenged:

      Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again

      The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for

      They could not look more rosy than before.

      The henna should be deeply dyed to make

      The skin relieved appear more fairly fair;

      She had no need of this, day ne'er will break

      On mountain tops more heavenly white than her:

      The eye might doubt if it were well awake,

      She was so like a vision; I might err,

      But Shakspeare also says, 't is very silly

      'To gild refined gold, or paint the lily'

      Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,

      But a white baracan, and so transparent

      The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,

      Like small stars through the milky way apparent;

      His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold,

      An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't

      Surmounted as its clasp—a glowing crescent,

      Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

      And now they were diverted by their suite,

      Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet,

      Which made their new establishment complete;

      The last was of great fame, and liked to show it:

      His verses rarely wanted their due feet;

      And for his theme—he seldom sung below it,

      He being paid to satirize or flatter,

      As the psalm says, 'inditing a good matter.'

      He praised the present, and abused the past,

      Reversing the good custom of old days,

      An Eastern anti-jacobin at last

      He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise—

      For some few years his lot had been o'ercast

      By his seeming independent in his lays,

      But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha

      With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.

      He was a man who had seen many changes,

      And always changed as true as any needle;

      His polar star being one which rather ranges,

      And not the fix'd—he knew the way to wheedle:

      So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;

      And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill),

      He lied with such a fervour of intention—

      There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension.

      But he had genius,—when a turncoat has it,

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