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Others opined that through the realms a dole
Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul;
But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit,
More closely touch'd the point: —“Thy studious mood,”
Quoth he, o O prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood,
And dull'd thy brain with labour beyond measure;
Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure,
And toy with beauty or tell o'er thy treasure;
From all the cares of state, my liege, enlarge thee,
And leave the burthen to thy faithful clergy.”

These counsels sage availed not a whit,
And so the patient (as is not uncommon
Where grave physicians lose their time and wit)
Resolved to take advice of an old woman;
His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous,
And still was call’d so by each subject duteous.
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest,
Or only made believe, I cannot say—
But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,
By dint of magic amulet or lay;
And, when all other skill in vain was shown,
See deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

« Sympathia magica hath wonders done,”
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),
« It works upon the fibres and the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health restores,
And it must help us here.—Thou must endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure,
Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man,
I mean his shint, my son, which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's.”
Such was the counsel from his mother came :
I know not if she had some under-game,
As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that somehow or another,
Queen Regent sounded better than Queen Mother;
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)
That such was her advice—the Sultaun took it.

All are on board—the Sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plough the main:
The old Rais was the first who question'd “Whi-
ther?»
They paused—a Arabia,” thought the pensive prince,
« Was call'd The Happy many ages since—
For Mokha, Rais.”—And they came safely thither.
But not in Araby with all her balm,
Nor where Judaea weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubia waste,
Could there the step of Ilappiness be traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile,
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile;
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he quaff'd,
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

• Enough of turbans,” said the weary king, * These dolimans of ours are not the thing;

* Master of the vessel.

Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine, and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!» The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.— |
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl’d
Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled;
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
« While these the priest and those the noble fleeces,
Our poor old boot,” they said, “ is torn to pieces.”

Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap, I

Its tops - the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.3
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic,-the buck,
Poffa redio ! still has all the luck;
By land or ocean never strikes his flag—
And then—a perfect walking money-bag."
Offset our prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France—it lay upon the road.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion,
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him,
Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;
Besides, some tumours on his noddle biding,
Gave indication of a recent hiding.4
Our prince, though Sultauns of such things are heed-
less, -
Thought it a thing indelicate and needless
To ask, if at that moment he was happy,
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a
Loud voice muster'd up, for a Pire le Roi!
Then whisper'd, a Ave you any news of Nappy!" |
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross-question.—
« Pray can you tell me aught of one John Bull,
That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool's
The query seem'd of difficult digestion, |
The party shrugs; d, and grinn'd, and took his snuff,
And found his whole good breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damse's wont to put into their tuckers
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn),
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, |
« Jean Bool!–1 vas not know him—yes, I was—
I was remember dat von year or two,
I saw him at von place cali’d Waterloo—
Ma foi' il s'est très-joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman,—m'entendez-vous?
But den he had wit him von damn son-gun, o
Rogue I no like—dey call him Vellington.”
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
So Solinaun took leave and cross'd the strait. -

* The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map. i * Florence, Venice, etc.

* The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. one of to leaders was called Fra Diavolo, i. e. Brother Devil.

“Or drubbing, so called in the Slang dictionary.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then 't was reckoning-day with honest John,
And authors vouch 't was still this worthy's way,
• Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,'
The work too little, and the pay too much.”
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,
That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet more,
Poor John had well nigh wept for Bonaparte!
Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd,—
“And who are you,” John answer'd, “ and be d–d?»

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Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg,
when the blithe bagpipe blew—but soberer now,
She doucely span her flax and milk'd her cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a-month her house was partly swept,
And once a-week a plenteous board she kept.
And whereas eke the vixen used her claws
And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,
She now was grown amenable to laws,
A quiet soul as any in the nation;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
was in old songs she sang to please her boys.
John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-dottish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour,
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour,
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon,
And was d-–d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun enterd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum curtsied sister Pet;;
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do.)

"See the True-Born Englishman, by Daniel de Foe. • Europe.

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Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The emerald Isle where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had John, with words of thunder,
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg’d unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middlemen two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving place;
His farment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potatoe, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat.

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,
which is with Paddy still a jolly day:
When mass is ended, and his load of sins
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.
• By Mahomet,” said Sultaun Solimaun,
“That ragged fellow is our very man :
Rush in and seize him—do not do him hurt,
But, will he mill he, let me have his shirt.”

Shilela their plan was well nigh after baulking
(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),
but the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack;
They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him—
Alack
Up-bubboo! Paddy had not——a shirt to his back!!!
And the king, disappointed, with sorrow and shame,
Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

THE POACHER. A Fr. Acment.

Welcome, grave stranger, to our green retreats,
Where health with exercise and freedom meets!
Thrice welcome, sage, whose philosophic plan
By Nature's limits metes the rights of man;
Generous as he, who now for freedom bawls,
Now gives full value for true Indian shawls;
O'er court, o'er custom-house, his shoe who flings,
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies kings.
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for mankind;
Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees
That baulks the snare, yet battens on the cheese;
Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of awe,
Our buckskin'd justices expound the law,
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the pain,
And for the netted partridge noose the swain;
And thy vindictive arm would fain have broke
The last light fetter of the feudal yoke,
To give the denizens of wood and wild,
Nature's free race, to each her free-born child.
Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair London's race
Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter chace,
And long'd to send them forth as free as when
Pour'd o'er Chantilly the Parisian train,
When musket, pistol, blunderbuss combined,
And scarce the field-pieces were left behind!
A squadron's charge each leveret's heart dismay’d,
On every covey fired a bold brigade:
La Douce Humanité approved the sport,
For great the alarm indeed, yet small the hurt;
Shouts patriotic solemnized the day,
And Seine re-echo'd Pive la Liberto
But mad Citoyen, meek Monsieur again,
With some few added links resumes his chain;
Then since such scenes to France no more are known,
Come, view with me a hero of thine own!
One, whose free actions vindicate the cause
Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws.

Seek we yon glades, where the proud oak o'ertops Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, Leaving between deserted isles of land, Where stunted heath is patch'd with ruddy sand: And lonely on the waste the yew is seen, Or struggling hollies spread a brighter green. Here, little worn, and winding dark and steep, Our scarce-mark'd path descends yon dingle deep : Follow—but heedful, cautious of a trip, In earthly mire philosophy may slip; Step slow and wary oer that swampy stream, Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering steam, We reach the frail yet barricaded door Of hovel form'd for poorest of the poor; No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke receives, The walls are wattles, and the covering leaves; For, if such hut, our forest statutes say, Rise in the progress of one night and day (Though placed where still the Conqueror's hests o'er

awe,

And his son's stirrup shines the badge of law),
The builder claims the unenviable boon,
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and soon

As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native frone On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labrador."

Approach, and through the unlatticed window peep, Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; Suuk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are done. Loaded and primed, and prompt from desperate hand, Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand, While round the hut are in disorder laid The tools and booty of his lawless trade; For force or fraud, resistance or escape, The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the crape. His pilfer'd powder in yon nook he hoards, And the filch'd lead the church's roof affords— (Hence shall the rector's congregation fret, That while his sermon's dry, his walls are wet.) The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are there, Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins of hare, Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare. Barter'd for game from chase or warren won, Yon cask holds moonlight,” run when moon was none: And late-snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in hutch apart, To wait the associate higgler's evening cart.

Look on his pallet foul, and mark his rest: What scenes perturb’d are acting in his breast ! His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain, And his dilated nostril toils in vain, For short and scant the breath each effort draws, And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a pause. Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth stretch'd, Ilis sinewy throat seems by convulsion twitch'd, While the tongue falters, as to utterance loth, Sounds of dire import—watch-word, threat, and oath. Though, stupified by toil and druggld with gin, The body sleep, the restless guest within Now plies on wood and wold his lawless trade, Now in the fangs of justice wakes dismay’d.—

• Was that wild start of terror and despair, Those bursting eye-balls, and that wilder'd air, Signs of compunction for a murder'd hare: Do the locks bristle and the eye-brows arch, For grouse or partridge massacred in March on

No, scoffer, no! Attend, and mark with awe, There is no wicket in the gate of law' He, that would cer so lightly set ajar That awful portal must undo each bar; Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride, Will join to storm the breach, and force the barrier wide.

That ruffian, whom true men avoid and dread, Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call Black Ned, Was Edward Mansell once;—the lightest heart, That ever play'd on holiday his part The leader he in every Christmas game, The harvest feast grew blither when he came,

| Such is the law in the New Forest, Hampshire, tending greath to increase the various settlements of thieves, smugglers, and doorstealers, who infest it. In the forest courts the presiding jowears as a badge of office an antique stirrup, said to have been that of william Rufus. See Mr William Rose's spirited poets, etitled . The Red King.

* A cant name for stuuggled spirits.

And liveliest on the chords the bow did (;lance,
When Edward named the tune and led the dance.
Kind was his heart, his passions quick and strong,
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song;
And if he loved a gun, his father swore,
• ‘T was but a trick of youth would soon be o'er;
Himself had done the same some thirty years before.”

But he, whose humours spurn law's awful yoke, Must herd with those by whom law's bonds are broke. The common dread of justice soon allies The clown, who robs the warren or excise, With sterner felons train'd to act more dread, Een with the wretch by whom his fellow bled. Then, as in plagues the foul contagions pass, Leavening and festering the corrupted mass, Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual motives draw, Their hope impunity, their fear the law; Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same, Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd game, Flesh the young culprit, and example leads To darker villany and direr deeds.

Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades along, And oft the owl renew’d her dismal song; Around the spot where erst he felt the wound, Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight round. when o'er the swamp he cast his blighting look, From the green marshes of the stagnant brook The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook; The waning moon, with storm-presaging gleam, Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam; The old oak stoop'd his arms, then flung them high, Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky‘T was then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere In Malwood-walk, young Mansell watch'd the deer: The fattest buck received his deadly shotThe watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot. Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their strife, O'erpower'd at length the outlaw drew his knife! Next morn a corpse was found upon the fell– The rest his waking agony may tell'

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

Nigar and morning were at meeting
Over Waterloo;
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting,
Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest-clouds prolonod the sway
of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flash'd the sheets of levin-light;
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouack
where the soldier lay,
Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,
wishing dawn of morn again,
Though death should come with day.

T is at such a tide and hour,
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower,
Gleam on the gifted ken;
And then the affilighted prophet's ear
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear,
Presaging death and ruin near
Among the sons of men:-
Apart from Albyn's war-array,
T was then gray Allan sleepless lay;
Gray Allan, who, for many a day,
Had follow'd stout and stern,
Where through battle's rout and reel,
Storm of shot and hedge of steel,
Led the grandson of Lochiel,
Valiant Fassicfern.
Through steel and shot he leads no more,
Low-laid mid friends and foemen's gore—
But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,
And Morven long shall tell,
And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe,
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra
Of conquest as he fell.

'Lone on the outskirts of the host,
The weary sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloak'd patrole their course,
And spurr'd gainst storm the swerving horse;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear,
Patrole nor sentinel may hear,
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,
When down the destined plain
"Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance,
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance,
And doom'd the future slain.—
Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,
When Scotland's James his march prepared
For Flodden's fatal plain;
Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,
As Chusers of the Slain, adored
The yet unchristen’d Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,
They wheel'd their ring dance hand in hand,
With gesture wild and dread;
The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form
The lightning's flash more red;
And still their ghastly roundelay
Was of the coming battle-fray,
And of the destined dead.

song.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.

Our airy feet,
So light and fleet,
They do not bend the rye,
That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,
And swells again in eddying wave,
As each wild gust blows by;
But still the corn,
At dawn of morn,
Our fatal steps that bore,
At eve lies waste,
A trampled paste
Of blackening mud and gore.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.

Wheel the wild dance,
Brave sons of France!
For you our ring makes room;
Makes space full wide
For martial pride,
For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near,
Proud cuirassier!
Room for the men of steel !
Through crest and plate,
The broadsword's weight
Both head and heart shall feel.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.

Sons of the spear!
You feel us near,
In many a ghastly dream;
With fancy's eye
Our forms you spy,
And hear our fatal scream.
With clearer sight
Ere falls the night,
Just when to weal or woe
Your disembodied souls take flight
On trembling wing—each startled sprite
Our choir of death shall know.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings blance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours—
See, the east grows wan—
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and drearier flame

Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame
To the wrath of man.

At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,
The legend heard him say;
But the seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafen’d his car, and stark his limb,
Ere closed that bloody day—
He sleeps far from his Highland heath,<-
But often of the Dance of Death "
His comrades tell the tale
On piquet-post, when ebbs the night,
And waning watch-fires glow less bright,
And dawn is glimmering pale.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

Ench ANtness, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.
Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking,
The language alternate of rapture and woe;
Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are
breaking,
The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came
sorrow,
Or pale disappointment, to darken my way,
What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow,
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day:
But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,
The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage:
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain;
As vain those enchantments, () queen of wild numbers,
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers—
Farewell then—Enchantress!—I meet thee no more.

EPITAPH ON MRS ERSKINE.

Plain, as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd:
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form, and candid soul.—
But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or, on the tablet, stamp each title dear,
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the tear!
Yet, taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow,
And brief, alas! as thy brief span below.

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