CHAPTER XV.  “Black eyes you have left, you say,    Blue eyes fail to draw you;Yet you seem more rapt to-day,    Than of old we saw you. “Oh, I track the fairest fair    Through new haunts of pleasure;Footprints here and echoes there    Guide me to my treasure: “Lo! she turns—immortal youth    Wrought to mortal stature,Fresh as starlight’s aged truth—    Many-namèd Nature!” A great historian, as he insisted on calling himself, who had the happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his place among the colossi whose huge legs