LXXXIV

4 0 00

LXXXIV

“Still ‘Bellanaine!’ they shouted, while we glide

’Slant to a light Ionic portico,

The city’s delicacy, and the pride

Of our Imperial Basilic; a row

Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show

Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,

All down the steps; and, as we enter’d, lo!

The strangest sight⁠—the most unlook’d-for chance⁠—

All things turn’d topsy-turvy in a devil’s dance.