University of Virginia Library



VI, VII. VOL. VI., VOL. VII. LALLA ROOKH. POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. RHYMES ON THE ROAD. AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.


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TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. THIS EASTERN ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, THOMAS MOORE.

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LALLA ROOKH.


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THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.

In that delightful Province of the Sun,
The first of Persian lands he shines upon,
Where all the loveliest children of his beam,
Flow'rets and fruits, blush over every stream ,
And, fairest of all streams, the Murga roves
Among Merou's bright palaces and groves;—
There on that throne, to which the blind belief
Of millions rais'd him, sat the Prophet-Chief,
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung
The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung

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In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light.
For, far less luminous, his votaries said,
Were ev'n the gleams, miraculously shed
O'er Moussa's cheek , when down the Mount he trod,
All glowing from the presence of his God!
On either side, with ready hearts and hands,
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands;
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords,
On points of faith, more eloquent than words;
And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand
Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command,
Would make his own devoted heart its sheath,
And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a death!
In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night ,
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white;

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Their weapons various—some equipp'd, for speed,
With javelins of the light Kathaian reed ;
Or bows of buffalo horn and shining quivers
Fill'd with the stems that bloom on Iran's rivers ;
While some, for war's more terrible attacks,
Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe;
And as they wave aloft in morning's beam
The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem
Like a chenar-tree grove when winter throws
O'er all its tufted heads his feathering snows.
Between the porphyry pillars, that uphold
The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold,

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Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise,
Where through the silken net-work, glancing eyes,
From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow
Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below.—
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare
To hint that aught but Heav'n hath plac'd you there?
Or that the loves of this light world could bind,
In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind?
No—wrongful thought!—commission'd from above
To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love,
(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes
They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,)
There to recline among Heav'n's native maids,
And crown the' Elect with bliss that never fades—
Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done;
And every beauteous race beneath the sun,
From those who kneel at Brahma's burning fount ,
To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's mounts;
From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray,
To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay ;

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And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker smiles,
And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles;
All, all are there;—each Land its flower hath given,
To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven!
But why this pageant now? this arm'd array?
What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day
With turban'd heads, of every hue and race,
Bowing before that veil'd and awful face,
Like tulip-beds , of different shape and dyes,
Bending beneath the' invisible West-wind's sighs!
What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign,
And blood to seal, as genuine and divine,
What dazzling mimickry of God's own power
Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour?
Not such the pageant now, though not less proud;
Yon warrior youth, advancing from the crowd,
With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape,
And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape ,

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So fiercely beautiful in form and eye,
Like war's wild planet in a summer sky;
That youth to-day,—a proselyte, worth hordes
Of cooler spirits and less practis'd swords,—
Is come to join, all bravery and belief,
The creed and standard of the heav'n-sent Chief.
Though few his years, the West already knows
Young Azim's fame;—beyond the' Olympian snows
Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek,
O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the Greek ,
He linger'd there, till peace dissolved his chains;—
Oh, who could, ev'n in bondage, tread the plains
Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise
Kindling within him? who, with heart and eyes,
Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see
The shining foot-prints of her Deity,
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air,
Which mutely told her spirit had been there?

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Not he, that youthful warrior,—no, too well
For his soul's quiet work'd the' awakening spell;
And now, returning to his own dear land,
Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand,
Haunt the young heart,—proud views of human-kind,
Of men to Gods exalted and refin'd,—
False views, like that horizon's fair deceit,
Where earth and heav'n but seem, alas, to meet!—
Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was rais'd
To right the nations, and beheld, emblaz'd
On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurl'd,
Those words of sunshine, “Freedom to the World,”
At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd
The' inspiring summons; every chosen blade
That fought beneath that banner's sacred text
Seem'd doubly edg'd, for this world and the next;
And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind
Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind,
In virtue's cause;—never was soul inspir'd
With livelier trust in what it most desir'd,
Than his, the' enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale
With pious awe, before that Silver Veil,
Believes the form, to which he bends his knee,
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free

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This fetter'd world from every bond and stain,
And bring its primal glories back again!
Low as young Azim knelt, that motley crowd
Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd,
With shouts of “Alla!” echoing long and loud;
While high in air, above the Prophet's head,
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread,
Wav'd, like the wings of the white birds that fan
The flying throne of star-taught Soliman.
Then thus he spoke:—“Stranger, though new the frame
“Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame

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“For many an age , in every chance and change
“Of that existence, through whose varied range,—
“As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand
“The flying youths transmit their shining brand,
“From frame to frame the unextinguish'd soul
“Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal!
“Nor think 'tis only the gross Spirits, warm'd
“With duskier fire and for earth's medium form'd,
“That run this course;—Beings, the most divine,
“Thus deign through dark mortality to shine.
“Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt,
“To which all Heav'n, except the Proud One, knelt:
“Such the refin'd Intelligence that glow'd
“In Moussa's frame,—and, thence descending, flow'd

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“Through many a Prophet's breast ;—in Issa shone,
“And in Mohammed burn'd; till, hastening on,
“(As a bright river that, from fall to fall
“In many a maze descending, bright through all,
“Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past,
“In one full lake of light it rests at last)
“That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free
“From lapse or shadow, centers all in me!”
Again, throughout the' assembly at these words,
Thousands of voices rung: the warriors' swords
Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind
In the' open banners play'd, and from behind
Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen
The Haram's loveliness, white hands were seen

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Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave
A perfume forth—like those the Houris wave
When beck'ning to their bowers the' immortal Brave.
“But these,” pursued the Chief, “are truths sublime,
“That claim a holier mood and calmer time
“Than earth allows us now;—this sword must first
“The darkling prison-house of Mankind burst,
“Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in
“Her wakening daylight on a world of sin.
“But then,—celestial warriors, then, when all
“Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall;
“When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down
“His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown,
“The Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath,
“And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath
“Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze
“That whole dark pile of human mockeries;—
“Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth,
“And starting fresh as from a second birth,
“Man, in the sunshine of the world's new spring,
“Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing!

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“Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow
“Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendours now,
“And gladden'd Earth shall, through her wide expanse,
“Bask in the glories of this countenance!
“For thee, young warrior, welcome!—thou hast yet
“Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget,
“Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave;—
“But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!”
The pomp is at an end—the crowds are gone—
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone
Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like Alla's own!
The Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances,
The glittering throne, and Haram's half-caught glances;
The Old deep pondering on the promis'd reign
Of peace and truth; and all the female train
Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze
A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze!
But there was one, among the chosen maids,
Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades,

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One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day
Has been like death:—you saw her pale dismay,
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst
Of exclamation from her lips, when first
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known,
Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.
Ah Zelica! there was a time, when bliss
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his;
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer;
When round him hung such a perpetual spell,
Whate'er he did, none ever did so well.
Too happy days! when, if he touch'd a flower
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour;
When thou didst study him till every tone
And gesture and dear look became thy own,—
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace,
Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught
With twice the' aërial sweetness it had brought!
Yet now he comes,—brighter than even he
E'er beam'd before,—but, ah! not bright for thee;

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No—dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant
From the' other world, he comes as if to haunt
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight,
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight:—
Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours, and leads us back,
In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track
Of our young life, and points out every ray
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way!
Once happy pair!—In proud Bokhara's groves,
Who had not heard of their first youthful loves?
Born by that ancient flood , which from its spring
In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering,
Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines
With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines,
And, lending to the Caspian half its strength,
In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;—

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There, on the banks of that bright river born,
The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn,
Bless'd not the waters, as they murmur'd by,
With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh
And virgin-glance of first affection cast
Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd!
But war disturb'd this vision,—far away
From her fond eyes summon'd to join the' array
Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace,
The youth exchang'd his sylvan dwelling-place
For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash;
His Zelica's sweet glances for the flash
Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains
For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's plains.
Month after month, in widowhood of soul
Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll
Their suns away—but, ah, how cold and dim
Ev'n summer suns, when not beheld with him!
From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came,
Like spirit-tongues, mutt'ring the sick man's name,
Just ere he dies:—at length those sounds of dread
Fell withering on her soul, “Azim is dead!”

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Oh Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it lov'd to live or fear'd to die;—
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken
Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!
Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such,
Ev'n reason sunk,—blighted beneath its touch;
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose
Above the first dead pressure of its woes,
Though health and bloom return'd, the delicate chain
Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd again.
Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day,
The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray;—
A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone
All stars of heaven, except the guiding one!
Again she smil'd, nay, much and brightly smil'd,
But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild;
And when she sung to her lute's touching strain,
'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain,

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The bulbul utters, ere her soul depart,
When, vanquish'd by some minstrel's powerful art,
She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!
Such was the mood in which that mission found
Young Zelica,—that mission, which around
The Eastern world, in every region blest
With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest,
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes
Which the Veil'd Prophet destin'd for the skies:—
And such quick welcome as a spark receives
Dropp'd on a bed of Autumn's wither'd leaves,
Did every tale of these enthusiasts find
In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind.
All fire at once the madd'ning zeal she caught;—
Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought!
Predestin'd bride, in heaven's eternal dome,
Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say “of some?”
No—of the one, one only object trac'd
In her heart's core too deep to be effac'd;
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin'd
With every broken link of her lost mind;

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Whose image lives, though Reason's self be wreck'd,
Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect!
Alas, poor Zelica! it needed all
The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall,
To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids
A sainted colony for Eden's shades;
Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame
Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came
From Paradise, to people its pure sphere
With souls like thine, which he hath ruin'd here!
No—had not reason's light totally set,
And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet
In the lov'd image, graven on thy heart,
Which would have sav'd thee from the tempter's art,
And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath,
That purity, whose fading is love's death!—
But lost, inflam'd,—a restless zeal took place
Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace;
First of the Prophet's favourites, proudly first
In zeal and charms,—too well the' Impostor nurs'd
Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame,
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame,

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He saw more potent sorceries to bind
To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind,
More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twin'd.
No art was spar'd, no witchery;—all the skill
His demons taught him was employ'd to fill
Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns—
That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns;
That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness
Glares like the maniac's moon, whose light is madness!
'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound
Of poesy and music breath'd around,
Together picturing to her mind and ear
The glories of that heav'n, her destin'd sphere,
Where all was pure, where every stain that lay
Upon the spirit's light should pass away,
And, realizing more than youthful love
E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should for ever rove
Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's side,
His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride!—
'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this,
He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss,

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To the dim charnel-house;—through all its steams
Of damp and death, led only by those gleams
Which foul Corruption lights, as with design
To show the gay and proud she too can shine—
And, passing on through upright ranks of Dead,
Which to the maiden, doubly craz'd by dread,
Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round them cast,
To move their lips in mutterings as she pass'd—
There, in that awful place, when each had quaff'd
And pledg'd in silence such a fearful draught,
Such—oh! the look and taste of that red bowl
Will haunt her till she dies—he bound her soul
By a dark oath, in hell's own language fram'd,
Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd,
While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both,
Never, by that all-imprecating oath,
In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.—
She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, “Never, never!”
From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given
To him and—she believ'd, lost maid!—to heaven;

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Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflam'd,
How proud she stood, when in full Haram nam'd
The Priestess of the Faith!—how flash'd her eyes
With light, alas, that was not of the skies,
When round, in trances, only less than hers,
She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers.
Well might Mokanna think that form alone
Had spells enough to make the world his own:—
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play
Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray,
When from its stem the small bird wings away:
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil'd,
The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild
As are the momentary meteors sent
Across the' uncalm, but beauteous firmament.
And then her look—oh! where's the heart so wise
Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyes?
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,
Like those of angels, just before their fall;
Now shadow'd with the shames of earth—now crost
By glimpses of the Heav'n her heart had lost;
In every glance there broke, without controul,
The flashes of a bright, but troubled soul;

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Where sensibility still wildly play'd,
Like lightning, round the ruins it had made!
And such was now young Zelica—so chang'd
From her who, some years since, delighted rang'd
The almond groves that shade Bokhara's tide,
All life and bliss, with Azim by her side!
So alter'd was she now, this festal day,
When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array,
The vision of that Youth whom she had lov'd,
Had wept as dead, before her breath'd and mov'd;—
When—bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track
But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back
Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light—
Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight.
O Reason! who shall say what spells renew,
When least we look for it, thy broken clew!
Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd brain
Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again;
And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win
Unhop'd-for entrance through some friend within,
One clear idea, wakened in the breast
By memory's magic, lets in all the rest.

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Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee!
But though light came, it came but partially;
Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense
Wander'd about,—but not to guide it thence;
Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave,
But not to point the harbour which might save.
Hours of delight and peace, long left behind,
With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind;
But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone
In shame and falsehood since those moments shone;
And, then, her oath—there madness lay again,
And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain
Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee
From light, whose every glimpse was agony!
Yet, one relief this glance of former years
Brought, mingled with its pain,—tears, floods of tears,
Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost,
Through valleys where their flow had long been lost.
Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame
Trembled with horror, when the summons came

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(A summons proud and rare, which all but she,
And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,)
To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer,
A garden oratory, cool and fair,
By the stream's side, where still at close of day
The Prophet of the Veil retir'd to pray;
Sometimes alone—but, oftener far, with one,
One chosen nymph to share his orison.
Of late none found such favour in his sight
As the young Priestess; and though, since that night
When the death-caverns echoed every tone
Of the dire oath that made her all his own,
The' Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize,
Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise,
And utter'd such unheav'nly, monstrous things,
As ev'n across the desperate wanderings
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;—
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,
The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow,
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal'd,
Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd,

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To her alone;—and then the hope, most dear,
Most wild of all, that her trangression here
Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire,
From which the spirit would at last aspire,
Ev'n purer than before,—as perfumes rise
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies—
And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace
Should circle her in heav'n, no darkening trace
Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain,
But all be bright, be pure, be his again!—
These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit
Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet,
And made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet.
But now that Shape, which had appall'd her view,
That Semblance—oh how terrible, if true!
Which came across her frenzy's full career
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe,
As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark,
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark,
And, startling all its wretches from their sleep,
By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;—
So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear,
And waking up each long-lull'd image there,
But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair!

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Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk,
She now went slowly to that small kiosk,
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes,
Mokanna waited her—too wrapt in dreams
Of the fair-ripening future's rich success,
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow,
Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound
Came like a spirit's o'er the' unechoing ground,—
From that wild Zelica, whose every glance
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!
Upon his couch the Veil'd Mokanna lay,
While lamps around—not such as lend their ray,
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray
In holy Koom , or Mecca's dim arcades,—
But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids
Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow
Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow.

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Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer,
Which the world fondly thought he mused on there,
Stood Vases, fill'd with Kishmee's golden wine,
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine;
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd,
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness , had power
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower!
And still he drank and ponder'd—nor could see
The' approaching maid, so deep his reverie;
At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From Eblis at the Fall of Man, he spoke:—
“Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given,
“Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven;
“God's images, forsooth!—such gods as he
“Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;—

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“Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay,
“To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say,
“Refus'd, though at the forfeit of heaven's light,
“To bend in worship, Lucifer was right! —
“Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck
“Of your foul race, and without fear or check,
“Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,
“My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name!—
“Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce
“As hooded falcons, through the universe

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“I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,
“Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!
“Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on
“By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone,
“Like superstitious thieves, who think the light
“From dead men's marrow guides them best at night —
“Ye shall have honours—wealth,—yes, Sages, yes—
“I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness;
“Undazzled it can track you starry sphere,
“But a gilt stick, a bawble blinds it here.
“How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along,
“In lying speech, and still more lying song,
“By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the throng;
“Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small,
“A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!
“Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,
“Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds;

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“Who, bolder ev'n than Nemrod, think to rise,
“By nonsense heap'd on nonsense, to the skies;
“Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too,
“Seen, heard, attested, every thing—but true.
“Your preaching zealots, too inspir'd to seek
“One grace of meaning for the things they speak;
“Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood,
“For truths too heavenly to be understood;
“And your State Priests, sole vendors of the lore,
“That works salvation;—as, on Ava's shore,
“Where none but priests are privileg'd to trade
“In that best marble of which Gods are made ;
“They shall have mysteries—aye, precious stuff
“For knaves to thrive by—mysteries enough;
“Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,
“Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,
“While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
“A Heav'n too ye must have, ye lords of dust,—
“A splendid Paradise,—pure souls, ye must:

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“That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,
“Who finds not heav'ns to suit the tastes of all;
“Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,
“And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.
“Vain things!—as lust or vanity inspires,
“The heav'n of each is but what each desires,
“And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be,
“Man would be man to all eternity!
“So let him—Eblis! grant this crowning curse,
“But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse.”
“Oh my lost soul!” exclaim'd the shuddering maid,
Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said:—
Mokanna started—not abash'd, afraid,—
He knew no more of fear than one who dwells
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles!
But, in those dismal words that reach'd his ear,
“Oh my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear,
So like that voice, among the sinful dead,
In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read,
That, new as 'twas from her, whom nought could dim
Or sink till now, it startled even him.

50

“Ha, my fair Priestess!”—thus, with ready wile,
The' impostor turn'd to greet her—“thou, whose smile
“Hath inspiration in its rosy beam
“Beyond the' Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream;
“Light of the Faith! who twin'st religion's zeal
“So close with love's, men know not which they feel,
“Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart,
“The heav'n thou preachest or the heav'n thou art!
“What should I be without thee? without thee
“How dull were power, how joyless victory!
“Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine
“Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half divine.
“But—why so mournful, child? those eyes, that shone
“All life last night—what!—is their glory gone?
“Come, come—this morn's fatigue hath made them pale,
“They want rekindling—suns themselves would fail
“Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,
“From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy.
“Thou seest this cup—no juice of earth is here,
“But the pure waters of that upper sphere,

51

“Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,
“Catching the gem's bright colour, as they go.
“Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns—
“Nay, drink,—in every drop life's essence burns;
“'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light—
“Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:
“There is a youth—why start?—thou saw'st him then;
“Look'd he not nobly? such the godlike men
“Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;—
“Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love,
“Too rul'd by that cold enemy of bliss
“The world calls virtue—we must conquer this;
“Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! 'tis not for thee
“To scan the mazes of Heav'n's mystery:
“The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield
“Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield.
“This very night I mean to try the art
“Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart.
“All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit,
“Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite,
“Shall tempt the boy;—young Mirzala's blue eyes,
“Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies;

52

Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun,
“And lips that, like the seal of Solomon,
“Have magic in their pressure; Zeba's lute,
“And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot
“Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep—
“All shall combine their witching powers to steep
“My convert's spirit in that softening trance,
“From which to heav'n is but the next advance;—
“That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast,
“On which Religion stamps her image best.
“But hear me, Priestess!—though each nymph of these
“Hath some peculiar, practis'd power to please,
“Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried,
“First charms herself, then all the world beside;
“There still wants one, to make the victory sure,
“One who in every look joins every lure;
“Through whom all beauty's beams concenter'd pass,
“Dazzling and warm, as through love's burning glass;
“Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
“Whose words, ev'n when unmeaning, are ador'd,

53

“Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,
“Which our faith takes for granted are divine!
“Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light,
“To crown the rich temptations of to-night;
“Such the refin'd enchantress that must be
“This hero's vanquisher,—and thou art she!”
With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale,
The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil
From which these words, like south winds through a fence
Of Kerzrah flow'rs, came fill'd with pestilence ;
So boldly utter'd too! as if all dread
Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled,
And the wretch felt assur'd that, once plung'd in,
Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin!
At first, tho' mute she listen'd, like a dream
Seem'd all he said: nor could her mind, whose beam
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme.

54

But when, at length, he utter'd, “Thou art she!”
All flash'd at once, and shrieking piteously,
“Oh not for worlds!” she cried—“Great God! to whom
“I once knelt innocent, is this my doom?
“Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss,
“My purity, my pride, then come to this,—
“To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be
“The pander of his guilt—oh infamy!
“And sunk, myself, as low as hell can steep
“In its hot flood, drag others down as deep!
“Others—ha! yes—that youth who came today—
Not him I lov'd—not him—oh! do but say,
“But swear to me this moment 'tis not he,
“And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!”
“Beware, young raving thing!—in time beware,
“Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear,
“Ev'n from thy lips. Go—try thy lute, thy voice,
“The boy must feel their magic;—I rejoice
“To see those fires, no matter whence they rise,
“Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes;

55

“And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall warm,
Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form,
“So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom,
“As one warm lover, full of life and bloom,
“Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb.
“Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet!—those eyes were made
“For love, not anger—I must be obey'd.”
“Obey'd!—'tis well—yes, I deserve it all—
“On me, on me Heaven's vengeance cannot fall
“Too heavily—but Azim, brave and true
“And beautiful—must he be ruin'd too?
“Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven
“A renegade like me from Love and Heaven?
“Like me?—weak wretch, I wrong him—not like me;
“No—he's all truth and strength and purity!
“Fill up your madd'ning hell-cup to the brim,
“Its witchery, fiends, will have no charm for him.
“Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers,
“He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers!
“Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign
“Pure as when first we met, without a stain!

56

“Though ruin'd—lost—my memory, like a charm
“Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm.
“Oh! never let him know how deep the brow
“He kiss'd at parting is dishonour'd now;—
“Ne'er tell him how debas'd, how sunk is she,
“Whom once he lov'd—once!—still loves dotingly.
“Thou laugh'st, tormentor,—what!—thou'lt brand my name?
“Do, do—in vain—he'll not believe my shame—
“He thinks me true, that nought beneath God's sky
“Could tempt or change me, and—so once thought I.
“But this is past—though worse than death my lot,
“Than hell—'tis nothing while he knows it not.
“Far off to some benighted land I'll fly,
“Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die;
“Where none will ask the lost one whence she came,
“But I may fade and fall without a name.
“And thou—curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art,
“Who found'st this burning plague-spot in my heart,
“And spread'st it—oh, so quick!—thro' soul and frame,
“With more than demon's art, till I became
“A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!—

57

“If, when I'm gone—”
“Hold, fearless maniac, hold,
“Nor tempt my rage—by Heaven, not half so bold
“The puny bird, that dares with teasing hum
“Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to come!
“And so thou'lt fly, forsooth?—what!—give up all
“Thy chaste dominion in the Haram Hall,
“Where now to Love and now to Alla given,
“Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even
“As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt hell and heaven!
“Thou'lt fly?—as easily may reptiles run,
“The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes upon;
“As easily, when caught, the prey may be
“Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from me.
“No, no, 'tis fix'd—let good or ill betide,
“Thou'rt mine till death, till death Mokanna's bride!

58

“Hast thou forgot thy oath?”—
At this dread word,
The Maid, whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr'd
Through all its depths, and rous'd an anger there,
That burst and lighten'd even through her despair—
Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath
That spoke that word, and stagger'd pale as death.
“Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers
“Their bridal place—the charnel vault was ours!
“Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me
“Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality;
“Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed,
“And, for our guests, a row of goodly Dead,
“(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,)
“From reeking shrouds upon the rite look'd out!
“That oath thou heard'st more lips than thine repeat—
“That cup—thou shudderest, Lady,—was it sweet?
“That cup we pledg'd, the charnel's choicest wine,
“Hath bound thee—aye—body and soul all mine;
“Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst
“No matter now, not hell itself shall burst!

59

“Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay,
“Look wild, look—any thing but sad; yet stay—
“One moment more—from what this night hath pass'd,
“I see thou know'st me, know'st me well at last.
“Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thought'st all true,
“And that I love mankind?—I do, I do—
“As victims, love them; as the sea-dog doats
“Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats;
“Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives
“That rank and venomous food on which she lives? —
“And, now thou seest my soul's angelic hue,
“'Tis time these features were uncurtain'd too;—
“This brow, whose light—oh rare celestial light!
“Hath been reserv'd to bless thy favour'd sight;
“These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might

60

“Thou'st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake—
“Would that they were heaven's lightnings for his sake!
“But turn and look—then wonder, if thou wilt,
“That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt,
“Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth
“Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon earth;
“And on that race who, though more vile they be
“Than mowing apes, are demi-gods to me!
“Here—judge if hell, with all its power to damn,
“Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!”—
He raised his veil—the Maid turn'd slowly round,
Look'd at him—shriek'd—and sunk upon the ground!
 

“The fruits of Meru are finer than those of any other place; and one cannot see in any other city such palaces with groves, and streams, and gardens.” —Ebn Haukal's Geography.

One of the royal cities of Khorassan.

Moses.

“Ses disciples assuroient qu'il se couvroit le visage, pour ne pas éblouir ceux qui l'approchoient par l'éclat de son visage comme Moyse.” —D'Herbelot.

Black was the colour adopted by the Caliphs of the House of Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards.—“Il faut remarquer ici touchant les habits blancs des disciples de Hakem, que la couleur des habits, des cöeffures et des étendarts des Khalifes Abassides ètant la noire, ce chef de Rebelles ne pouvoit pas choisir une qui lui fût plus opposèe.” —D' Herbelot.

“Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Khathaian reeds, slender and delicate.” —Poem of Amru.

Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians.

The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of it.— “Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of this plant in flower during the rains on the banks of rivers, where it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining asclepias.” —Sir W. Jones, Botanical Observations on Select Indian Plants.

The oriental plane. “The chenar is a delightful tree; its bole is of a fine white and smooth bark; and its foliage, which grows in a tuft at the summit, is of a bright green.” —Morier's Travels.

The burning fountains of Brahma near Chittogong, esteemed as holy. —Turner.

China.

“The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to the flower on account of its resembling a turban.” —Beckmann's History of Inventions.

“The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet, shaped much after the Polish fashion, having a large fur border. They tie their kaftans about the middle with a girdle of a kind of silk crape, several times round the body.” —Account of Independent Tartary, in Pinkerton's Collection.

In the war of the Caliph Mahadi against the Empress Irene, for an account of which vide Gibbon, vol. x.

This wonderful Throne was called The Star of the Genii. For a full description of it, see the Fragment, translated by Captain Franklin, from a Persian MS. entitled “The History of Jerusalem,” Oriental Collections, vol. i. p. 235.—When Soliman travelled, the eastern writers say, “He had a carpet of green silk on which his throne was placed, being of a prodigious length and breadth, and sufficient for all his forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves on his right hand, and the spirits on his left; and that when all were in order, the wind, at his command, took up the carpet, and transported it, with all that were upon it, wherever he pleased; the army of birds at the same time flying over their heads, and forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the sun.” —Sale's Koran, vol. ii. p. 214. note.

The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines. —Vide D'Herbelot.

“And when we said unto the angels, Worship Adam, they all worshipped him except Eblis (Lucifer), who refused.” —The Koran, chap. ii.

Moses.

This is according to D'Herbelot's account of the doctrines of Mokanna:—“Sa doctrine étoit, que Dieu avoit pris une forme et figure humaine, depuis qu'il eut commandé aux Anges d'adorer Adam, le premier des hommes. Qu'après la mort d'Adam, Dieu étoit apparu sous la figure de plusieurs Prophétes, et autres grands hommes qu'il avoit choisis, jusqu'à ce qu'il prit celle d'Abu Moslem, Prince de Khorassan, lequel professoit l'erreur de la Tenassukhiah ou Metempschychose; et qu'aprés la mort de ce Prince, la Divinité étoit passée, et descendue en sa personne.”

Jesus.

The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two branches; one of which falls into the Caspian sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles.

The nightingale.

The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia. —Chardin.

An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine.

The miraculous well at Mecca; so called, says Sale, from the murmuring of its waters.

The god Hannaman.—“Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of respect to the God Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form of that race.” —Pennant's Hindoostan.

See a curious account, in Stephen's Persia, of a solemn embassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, when the Portuguese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom of Jafanapatan.

This resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the new creature, man, was, according to Mahometan tradition, thus adopted:—“The earth (which God had selected for the materials of his work) was carried into Arabia to a place between Mecca and Tayef, where, being first kneaded by the angels, it was afterwards fashioned by God himself into a human form, and left to dry for the space of forty days, or, as others say, as many years; the angels, in the mean time, often visiting it, and Eblis (then one of the angels nearest to God's presence, afterwards the devil) among the rest; but he, not contented with looking at it, kicked it with his foot till it rung; and knowing God designed that creature to be his superior, took a secret resolution never to acknowledge him as such.” —Sale on the Koran.

A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.

The material of which images of Gaudma (the Birman Deity) are made, is held sacred. “Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity ready made.” —Symes's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376.

“It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot south wind, which in June or July passes over that flower (the Kerzereh), it will kill him.” —Thevenot.

The humming bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of picking the crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is related of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witness, by Paul Lucas, Voyage fait en 1714.

The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hummingbird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed at Java. —Barrow's Cochin-China.

Circum easdem ripas (Nili, viz.) ales est Ibis. Ea serpentium populatur ova, gratissimamque ex his escam nidis suis refert. —Solinus.


64

Prepare thy soul, young Azim!—thou hast braved
The bands of Greece, still mighty though enslaved;
Hast faced her phalanx, arm'd with all its fame,
Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame;
All this hast fronted, with firm heart and brow,
But a more perilous trial waits thee now,—
Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes
From every land where woman smiles or sighs;
Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise
His black or azure banner in their blaze;
And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash
That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash,
To the sly, stealing splendours, almost hid,
Like swords half-sheath'd, beneath the downcast lid;—
Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host
Now led against thee; and, let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms
A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.

65

Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;—
From room to room the ready handmaids hie,
Some skill'd to wreath the turban tastefully,
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade,
O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid,
Who, if between the folds but one eye shone,
Like Seba's Queen could vanquish with that one :—
While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue
The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue ,
So bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem
Like tips of coral branches in the stream:
And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye,
To give that long, dark languish to the eye ,

66

Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cull
From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful.
All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls
Are shining every where:—some younger girls
Are gone by moonlight to the garden-beds,
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;—
Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful, 'tis to see
How each prefers a garland from that tree
Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day,
And the dear fields and friendships far away.
The maid of India, blest again to hold
In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold ,
Thinks of the time when, by the Ganges' flood,
Her little play-mates scatter'd many a bud

67

Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam
Just dripping from the consecrated stream;
While the young Arab, haunted by the smell
Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,—
The sweet Elcaya , and that courteous tree
Which bows to all who seek its canopy ,
Sees, call'd up round her by these magic scents,
The well, the camels, and her father's tents;
Sighs for the home she left with little pain,
And wishes ev'n its sorrows back again!
Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls,
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls
Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound
From many a jasper fount, is heard around,
Young Azim roams bewilder'd,—nor can guess
What means this maze of light and loneliness.
Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors
Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors,

68

Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns,
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns;
And spicy rods, such as illume at night
The bowers of Tibet , send forth odorous light,
Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road
For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:—
And here, at once, the glittering saloon
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon;
Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays
High as the' enamell'd cupola, which towers
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers:
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through
The sprinkling of that fountain's silv'ry dew,
Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye,
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.
Here too he traces the kind visitings
Of woman's love in those fair, living things
Of land and wave, whose fate—in bondage thrown
For their weak loveliness—is like her own!

69

On one side gleaming with a sudden grace
Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase
In which it undulates, small fishes shine,
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;—
While, on the other, latticed lightly in
With odoriferous woods of Comorin ,
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;—
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between
The crimson blossoms of the coral tree
In the warm isles of India's sunny sea:
Mecca's blue sacred pigeon , and the thrush
Of Hindostan , whose holy warblings gush,
At evening, from the tall pagoda's top;—
Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop

70

About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood ;
And those that under Araby's soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ;
In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly
Through the pure element, here calmly lie
Sleeping in light, like the green birds that dwell
In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel!
So on, through scenes past all imagining,
More like the luxuries of that impious King ,
Whom Death's dark Angel, with his lightning torch,
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch,

71

Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent,
Arm'd with Heav'n's sword, for man's enfranchisement—
Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly round,
His simple garb and war-boots' clanking sound
But ill according with the pomp and grace
And silent lull of that voluptuous place.
“Is this, then,” thought the youth, “is this the way
“To free man's spirit from the deadening sway
“Of worldly sloth,—to teach him while he lives,
“To know no bliss but that which virtue gives,
“And when he dies, to leave his lofty name
“A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame?
“It was not so, Land of the generous thought
“And daring deed, thy god-like sages taught;
“It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease,
“Thy Freedom nurs'd her sacred energies;
“Oh! not beneath the' enfeebling, withering glow
“Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow,
“With which she wreath'd her sword, when she would dare
“Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air
“Of toil,—of temperance,—of that high, rare,

72

“Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe
“Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath.
“Who, that surveys this span of earth we press,—
“This speck of life in time's great wilderness,
“This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
“The past, the future, two eternities!—
“Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,
“When he might build him a proud temple there,
“A name, that long shall hallow all its space,
“And be each purer soul's high resting-place.
“But no—it cannot be, that one, whom God
“Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,—
“A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws
“Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause
“With the world's vulgar pomps;—no, no,—I see—
“He thinks me weak—this glare of luxury
“Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze
“Of my young soul—shine on, 'twill stand the blaze!”
So thought the youth;—but, ev'n while he defied
This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide

73

Through ev'ry sense. The perfume breathing round,
Like a pervading spirit;—the still sound
Of falling waters, lulling as the song
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng
Around the fragrant Nilica, and deep
In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep ;
And music, too—dear music! that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much—
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream;
All was too much for him, too full of bliss,
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this;
Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave
His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid;
He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid,
And of the time when, full of blissful sighs,
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes,
Silent and happy—as if God had given
Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven.

74

“Oh, my lov'd mistress, thou, whose spirit still
“Is with me, round me, wander where I will—
“It is for thee, for thee alone I seek
“The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek
“With warm approval—in that gentle look,
“To read my praise, as in an angel's book,
“And think all toils rewarded, when from thee
“I gain a smile worth immortality!
“How shall I bear the moment, when restor'd
“To that young heart where I alone am Lord,
“Though of such bliss unworthy,—since the best
“Alone deserve to be the happiest:—
“When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years,
“I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,
“And find those tears warm as when last they started,
“Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted.
“O my own life!—why should a single day,
“A moment keep me from those arms away?”
While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze
Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies,
Each note of which but adds new, downy links
To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks.

75

He turns him tow'rd the sound, and far away
Through a long vista, sparkling with the play
Of countless lamps,—like the rich track which Day
Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us,
So long the path, its light so tremulous;—
He sees a group of female forms advance,
Some chain'd together in the mazy dance
By fetters, forg'd in the green sunny bowers,
As they were captives to the King of Flowers ;
And some disporting round, unlink'd and free,
Who seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery;
And round and round them still, in wheeling flight
Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night;
While others wak'd, as gracefully along
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill,
Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still.
And now they come, now pass before his eye,
Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would vie
With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings.

76

Awhile they dance before him, then divide,
Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide
Around the rich pavilion of the sun,—
Till silently dispersing, one by one,
Through many a path, that from the chamber leads
To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads,
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,
And but one trembling nymph remains behind,—
Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are gone,
And she is left in all that light alone;
No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow,
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now;
But a light golden chain-work round her hair ,
Such as the maids of Yezd and Shiras wear,
From which, on either side, gracefully hung
A golden amulet, in the' Arab tongue,

77

Engraven o'er with some immortal line
From Holy Writ, or bard scarce less divine;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,
Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.
But when at length a timid glance she stole
At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul
She saw through all his features calm'd her fear,
And, like a half-tam'd antelope, more near,
Though shrinking still, she came;—then sat her down
Upon a musnud's edge, and, bolder grown,
In the pathetic mode of Isfahan
Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began:—
There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;

78

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think—is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone,
And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!
“Poor maiden!” thought the youth, “if thou wert sent,
“With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment,
“To wake unholy wishes in this heart,
“Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art.

79

“For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong,
“Those vestal eyes would disavow its song.
“But thou hast breath'd such purity, thy lay
“Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day,
“And leads thy soul—if e'er it wander'd thence—
“So gently back to its first innocence,
“That I would sooner stop the unchained dove,
“When swift returning to its home of love,
“And round its snowy wing new fetters twine,
“Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!”
Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling through
The gently open'd curtains of light blue
That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes,
Peeping like stars through the blue evening skies,
Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair
That sat so still and melancholy there:—
And now the curtains fly apart, and in
From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine
Which those without fling after them in play,
Two lightsome maidens spring,—lightsome as they
Who live in the' air on odours,—and around
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground,

80

Chase one another, in a varying dance
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance,
Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:—
While she, who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream of home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,—
But takes with her from Azim's heart that sigh
We sometimes give to forms that pass us by
In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain,
Creatures of light we never see again!
Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc'd
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore ;
While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall
Of curls descending, bells as musical
As those that, on the golden-shafted trees
Of Eden, shake in the eternal breeze ,

81

Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet,
As 'twere the' extatic language of their feet.
At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd
Within each other's arms; while soft there breath'd
Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs
Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;
And, as it swell'd again at each faint close,
The ear could track through all that maze of chords
And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words:—
A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh
Is burning now through earth and air;
Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh,
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there!
His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
And his floating eyes—oh! they resemble
Blue water-lilies , when the breeze
Is making the stream around them tremble.

82

Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power!
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
By the fair and brave
Who blushing unite,
Like the sun and wave,
When they meet at night;
By the tear that shows
When passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows
From the heat of the sky;
By the first love-beat
Of the youthful heart,
By the bliss to meet,
And the pain to part;
By all that thou hast
To mortals given,
Which—oh, could it last,
This earth were heaven!

83

We call thee hither, entrancing Power!
Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
And where, midst all that the young heart loves most,
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
The youth had started up, and turn'd away
From the light nymphs, and their luxurious lay,
To muse upon the pictures that hung round ,—
Bright images, that spoke without a sound,
And views, like vistas into fairy ground.
But here again new spells came o'er his sense:—
All that the pencil's mute omnipotence

84

Could call up into life, of soft and fair,
Of fond and passionate, was glowing there;
Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;
Which knows ev'n Beauty when half-veil'd is best,—
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest.
There hung the history of the Genii-King,
Trac'd through each gay, voluptuous wandering
With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes
He read that to be blest is to be wise ;—

85

Here fond Zuleika woos with open arms
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms,
Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone,
Wishes that Heav'n and she could both be won;
And here Mohammed, born for love and guile,
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile;—
Then beckons some kind angel from above
With a new text to consecrate their love.
With rapid step, yet pleas'd and lingering eye,
Did the youth pass these pictur'd stories by,
And hasten'd to a casement, where the light
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright

86

The fields without were seen, sleeping as still
As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill.
Here paus'd he, while the music, now less near,
Breath'd with a holier language on his ear,
As though the distance, and that heavenly ray
Through which the sounds came floating, took away
All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov'd,
And by that light—nor dream of her he lov'd?
Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may'st;
'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.
Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart,
Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart.
Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last,
Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o'ercast;
Recall her tears, to thee at parting given,
Pure as they weep, if angels weep, in Heaven.
Think, in her own still bower she waits thee now,
With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow,
Yet shrin'd in solitude—thine all, thine only,
Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely.

87

Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy'd,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd!
The song is hush'd, the laughing nymphs are flown,
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone;—
Alone?—no, not alone—that heavy sigh,
That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh—
Whose could it be?—alas! is misery found
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground?
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd,
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd,
Against a pillar near;—not glittering o'er
With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore,
But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress ,
Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness
Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;—
And such as Zelica had on that day
He left her—when, with heart too full to speak,
He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.
A strange emotion stirs within him,—more
Than mere compassion ever wak'd before;

88

Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she
Springs forward, as with life's last energy,
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound,
Sinks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground;—
Her veil falls off—her faint hands clasp his knees—
'Tis she herself!—'tis Zelica he sees!
But, ah, so pale, so chang'd—none but a lover
Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover
The once ador'd divinity—ev'n he
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly
Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz'd
Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz'd,
Ere he could think she was indeed his own,
Own darling maid, whom he so long had known
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both;
Who, ev'n when grief was heaviest—when loth
He left her for the wars—in that worst hour
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower ,
When darkness brings its weeping glories out,
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.

89

“Look up, my Zelica—one moment show
“Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know
“Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,
“But there, at least, shines as it ever shone.
“Come, look upon thy Azim—one dear glance,
“Like those of old, were heav'n! whatever chance
“Hath brought thee here, oh, 'twas a blessed one!
“There—my lov'd lips—they move—that kiss hath run
“Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
“And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.
“Oh the delight—now, in this very hour,
“When had the whole rich world been in my power,
“I should have singled out thee, only thee,
“From the whole world's collected treasury—
“To have thee here—to hang thus fondly o'er
“My own, best, purest Zelica once more!”
It was indeed the touch of those fond lips
Upon her eyes that chas'd their short eclipse,
And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven's breath,
Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath,
Her lids unclos'd, and the bright eyes were seen
Gazing on his—not, as they late had been,
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene;

90

As if to lie, ev'n for that tranced minute,
So near his heart, had consolation in it;
And thus to wake in his belov'd caress
Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.
But, when she heard him call her good and pure,
Oh, 'twas too much—too dreadful to endure!
Shuddering she broke away from his embrace,
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face,
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven
A heart of very marble, “Pure!—oh Heaven!”—
That tone—those looks so chang'd—the withering blight,
That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light;
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy;
And then the place,—that bright, unholy place,
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves ,—

91

All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
As death itself;—it needs not to be told—
No, no—he sees it all, plain as the brand
Of burning shame can mark—whate'er the hand,
That could from Heav'n and him such brightness sever,
'Tis done—to Heav'n and him she's lost for ever!
It was a dreadful moment; not the tears,
The lingering, lasting misery of years
Could match that minute's anguish—all the worst
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst
Broke o'er his soul, and with one crash of fate,
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.
“Oh! curse me not,” she cried, as wild he toss'd
His desperate hand tow'rds Heav'n—“though I am lost,
“Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,
“No, no—'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all!
“Nay, doubt me not—though all thy love hath ceas'd—
“I know it hath—yet, yet believe, at least,

92

“That every spark of reason's light must be
“Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee.
“They told me thou wert dead—why, Azim, why
“Did we not, both of us, that instant die
“When we were parted? oh! could'st thou but know
“With what a deep devotedness of woe
“I wept thy absence—o'er and o'er again
“Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
“And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
“Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away.
“Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,
“My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come,
“And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,
“Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear—
“Oh God! thou would'st not wonder that, at last,
“When every hope was all at once o'ercast,
“When I heard frightful voices round me say
Azim is dead!—this wretched brain gave way,
“And I became a wreck, at random driven,
“Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven—
“All wild—and even this quenchless love within
“Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin!—
“Thou pitiest me—I knew thou would'st—that sky
“Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I.

93

“The fiend, who lur'd me hither—hist! come near,
“Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear—
“Told me such things—oh! with such devilish art,
“As would have ruin'd ev'n a holier heart—
“Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,
“Where bless'd at length, if I but serv'd him here,
“I should for ever live in thy dear sight,
“And drink from those pure eyes eternal light.
“Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must be,
“To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!
“Thou weep'st for me—do weep—oh, that I durst
“Kiss off that tear! but, no—these lips are curst,
“They must not touch thee;—one divine caress,
“One blessed moment of forgetfulness
“I've had within those arms, and that shall lie,
“Shrin'd in my soul's deep memory till I die;
“The last of joy's last relics here below,
“The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,
“My heart has treasur'd from affection's spring,
“To soothe and cool its deadly withering!
“But thou—yes, thou must go—for ever go;
“This place is not for thee—for thee! oh no,
“Did I but tell thee half, thy tortur'd brain
“Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again!

94

“Enough, that Guilt reigns here—that hearts, once good,
“Now tainted, chill'd, and broken, are his food.—
“Enough, that we are parted—that there rolls
“A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
“Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
“As hell from heav'n, to all eternity!”
Zelica, Zelica!” the youth exclaim'd,
In all the tortures of a mind inflam'd
Almost to madness—“by that sacred Heav'n,
“Where yet, if pray'rs can move, thou'lt be forgiven,
“As thou art here—here, in this writhing heart,
“All sinful, wild, and ruin'd as thou art!
“By the remembrance of our once pure love,
“Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above
“The grave of our lost souls—which guilt in thee
“Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me!
“I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence—
“If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,
“Fly with me from this place—”
“With thee! oh bliss!
“'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.

95

“What! take the lost one with thee?—let her rove
“By thy dear side, as in those days of love,
“When we were both so happy, both so pure—
“Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure
“For the sunk heart, 'tis this—day after day
“To be the blest companion of thy way;
“To hear thy angel eloquence—to see
“Those virtuous eyes for ever turn'd on me;
“And, in their light re-chasten'd silently,
“Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun,
“Grow pure by being purely shone upon!
“And thou wilt pray for me—I know thou wilt—
“At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt
“Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift thine eyes,
“Full of sweet tears, unto the dark'ning skies,
“And plead for me with Heav'n, till I can dare
“To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;
“Till the good angels, when they see me cling
“For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,
“Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,
“And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven!
“Oh yes, I'll fly with thee—”
Scarce had she said
These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread
As that of Monker, waking up the dead

96

From their first sleep—so startling 'twas to both—
Rung through the casement near, “Thy oath! thy oath!”
Oh Heav'n, the ghastliness of that Maid's look!—
“'Tis he,” faintly she cried, while terror shook
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes,
Though through the casement, now, nought but the skies
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before—
“'Tis he, and I am his—all, all is o'er—
“Go—fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too—
“My oath, my oath, oh God! 'tis all too true,
“True as the worm in this cold heart it is—
“I am Mokanna's bride—his, Azim, his—
“The Dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow,
“Their blue lips echo'd it—I hear them now!
“Their eyes glar'd on me, while I pledg'd that bowl,
“'Twas burning blood—I feel it in my soul!
“And the Veil'd Bridegroom—hist! I've seen tonight
“What angels know not of—so foul a sight,
“So horrible—oh! never may'st thou see
“What there lies hid from all but hell and me!

97

“But I must hence—off, off—I am not thine,
“Nor Heav'n's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine—
“Hold me not—ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever
“Hearts, cannot sunder hands?—thus, then—for ever!”
With all that strength, which madness lends the weak,
She flung away his arm; and, with a shriek,
Whose sound, though he should linger out more years
Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his ears—
Flew up through that long avenue of light,
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night,
Across the sun, and soon was out of sight!
 

“Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes.” —Sol. Song.

“They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with Henna, so that they resembled branches of coral.” —Story of Prince Futtun in Bahardanush.

“The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named the black Kohol.” —Russel.

“None of these ladies,” says Shaw, “take themselves to be completely dressed, till they have tinged the hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping first into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, and then drawing it afterwards through the eyelids over the ball of the eye, we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30.) may be supposed to mean by rending the eyes with painting. This practice is no doubt of great antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings, ix. 30.) to have painted her face, the original words are, she adjusted her eyes with the powder of lead-ore.” —Shaw's Travels.

“The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-coloured Campac on the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit Poets with many elegant allusions.” —See Asiatic Researches, vol. iv.

A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills of Yemen. —Niebuhr.

Of the genus mimosa, “which droops its branches whenever any person approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under its shade.” —Niebuhr.

“Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition of the perfumed rods, which men of rank keep constantly burning in their presence.” —Turner's Tibet.

“C'est d'où vient le bois d'aloes, que les Arabes appellent Oud Comari, et celui du sandal, qui s'y trouve en grande quantité.” —D' Herbelot.

“Thousands of variegated loories visit the coral-trees.” —Barrow.

“In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will affright or abuse, much less kill.” —Pitt's Account of the Mahometans.

“The Pagoda Thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melodious song.” —Pennant's Hindostan.

Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs; and that hence it is they are said to have no feet.

Birds of Paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India; and “the strength of the nutmeg,” says Tavernier, “so intoxicates them that they fall dead drunk to the earth.”

“That bird which liveth in Arabia, and buildeth its nest with cinnamon.” —Brown's Vulgar Errors.

“The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds.” —Gibbon, vol. ix. p. 421.

Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first time he attempted to enter them.

“My Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their Sephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms.” —Sir W. Jones.

“They deferred it till the King of Flowers should ascend his throne of enamelled foliage.” —The Bahardanush.

“One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light golden chain-work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear.” —Hanway's Travels.

“Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz.” —Tavernier.

Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for persons of distinction.

The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, &c.

A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar.

“To the north of us (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku,) was a mountain, which sparkled like diamonds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it abounds.” —Journey of the Russian Ambassador to Persia, 1746.

“To which will be added the sound of the bells, hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish for music.” —Sale.

“Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the breeze.” —Jayadeva.

The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia.

It has been generally supposed that the Mahometans prohibit all pictures of animals; but Toderini shows that, though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arabs of Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into painting.

This is not quite astronomically true. “Dr. Hadley (says Keil) has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from the sun; and that then but only a fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth.”

For the loves of King Solomon (who was supposed to preside over the whole race of Genii) with Balkis, the Queen of Sheba or Saba, see D'Herbelot, and the Notes on the Koran, chap. 2.

“In the palace which Solomon ordered to be built against the arrival of the Queen of Saba, the floor or pavement was of transparent glass, laid over running water, in which fish were swimming.” This led the Queen into a very natural mistake, which the Koran has not thought beneath its dignity to commemorate. “It was said unto her, ‘Enter the palace.’ And when she saw it she imagined it to be a great water; and she discovered her legs, by lifting up her robe to pass through it. Whereupon Solomon said to her, ‘Verily, this is the place evenly floored with glass.’” —Chap. 27.

The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals. The passion which this frail beauty of antiquity conceived for her young Hebrew slave has given rise to a much esteemed poem in the Persian language, entitled Yusef vau Zelikha, by Noureddin Jami; the manuscript copy of which, in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, is supposed to be the finest in the whole world.” —Note upon Nott's Translation of Hafez.

The particulars of Mahomet's amour with Mary, the Coptic girl, in justification of which he added a new chapter to the Koran, may be found in Gagnier's Notes upon Abulfeda, p. 151.

“Deep blue is their mourning colour.” —Hanway.

The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odour after sunset.

“Concerning the vipers, which Pliny says were frequent among the balsam-trees, I made very particular inquiry; several were brought me alive both to Yambo and Jidda.” —Bruce.


102

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday?
This City of War which, in a few short hours,
Hath sprung up here , as if the magic powers

103

Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high pillar'd halls of Chilminar ,
Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see,
This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory:—
Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold
Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of gold:—
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun;
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells ,
Shaking in every breeze their light-ton'd bells!
But yester-eve, so motionless around,
So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound
But the far torrent, or the locust bird
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard;—

104

Yet hark! what discords now, of every kind,
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind;
The neigh of cavalry;—the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers songs ;—
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breez
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;—
War-music, bursting out from time to time,
With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime;—
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,
That far off, broken by the eagle note
Of the' Abyssinian trumpet , swell and float.

105

Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye “who?”
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,
The Night and Shadow , over yonder tent?—
It is the Caliph's glorious armament.
Rous'd in his Palace by the dread alarms,
That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms,
And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd
Defiance fierce at Islam and the world,—
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind
The veils of his bright Palace calm reclin'd,
Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should stain,
Thus unreveng'd, the evening of his reign;
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army, nurs'd in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'er-run
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.

106

Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display
Such pomp before;—not ev'n when on his way
To Mecca's Temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil'd to feed the Pilgrim's luxury ;
When round him, mid the burning sands, he saw
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,
And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow :—
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First, in the van, the People of the Rock ,
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock :
Then, chieftains of Damascus, proud to see
The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry ;—

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Men, from the regions near the Volga's mouth,
Mix'd with the rude, black archers of the South;
And Indian lancers, in white-turban'd ranks,
From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks,
With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh ,
And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-sea islander.
Nor less in number, though more new and rude
In warfare's school, was the vast multitude
That, fir'd by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd,
Round the white standard of the' impostor throng'd.
Beside his thousands of Believers—blind,
Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind—
Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel
The bloody Islamite's converting steel,
Flock'd to his banner;—Chiefs of the' Uzbek race,
Waving their heron crests with martial grace ;
Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth
From the' aromatic pastures of the North;

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Wild warriors of the turquoise hills ,—and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of Hindoo Kosh , in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.
But none, of all who own'd the Chief's command,
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand,
Or sterner hate, than Iran's outlaw'd men,
Her Worshippers of Fire —all panting then
For vengeance on the' accursed Saracen;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd,
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturn'd.
From Yezd's eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of Heav'n expire:

109

From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the Caspian , fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph'd, and their tyrants bled.
Such was the wild and miscellaneous host,
That high in air their motley banners tost
Around the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bent
Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went,
That beacon through the battle's stormy flood,
That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!
Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And risen again, and found them grappling yet;
While streams of carnage in his noontide blaze,
Smoke up to Heav'n—hot as that crimson haze,
By which the prostrate Caravan is aw'd ,
In the red Desert, when the wind's abroad.

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“On, Swords of God!” the panting Caliph calls,—
“Thrones for the living—Heav'n for him who falls!”—
“On, brave avengers, on,” Mokanna cries,
“And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies!”
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—
They clash—they strive—the Caliph's troops give way!
Mokanna's self plucks the black Banner down,
And now the Orient World's Imperial crown
Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslem's rout;
And now they turn, they rally—at their head
A warrior, (like those angel youths who led,
In glorious panoply of Heav'n's own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale ,)

111

Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives
At once the multitudinous torrent back—
While hope and courage kindle in his track;
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain Mokanna, midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky—
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy.
The panic spreads—“A miracle!” throughout
The Moslem ranks, “a miracle!” they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him!
Right tow'rds Mokanna now he cleaves his path,
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath

112

He bears from Heav'n withheld its awful burst
From weaker heads, and souls but half way curst,
To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst!
But vain his speed—though, in that hour of blood,
Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood,
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall,
Mokanna's soul would have defied them all,
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong
For human force, hurries ev'n him along;
In vain he struggles 'mid the wedg'd array
Of flying thousands—he is borne away;
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows,
In this forc'd flight, is—murdering as he goes!
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might
Surprizes in some parch'd ravine at night,
Turns, ev'n in drowning, on the wretched flocks,
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay.
“Alla illa Alla!”—the glad shout renew—
“Alla Akbar!” —the Caliph's in Merou.

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Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets.
The Swords of God have triumph'd—on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the veil'd Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amid'st the' acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name—
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls,—
He turns away—coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume;—
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays.
Yes, wretched Azim! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm or brighten,—like that Syrian Lake ,

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Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—
Hearts there have been, o'er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over thee
It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy;
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy Past
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last—
'Twas then, ev'n then, o'er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down;
Ev'n then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check'd-like fount-drops, frozen as they start—
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang.
One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life's fever still within his veins,
Vengeance!—dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast.
For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,—
Rumours of armies thronging to the attack
Of the Veil'd Chief,—for this he wing'd him back,

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Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd,
And, when all hope seem'd desp'rate, wildly hurl'd
Himself into the scale, and sav'd a world.
For this he still lives on, careless of all
The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;
For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire!
But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives;
With a small band of desperate fugitives,
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven,
Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,
He gain'd Merou—breath'd a short curse of blood
O'er his lost throne—then pass'd the Jihon's flood ,
And gathering all, whose madness of belief
Still saw a Saviour in their down-fall'n Chief,
Rais'd the white banner within Neksheb's gates ,
And there, untam'd, the' approaching conqueror waits.
Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,
With music and with sweets sparkling alive,

116

He took but one, the partner of his flight,
One—not for love—not for her beauty's light—
No, Zelica stood withering midst the gay,
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday
From the' Alma tree and dies, while overhead
To-day's young flower is springing in its stead.
Oh, not for love—the deepest Damn'd must be
Touch'd with Heaven's glory, ere such fiends as he
Can feel one glimpse of Love's divinity.
But no, she is his victim;—there lie all
Her charms for him—charms that can never pall,
As long as hell within his heart can stir,
Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her.
To work an angel's ruin,—to behold
As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll
Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul—
This is his triumph; this the joy accurst,
That ranks him among demons all but first:

117

This gives the victim, that before him lies
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!
But other tasks now wait him—tasks that need
All the deep daringness of thought and deed
With which the Dives have gifted him—for mark,
Over yon plains, which night had else made dark,
Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights
That spangle India's fields on showery nights ,—
Far as their formidable gleams they shed,
The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread,
Glimmering along the' horizon's dusky line,
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine
Among the founts and groves, o'er which the town
In all its arm'd magnificence looks down.
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements
Mokanna views that multitude of tents;
Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil'd, beset,
Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;—

118

That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,
Ev'n thus a match for myriads such as they.
“Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel's wing,
“Who brush'd the thousands of the' Assyrian King
“To darkness in a moment, that I might
“People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night!
“But, come what may, let who will grasp the throne,
“Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan;
“Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King—
“Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring
“With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave,—
“Sounds, that shall glad me ev'n within my grave!”
Thus, to himself—but to the scanty train
Still left around him, a far different strain:—
“Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown
“I bear from Heav'n, whose light nor blood shall drown
“Nor shadow of earth eclipse;—before whose gems
“The paly pomp of this world's diadems,

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“The crown of Gerashid, the pillar'd throne
“Of Parviz , and the heron crest that shone ,
“Magnificent, o'er Ali's beauteous eyes ,
“Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies:
“Warriors, rejoice—the port to which we've pass'd
“O'er Destiny's dark wave, beams out at last!
“Victory's our own—'tis written in that Book
“Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,
“That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power
“Of her great foe fall broken in that hour,
“When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes,
“From Neksheb's Holy Well portentously shall rise!

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“Now turn and see!”—
They turn'd, and, as he spoke,
A sudden splendour all around them broke,
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,
Rise from the Holy Well , and cast its light
Round the rich city and the plain for miles ,—
Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles
Of many a dome and fair-roof'd imaret
As autumn suns shed round them when they set.
Instant from all who saw the' illusive sign
A murmur broke— “Miraculous! divine!”
The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol star
Had wak'd, and burst impatient through the bar
Of midnight, to inflame him to the war;
While he of Moussa's creed saw, in that ray,
The glorious Light which, in his freedom's day,

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Had rested on the Ark , and now again
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.
“To victory!” is at once the cry of all—
Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call;
But instant the huge gates are flung aside,
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course
Right on into the Moslem's mighty force.
The watchmen of the camp,—who, in their rounds,
Had paus'd, and ev'n forgot the punctual sounds
Of the small drum with which they count the night ,
To gaze upon that supernatural light,—
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,
And in a death-groan give their last alarm.
“On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen ,
“Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean;

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There rests the Caliph—speed—one lucky lance
“May now achieve mankind's deliverance.”
Desperate the die—such as they only cast,
Who venture for a world, and stake their last.
But Fate's no longer with him—blade for blade
Springs up to meet them thro' the glimmering shade,
And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon
Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon
To the shrill timbrel's summons,—till, at length,
The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength,
And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the plain
With random slaughter, drives the' adventurous train;
Among the last of whom the Silver Veil
Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail
Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night,
Catching the tempest's momentary light!
And hath not this brought the proud spirit low?
Nor dash'd his brow, nor check'd his daring? No.

123

Though half the wretches, whom at night he led
To thrones and victory, lie disgrac'd and dead,
Yet morning hears him with unshrinking crest,
Still vaunt of thrones, and victory to the rest;—
And they believe him!—oh, the lover may
Distrust that look which steals his soul away;—
The babe may cease to think that it can play
With Heaven's rainbow;—alchymists may doubt
The shining gold their crucible gives out;
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.
And well the' Impostor knew all lures and arts,
That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts;
Nor, mid these last bold workings of his plot
Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot.
Ill-fated Zelica! had reason been
Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen,
Thou never could'st have borne it—Death had come
At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home.
But 'twas not so—a torpor, a suspense
Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense
And passionate struggles of that fearful night,
When her last hope of peace and heav'n took flight:

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And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke,—
As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke
Ominous flashings now and then will start,
Which show the fire's still busy at its heart;
Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in solemn gloom,—
Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom,
And calm without, as is the brow of death,
While busy worms are gnawing underneath—
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free
From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy,
Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill,
The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will.
Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect;
And led her glittering forth before the eyes
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice,—
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride
Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.

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And while the wretched maid hung down her head,
And stood, as one just risen from the dead,
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell
His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell
Possess'd her now,—and from that darken'd trance
Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance.
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame,
Her soul was rous'd, and words of wildness came,
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate
Her ravings into oracles of fate,
Would hail Heav'n's signals in her flashing eyes,
And call her shrieks the language of the skies!
But vain at length his arts—despair is seen
Gathering around; and famine comes to glean
All that the sword had left unreap'd:—in vain
At morn and eve across the northern plain
He looks impatient for the promis'd spears
Of the wild Hordes and Tartar mountaineers;
They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pour
Engines of havoc in, unknown before,

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And horrible as new ;—javelins, that fly
Enwreath'd with smoky flames through the dark sky,

127

And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount,
Discharge, as from a kindled Naphtha fount ,
Showers of consuming fire o'er all below;
Looking, as through the' illumin'd night they go,
Like those wild birds that by the Magians oft,
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft

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Into the air, with blazing faggots tied
To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide.
All night the groans of wretches who expire,
In agony, beneath these darts of fire,
Ring through the city—while, descending o'er
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,—
Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold,
Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll'd,—
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets
Now gush with blood,—and its tall minarets,
That late have stood up in the evening glare
Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer;—
O'er each, in turn, the dreadful flame-bolts fall,
And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival!
Mokanna sees the world is his no more;—
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er.
“What! drooping now?”—thus, with unblushing cheek,
He hails the few, who yet can hear him speak,
Of all those famish'd slaves around him lying,
And by the light of blazing temples dying;—

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“What!—drooping now?—now, when at length we press
“Home o'er the very threshold of success;
“When Alla from our ranks hath thinn'd away
“Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray
“Of favour from us, and we stand at length
“Heirs of his light and children of his strength,
“The chosen few, who shall survive the fall
“Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all!
“Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,
“All faith in him, who was your Light, your Star?
“Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid
“Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid
“Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither
“Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither?
“Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now
“All earth shall feel the' unveiling of this brow!
“To-night—yes, sainted men! this very night,
“I bid you all to a fair festal rite,
“Where—having deep refresh'd each weary limb
“With viands, such as feast Heav'n's cherubim,
“And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim,

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“With that pure wine the Dark-ey'd Maids above
“Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those they love ,—
“I will myself uncurtain in your sight
“The wonders of this brow's ineffable light;
“Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse
“Yon myriads, howling through the universe!”
Eager they listen—while each accent darts
New life into their chill'd and hope-sick hearts;
Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies
To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies!
Wildly they point their lances to the light
Of the fast sinking sun, and shout “To-night!”—
“To-night,” their Chief re-echoes in a voice
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice.
Deluded victims!—never hath this earth
Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth.
Here, to the few, whose iron frames had stood
This racking waste of famine and of blood,
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout
Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out:—

131

There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire,
Danc'd, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre,
Among the dead and dying, strew'd around;—
While some pale wretch look'd on, and from his wound
Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled,
In ghastly transport wav'd it o'er his head!
'Twas more than mignight now—a fearful pause
Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild applause,
That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,
Where the Veil'd demon held his feast accurst,
When Zelica—alas, poor ruin'd heart,
In every horror doom'd to bear its part!—
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave
Compass'd him round, and, ere he could repeat
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet!
Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear,
A presage that her own dark doom was near,
Rous'd every feeling, and brought Reason back
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack.
All round seem'd tranquil—even the foe had ceas'd,
As if aware of that demoniac feast,

132

His fiery bolts; and though the heavens look'd red,
'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread.
But hark—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone!
'Tis her Tormentor's laugh—and now, a groan,
A long death-groan comes with it:—can this be
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters—Holy Alla, what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of brands
That round lay burning, dropp'd from lifeless hands,
She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead—
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff'd
All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?
Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,
With their swoll'n heads sunk blackening on their breasts,
Or looking pale to Heav'n with glassy glare,
As if they sought but saw no mercy there;
As if they felt, though poison rack'd them through,
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain

133

Would have met death with transport by his side,
Here mute and helpless gasp'd;—but, as they died,
Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain,
And clench'd the slackening hand at him in vain.
Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,
The stony look of horror and despair,
Which some of these expiring victims cast
Upon their souls' tormentor to the last;—
Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil, now rais'd,
Show'd them, as in death's agony they gaz'd,
Not the long promis'd light, the brow, whose beaming
Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e'er trac'd
On its own brood;—no Demon of the Waste ,
No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
The' Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows:—

134

“There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—
“Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are.
“Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill
“Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?
“Swear that the burning death ye feel within
“Is but the trance with which Heav'n's joys begin;
“That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgrac'd
“Ev'n monstrous man, is—after God's own taste;
“And that—but see!—ere I have half-way said
“My greetings through, the' uncourteous souls are fled.
“Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,
“If Eblis loves you half so well as I.—
“Ha, my young bride!—'tis well—take thou thy seat;
“Nay come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet
“The Dead before?—they grac'd our wedding, sweet;
“And these, my guests to-night, have brimm'd so true
“Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too.
“But—how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?
“Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,

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“Young bride—yet stay—one precious drop remains,
“Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;—
“Here, drink—and should thy lover's conquering arms
“Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms,
“Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,
“And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss!
“For, me—I too must die—but not like these
“Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze;
“To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,
“With all death's grimness added to its own,
“And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes
“Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘There his Godship lies!’
“No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath,
“They've been my dupes, and shall be ev'n in death.
“Thou see'st yon cistern in the shade—'tis fill'd
“With burning drugs, for this last hour distill'd

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“There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame—
“Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame!—
“There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail—
“Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale.
“So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave,
“Proclaim that Heav'n took back the Saint it gave;—
“That I've but vanish'd from this earth awhile,
“To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile!
“So shall they build me altars in their zeal,
“Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel;
“Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell,
“Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell
“The sail he spreads for Heav'n with blasts from hell!
“So shall my banner, through long ages, be
“The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy;—
“Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name,
“And, though I die, my spirit, still the same,
“Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,
“And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life.
“But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall—
“Why, let it shake—thus I can brave them all.
“No trace of me shall greet them, when they come,
“And I can trust thy faith, for—thou'lt be dumb.

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“Now mark how readily a wretch like me,
“In one bold plunge, commences Deity!”
He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said—
Quick clos'd the burning waters o'er his head,
And Zelica was left—within the ring
Of those wide walls the only living thing;
The only wretched one, still curs'd with breath,
In all that frightful wilderness of death!
More like some bloodless ghost—such as, they tell,
In the Lone Cities of the Silent dwell,
And there, unseen of all but Alla, sit
Each by its own pale carcass, watching it.
But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs
Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers.
Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent
By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent;
And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent

138

From high balistas, and the shielded throng
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,
All speak the' impatient Islamite's intent
To try, at length, if tower and battlement
And bastion'd wall be not less hard to win,
Less tough to break down than the hearts within.
First in impatience and in toil is he,
The burning Azim—oh! could he but see
The' Impostor once alive within his grasp,
Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor boa's clasp,
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace
With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace!
Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls;
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,
But still no breach—“Once more, one mighty swing
“Of all your beams, together thundering!”
There—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult,
“Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult
“Right on that spot, and Neksheb is our own!”
'Tis done—the battlements come crashing down,
And the huge wall, by that stroke riv'n in two,
Yawning, like some old crater, rent anew,
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through.

139

But strange! no signs of life—nought living seen
Above, below—what can this stillness mean?
A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes—
“In through the breach,” impetuous Azim cries;
But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile
In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile.—
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc'd
Forth from the ruin'd walls, and, as there glanc'd
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see
The well-known Silver Veil!—“'Tis He, 'tis He,
Mokanna, and alone!” they shout around;
Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground—
“Mine, Holy Caliph! mine,” he cries, “the task
“To crush yon daring wretch—'tis all I ask.”
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe,
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow
And falteringly comes, till they are near;
Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear,
And, casting off the Veil in falling, shows—
Oh!—'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows!
“I meant not, Azim,” soothingly she said,
As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head,

140

And, looking in his face, saw anguish there
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear—
“I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this:—
“Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss
“Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know,
“How oft I've pray'd to God I might die so!
“But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow;—
“To linger on were maddening—and I thought
“If once that Veil—nay, look not on it—caught
“The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be
“Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.
“But this is sweeter—oh! believe me, yes—
“I would not change this sad, but dear caress,
“This death within thy arms I would not give
“For the most smiling life the happiest live!
“All, that stood dark and drear before the eye
“Of my stray'd soul, is passing swiftly by;
“A light comes o'er me from those looks of love,
“Like the first dawn of mercy from above;
“And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven,
“Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!
“But live, my Azim;—oh! to call thee mine
“Thus once again! my Azim—dream divine!

141

“Live, if thou ever lov'dst me, if to meet
“Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet,
“Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee
“Morning and night before that Deity,
“To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,
“As thine are, Azim, never breath'd in vain,—
“And pray that He may pardon her,—may take
“Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,
“And, nought remembering but her love to thee,
“Make her all thine, all His, eternally!
“Go to those happy fields where first we twin'd
“Our youthful hearts together—every wind
“That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers,
“Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours
“Back to thy soul, and thou may'st feel again
“For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then.
“So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies
“To Heav'n upon the morning's sunshine, rise
“With all love's earliest ardour to the skies!
“And should they—but, alas, my senses fail—
“Oh for one minute!—should thy prayers prevail—
“If pardon'd souls may, from that World of Bliss,
“Reveal their joy to those they love in this—

142

“I'll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell—
“Oh Heav'n—I die—dear love! farewell, farewell.”
Time fleeted—years on years had pass'd away,
And few of those who, on that mournful day,
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see
The maiden's death, and the youth's agony,
Were living still—when, by a rustic grave,
Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave,
An aged man, who had grown aged there
By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,
For the last time knelt down—and, though the shade
Of death hung darkening over him, there play'd
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brighten'd even Death—like the last streak
Of intense glory on the horizon's brim,
When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim.
His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept;
She, for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept
So many years, had come to him, all drest
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest!
For this the old man breath'd his thanks, and died.—
And there, upon the banks of that lov'd tide,
He and his Zelica sleep side by side.
 

“The Lescar or Imperial Camp is divided, like a regular town, into squares, alleys, and streets, and from a rising ground furnishes one of the most agreeable prospects in the world. Starting up in a few hours in an uninhabited plain, it raises the idea of a city built by enchantment. Even those who leave their houses in cities to follow the prince in his progress are frequently so charmed with the Lescar, when situated in a beautiful and convenient place, that they cannot prevail with themselves to remove. To prevent this inconvenience to the court, the Emperor, after sufficient time is allowed to the tradesmen to follow, orders them to be burnt out of their tents. —Dow's Hindostan.

Colonel Wilks gives a lively picture of an Eastern encampment:—“His camp, like that of most Indian armies, exhibited a motley collection of covers from the scorching sun and dews of the night, variegated according to the taste or means of each individual, by extensive inclosures of coloured calico surrounding superb suites of tents; by ragged cloths or blankets stretched over sticks or branches; palm leaves hastily spread over similar supports; handsome tents and splendid canopies; horses, oxen, elephants, and camels; all intermixed without any exterior mark of order or design, except the flags of the chiefs, which usually mark the centres of a congeries of these masses; the only regular part of the encampment being the streets of shops, each of which is constructed nearly in the manner of a booth at an English fair.” —Historical Sketches of the South of India.

The edifices of Chilminar and Balbec are supposed to have been built by the Genii, acting under the orders of Jan ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam.

“A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small shells.” —Ali Bey.

A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by means of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried.

“Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about their fore-horses' necks, which together with the servants (who belong to the camels, and travel on foot,) singing all night, make a pleasant noise, and the journey passes away delightfully.” —Pitt's Account of the Mahometans.

“The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and sometimes playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipes, the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when he gives over his music.” —Tavernier.

“This trumpet is often called, in Abyssinia, nesser cano, which signifies the Note of the Eagle.” —Note of Bruce's Editor.

The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of Abbas were called, allegorically, The Night and The Shadow. —See Gibbon.

The Mahometan religion.

“The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, who is buried at Casbin; and when one desires another to asseverate a matter, he will ask him, if he dare swear by the Holy Grave.” —Struy.

Mahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of dinars of gold.

Nivem Meccam apportavit, rem ibi aut nunquam aut raro visam. —Abulfeda.

The inhabitants of Hejaz or Arabia Petræa, called by an Eastern writer “The People of the Rock.” —Ebn Haukal.

“Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom a written genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. They are said to derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds.” —Niebuhr.

“Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small gems.” —Asiat. Misc. v. i.

Azab or Saba.

“The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of white heron's feathers in their turbans.” —Account of Independent Tartary.

In the mountains of Nishapour and Tous (in Khorassan) they find turquoises. —Ebn Haukal.

For a description of these stupendous ranges of mountains, see Elphinstone's Caubul.

The Ghebers or Guebres, those original natives of Persia, who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home, or forced to become wanderers abroad.

“Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives, who worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, about 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain. —Stephen's Persia.

“When the weather is hazy, the springs of Naphtha (on an island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the Naphtha often takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost incredible.” —Hanway on the Everlasting Fire at Baku.

Savary says of the south wind, which blows in Egypt from February to May, “Sometimes it appears only in the shape of an impetuous whirlwind, which passes rapidly, and is fatal to the traveller, surprised in the middle of the deserts. Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the firmament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the colour of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it.”

In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Beder, he was assisted, say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels, led by Gabriel, mounted on his horse Hiazum. —See The Koran and its Commentators.

The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. “Alla Acbar!” says Ockley, means, “God is most mighty.”

The ziraleet is a kind of chorus, which the women of the East sing upon joyful occasions. —Russel.

The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life.

The ancient Oxus.

A city of Transoxiana.

“You never can cast your eyes on this tree, but you meet there either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossom drops underneath on the ground (which is frequently covered with these purple-coloured flowers), others come forth in their stead,” &c. &c. —Nieuhoff.

The Demons of the Persian mythology.

Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy season. —See his Travels.

Sennacherib, called by the Orientals King of Moussal. —D'Herbelot.

Chosroes. For the description of his Throne or Palace, see Gibbon and D'Herbelot.

There were said to be under this Throne or Palace of Khosrou Parviz a hundred vaults filled with “treasures so immense that some Mahometan writers tell us, their Prophet, to encourage his disciples, carried them to a rock, which at his command opened, and gave them a prospect through it of the treasures of Khosrou.”

—Universal History.

“The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft of thy turban.”—From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb. —See Chardin.

The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable, that whenever the Persians would describe any thing as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hali, or the Eyes of Ali. —Chardin.

We are not told more of this trick of the Impostor, than that it was “une machine, qu'il disoit être la Lune.” According to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nekscheb. —“Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiania, where they say there is a well, in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day.”

“Il amusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekhscheb, en faisant sortir toutes les nuits du fond d'un puits un corps lumineux semblable à Lune, qui portoit sa lumière jusqu'à la distance de plusieurs miles.” —D'Herbelot.

Hence he was called Sazendéhmah, or the Moon-maker.

The Shechinah, called Sakînat in the Koran. —See Sale's Note, chap. ii.

The parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of music, as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums. —See Burder's Oriental Customs, vol. i. p. 119.

The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth, stiffened with cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents. —Notes on the Bahardanush.

The tents of Princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells us that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before it. —See Harmer's Observations on Job.

“From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroon the bees cull a celebrated honey.” —Morier's Travels.

“A custom still subsisting at this day, seems to me to prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the God of the Nile; for they now make a statue of earth in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river.” —Savary.

That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow's Account of Mamood I. “When he arrived at Moultan, finding that the country of the Jits was defended by great rivers, he ordered fifteen hundred boats to be built, each of which he armed with six iron spikes, projecting from their prows and sides, to prevent their being boarded by the enemy, who were very expert in that kind of war. When he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the whole river on fire.”

The agnee aster, too, in Indian poems the Instrument of Fire, whose flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to signify the Greek Fire.—See Wilks's South of India, vol. i. p. 471.—And in the curious Javan poem, the Brata Yudha given by Sir Stamford Raffles in his History of Java, we find, “He aimed at the heart of Soéta with the sharp-pointed Weapon of Fire.”

The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, long before its supposed discovery in Europe, is introduced by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyptian geographer, who lived in the thirteenth century. “Bodies,” he says, “in the form of scorpions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, making a gentle noise; then, exploding, they lighten, as it were, and burn. But there are others which, cast into the air, stretch along like a cloud, roaring horribly, as thunder roars, and on all sides vomiting out flames, burst, burn, and reduce to cinders whatever comes in their way.” The historian Ben Abdalla, in speaking of the sieges of Abulualid in the year of the Hegira 712, says, “A fiery globe, by means of combustible matter, with a mighty noise suddenly emitted, strikes with the force of lightning, and shakes the citadel.” —See the extracts from Casiri's Biblioth. Arab. Hispan. in the Appendix to Berington's Literary History of the Middle Ages.

The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the emperors to their allies. “It was,” says Gibbon, “either launched in red-hot balls of stone and iron, or darted in arrows and javelins, twisted round with flax and tow, which had deeply imbibed the inflammable oil.”

See Hanway's Account of the Springs of Naphtha at Baku (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinger Joala Mookee, or, the Flaming Mouth,) taking fire and running into the sea. Dr. Cooke, in his Journal, mentions some wells in Circassia, strongly impregnated with this inflammable oil, from which issues boiling water. “Though the weather,” he adds, “was now very cold, the warmth of these wells of hot water produced near them the verdure and flowers of spring.”

Major Scott Waring says, that naphtha is used by the Persians, as we are told it was in hell, for lamps.

------ many a row
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed
With naphtha and asphaltus, yielding light
As from a sky.

“At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Sezê, they used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumination; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the woods for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced.” —Richardson's Dissertation.

“The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, sealed; the seal whereof shall be musk.” —Koran, chap. lxxxiii.

“The Afghauns believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whom they call the Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, by saying, they are wild as the Demon of the Waste.” —Elphinstone's Caubul.

“Il donna du poison dans le vin à tous ses gens, et se jetta lui-même ensuite dans une cuve pleine de drogues brûlantes et consumantes, afin qu'il ne restât rien de tous les membres de son corps, et que ceux qui restoient de sa secte puissent croire qu'il étoit monté au ciel, ce qui ne manqua pas d'arriver.” —D' Herbelot.

“They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the departed, who sit each at the head of his own grave, invisible to mortal eyes.” —Elphinstone.

 

Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province or Region of the Sun. —Sir W. Jones.


156

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
And as she listen'd to the Springs
Of Life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings
Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!
“How happy,” exclaim'd this child of air,
“Are the holy Spirits who wander there,
“Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
“Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
“And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
“One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!
“Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere,
“With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear ,

157

“And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;
“Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay,
“And the golden floods that thitherward stray ,
“Yet—oh, 'tis only the Blest can say
“How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!
“Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
“From world to luminous world, as far
“As the universe spreads its flaming wall:
“Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
“And multiply each through endless years,
“One minute of Heaven is worth them all!”
The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping;
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden's fountain, when it lies

158

On the blue flow'r, which—Bramins say—
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.
“Nymph of a fair but erring line!”
Gently he said—“One hope is thine.
“'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
“The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal gate
“The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!
“Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin—
“'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in.”
Rapidly as comets run
To the' embraces of the Sun;—
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands

159

At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb the' empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri flies,
And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift for Heav'n?—“I know
“The wealth,” she cries, “of every urn,
“In which unnumber'd rubies burn,
“Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ;
“I know where the Isles of Perfume are
“Many a fathom down in the sea,
“To the south of sun-bright Araby ;

160

“I know, too, where the Genii hid
“The jewell'd cup of their King Jamshid ,
“With Life's elixir sparkling high—
“But gifts like these are not for the sky.
“Where was there ever a gem that shone
“Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne?
“And the Drops of Life—oh! what would they be
“In the boundless Deep of Eternity?”
While thus she mus'd, her pinions fann'd
The air of that sweet Indian land,
Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks, and amber beds ;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;

161

Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood—the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man, the sacrifice of man,
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillar'd shades —
Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones,
Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones?

162

'Tis He of Gazna —fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.—
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and lov'd Sultana ;
Maidens, within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And choaks up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,
Alone beside his native river,—
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.

163

“Live,” said the Conqueror, “live to share
“The trophies and the crowns I bear!”
Silent that youthful warrior stood—
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the' Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell!—
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,
And, when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last—
Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before its free-born spirit fled!
“Be this,” she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
“My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
“Though foul are the drops that oft distil
“On the field of warfare, blood like this,
“For Liberty shed, so holy is ,

164

“It would not stain the purest rill,
“That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
“Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere,
“A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
“'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
“From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!”
“Sweet,” said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
“Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
“Who die thus for their native Land.—
“But see—alas!—the crystal bar
“Of Eden moves not—holier far
“Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,
“That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!”

165

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's lunar Mountains ,
Far to the South, the Peri lighted;
And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide—whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth
Deep in those solitary woods,
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born Giant's smile.
Thence over Egypt's palmy groves,
Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings ,
The exil'd Spirit sighing roves;

166

And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's vale —now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Mœris' Lake.
'Twas a fair scene—a Land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!
Who could have thought, that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in Heav'n's serenest light;—
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds ;—
Those virgin lilies, all the night
Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved Sun's awake;—

167

Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;
Amid whose fairy loneliness
Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam,)
Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting
Upon a column, motionless
And glittering like an Idol bird!—
Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red Desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering!

168

The sun went down on many a brow,
Which, full of bloom and freshness then,
Is rankling in the pest-house now,
And ne'er will feel that sun again.
And, oh! to see the' unburied heaps
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps—
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!
Only the fierce hyæna stalks
Throughout the city's desolate walks
At midnight, and his carnage plies:—
Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets
The glaring of those large blue eyes
Amid the darkness of the streets!

169

“Poor race of men!” said the pitying Spirit,
“Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall—
“Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,
“But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!”
She wept—the air grew pure and clear
Around her, as the bright drops ran;
For there's a magic in each tear,
Such kindly Spirits weep for man!
Just then beneath some orange trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy—
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the Lake, she heard the moan
Of one who, at this silent hour,
Had thither stol'n to die alone.
One who in life where'er he mov'd,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him—none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,
Which shines so cool before his eyes.

170

No voice, well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard;—
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.
Deserted youth! one thought alone
Shed joy around his soul in death—
That she, whom he for years had known,
And lov'd, and might have call'd his own
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,—
Safe in her father's princely halls,
Where the cool airs from fountain falls,
Freshly perfum'd by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.
But see—who yonder comes by stealth ,
This melancholy bower to seek,

171

Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she—far off, through moonlight dim
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,
Than live to gain the world beside!—
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.
Ah! once, how little did he think
An hour would come, when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,
Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place
Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields—now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone—
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.

172

“Oh! let me only breathe the air,
“The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,
“And, whether on its wings it bear
“Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
“There—drink my tears, while yet they fall—
“Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
“And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
“To give thy brow one minute's calm.
“Nay, turn not from me that dear face—
“Am I not thine—thy own lov'd bride—
“The one, the chosen one, whose place
“In life or death is by thy side?
“Think'st thou that she, whose only light,
“In this dim world, from thee hath shone,
“Could bear the long, the cheerless night,
“That must be hers when thou art gone?
“That I can live, and let thee go,
“Who art my life itself?—No, no—
“When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
“Out of its heart must perish too!
“Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
“Before, like thee, I fade and burn;
“Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
“The last pure life that lingers there!”

173

She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp
In charnel airs, or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes.
One struggle—and his pain is past—
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!
“Sleep,” said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast—
“Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
“In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
“The' enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
“Who sings at the last his own death-lay ,
“And in music and perfume dies away!”

174

Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
That like two lovely saints they seem'd,
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;
While that benevolent Peri beam'd
Like their good angel, calmly keeping
Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.
But morn is blushing in the sky;
Again the Peri soars above,
Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.
High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smil'd as she gave that offering in;
And she already hears the trees
Of Eden, with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of Alla swells;

175

And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake,
Upon whose banks admitted Souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take!
But, ah! even Peris' hopes are vain—
Again the Fates forbade, again
The' immortal barrier clos'd—“Not yet,”
The Angel said as, with regret,
He shut from her that glimpse of glory—
“True was the maiden, and her story,
“Written in light o'er Alla's head,
“By seraph eyes shall long be read.
“But, Peri, see—the crystal bar
“Of Eden moves not—holier far
“Than ev'n this sigh the boon must be
“That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee.”
Now, upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of Eve reposes,

176

And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one, who look'd from upper air
O'er all the' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sun-light falls;—
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,

177

With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm West,—as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
The' unclouded skies of Peristan.
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed , with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine ,
Banquetting through the flowery vales;
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales.
But nought can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad—her wings are weary—
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own ,

178

Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,
Had rais'd to count his ages by!
Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd
With the great name of Solomon,
Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon
An erring Spirit to the skies.
Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither;—
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;—
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;

179

Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue-damsel flies
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:—
And, near the boy, who tir'd with play
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,—
Sullenly fierce—a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire;
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;

180

The ruin'd maid—the shrine profan'd—
Oaths broken—and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!—there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again.
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play:—
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But, hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,

181

And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels , with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the' eternal name of God
From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again.

182

Oh! 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that child—
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.
“There was a time,” he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones—“thou blessed child!
“When, young and haply pure as thou,
“I look'd and pray'd like thee—but now—”
He hung his head—each nobler aim,
And hope, and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

183

“There's a drop,” said the Peri, “that down from the moon
“Falls through the withering airs of June
“Upon Egypt's land , of so healing a power,
“So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour
“That drop descends, contagion dies,
“And health re-animates earth and skies!—
“Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
“The precious tears of repentance fall?
“Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
“One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!”
And now—behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sunbeam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,

184

There fell a light more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek.
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam—
But well the' enraptur'd Peri knew
Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!
“Joy, joy for ever! my task is done—
“The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!
“Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—
“To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad
“Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam ,
“And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!
“Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die
“Passing away like a lover's sigh;—

185

“My feast is now of the Tooba Tree ,
“Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!
“Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone
“In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief;—
“Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,
“To the lote-tree, springing by Alla's throne ,
“Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf.
“Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done—
“The Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won!”
 

“Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane trees upon it.” —Foster.

“The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it.” —Description of Tibet in Pinkerton.

“The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue campac flowers only in Paradise.” —Sir W. Jones. It appears, however, from a curious letter of the Sultan of Menangcabow, given by Marsden, that one place on earth may lay claim to the possession of it. “This is the Sultan, who keeps the flower champaka that is blue, and to be found in no other country but his, being yellow elsewhere.” —Marsden's Sumatra.

“The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyrean or verge of the heavens.” —Fryer.

The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there. —D'Herbelot, Volney.

Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south o Arabia Felix, where there was a temple of Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared, “sunk (says Grandpré) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foundations.” —Voyage to the Indian Ocean.

The Isles of Panchaia.

“The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis.” —Richardson.

“It is not like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and ambergris, whose mountains of the coast are stored with gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, cloves, sandal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics; where parrots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civet are collected upon the lands.” —Travels of two Mohammedans.

------ in the ground
The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
About the mother-tree, a pillar'd shade,
High over-arch'd, and echoing walks between.

Milton.

For a particular description and plate of the Banyan-tree, see Cordiner's Ceylon.

“With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni, and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth in golden thrones and in other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of Ghizni.” —Ferishta.

“Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the 11th century.” —See his History in Dow and Sir J. Malcolm.

“It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmood was so magnificent, that he kept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds, each of which wore a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls.” —Universal History, vol. iii.

Objections may be made to my use of the word Liberty in this, and more especially in the story that follows it, as totally inapplicable to any state of things that has ever existed in the East; but though I cannot, of course, mean to employ it in that enlarged and noble sense which is so well understood at the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, yet it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national independence, that freedom from the interference and dictation of foreigners, without which, indeed, no liberty of any kind can exist; and for which both Hindoos and Persians fought against their Mussulman invaders with, in many cases, a bravery that deserved much better success.

“The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lunæ of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise.”

—Bruce.

“Sometimes called,” says Jackson, “Jibbel Kumrie, or the white or lunar coloured mountains; so a white horse is called by the Arabians a moon-coloured horse.”

“The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant.” —Asiat. Research. vol. i. p. 387.

See Perry's View of the Levant for an account of the sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hieroglyphics in the mountains of Upper Egypt.

“The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves.” —Sonnini.

Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mœris.

“The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep.”—Dafard el Hadad.

“That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana.” —Sonnini.

Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, “The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyænas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries,” &c.

“Gondar was full of hyænas from the time it turned dark, till the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose in the streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these animals are Falashta from the neighbouring mountains, transformed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the dark in safety.” —Bruce.

Bruce.

This circumstance has been often introduced into poetry; —by Vincentius Fabricius, by Darwin, and lately, with very powerful effect, by Mr. Wilson.

“In the East, they suppose the Phœnix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself.” —Richardson.

“On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave.” —From Chateaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his Beauties of Christianity.

Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has been always famous;—hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.

“The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them.” —Bruce.

“The Syrinx or Pan's pipe is still a pastoral instrument in Syria.” —Russel.

“Wild bees, frequent in Palestine, in hollow trunks or branches of trees, and the clefts of rocks. Thus it is said (Psalm lxxxi.), ‘honey out of the stony rock.’” —Burder's Oriental Customs.

“The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant woods, among which thousands of nightingales warble all together.” —Thevenot.

The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

“You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire procured for them the name of Damsels.” —Sonnini.

Imaret, “hospice où on loge et nourrit, gratis, les pélerins pendant trois jours.” —Toderini, translated by the Abbé de Cournand. —See also Castellan's Mœurs des Othomans, tom. v. p. 145.

“Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend the mosques, are still obliged to execute that duty; nor are they ever known to fail, whatever business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms them, whatever they are about, in that very place they chance to stand on; insomuch that when a janissary, whom you have to guard you up and down the city, hears the notice which is given him from the steeples, he will turn about, stand still, and beckon with his hand, to tell his charge he must have patience for awhile; when, taking out his handkerchief, he spreads it on the ground, sits cross-legged thereupon, and says his prayers, though in the open market, which, having ended, he leaps briskly up, salutes the person whom he undertook to convey, and renews his journey with the mild expression of Ghell gohnnum ghell, or Come, dear, follow me.” —Aaron Hill's Travels.

The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

The Country of Delight—the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. See Sale's Prelim. Disc.—Tooba, says D'Herbelot, signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness.

Mahomet is described, in the 53d chapter of the Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel “by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode.” This tree, says the commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right hand of the Throne of God.


196

[Tell me not of joys above]

Tell me not of joys above,
If that world can give no bliss,
Truer, happier than the Love
Which enslaves our souls in this.
Tell me not of Houris' eyes;—
Far from me their dangerous glow,
If those looks that light the skies
Wound like some that burn below.
Who, that feels what Love is here,
All its falsehood—all its pain—
Would, for ev'n Elysium's sphere,
Risk the fatal dream again?
Who, that midst a desert's heat
Sees the waters fade away,
Would not rather die than meet
Streams again as false as they?

203

THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.

'Tis moonlight over Oman's Sea ;
Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,
And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's walls,
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell
Of trumpet and the clash of zel ,
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;—
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,
To sing him to his golden rest.
All hush'd—there's not a breeze in motion;
The shore is silent as the ocean.

204

If zephyrs come, so light they come,
Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;—
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome
Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
Ev'n he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame
His race hath brought on Iran's name.
Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike
Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;—
One of that saintly, murderous brood,
To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to heaven;—
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,

205

To mutter o'er some text of God
Engraven on his reeking sword ;—
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,
To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart!
Just Alla! what must be thy look,
When such a wretch before thee stands
Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—
Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands,
And wresting from its page sublime
His creed of lust, and hate, and crime;—
Ev'n as those bees of Trebizond,
Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad
With their pure smile the gardens round,
Draw venom forth that drives men mad.
Never did fierce Arabia send
A satrap forth more direly great;

206

Never was Iran doom'd to bend
Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.
Her throne had fall'n—her pride was crush'd—
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land,—no more their own,—
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd.
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck high buoyant still
With hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet—
Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays
They've treasur'd from the sun that's set,—
Beam all the light of long-lost days!
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare;
As he shall know, well, dearly know,
Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil as if his spirit lay
Becalm'd in Heav'n's approving ray.

207

Sleep on—for purer eyes than thine
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine;
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'd
By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;—
None but the loving and the lov'd
Should be awake at this sweet hour.
And see—where, high above those rocks
That o'er the deep their shadows fling,
Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks,
As glossy as a heron's wing
Upon the turban of a king ,
Hang from the lattice, long and wild,—
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child,
All truth and tenderness and grace,
Though born of such ungentle race;—
An image of Youth's radiant Fountain
Springing in a desolate mountain!
Oh what a pure and sacred thing
Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight

208

Of the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye,—
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity.
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind,
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin'd.
And oh, what transport for a lover
To lift the veil that shades them o'er!—
Like those who, all at once, discover
In the lone deep some fairy shore,
Where mortal never trod before,
And sleep and wake in scented airs
No lip had ever breath'd but theirs.
Beautiful are the maids that glide,
On summer-eves, through Yemen's dales,
And bright the glancing looks they hide
Behind their litters' roseate veils;—
And brides, as delicate and fair
As the white jasmine flowers they wear,

209

Hath Yemen in her blissful clime,
Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower ,
Before their mirrors count the time ,
And grow still lovelier every hour.
But never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay Haram smil'd,
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.

210

Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness;—
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ;—
Yet fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this:
A soul, too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's soften'd glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere.

211

Such is the maid who, at this hour,
Hath risen from her restless sleep,
And sits alone in that high bower,
Watching the still and shining deep.
Ah! 'twas not thus,—with tearful eyes
And beating heart,—she us'd to gaze
On the magnificent earth and skies,
In her own land, in happier days.
Why looks she now so anxious down
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown
Blackens the mirror of the deep?
Whom waits she all this lonely night
Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep,
For man to scale that turret's height!—
So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire,
When high, to catch the cool night-air,
After the day-beam's withering fire ,
He built her bower of freshness there,
And had it deck'd with costliest skill,
And fondly thought it safe as fair:—

212

Think, reverend dreamer! think so still,
Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;—
Love, all-defying Love, who sees
No charm in trophies won with ease;—
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss
Are pluck'd on Danger's precipice!
Bolder than they, who dare not dive
For pearls, but when the sea's at rest,
Love, in the tempest most alive,
Hath ever held that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water.
Yes—Araby's unrivall'd daughter,
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude,
There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb the' untrodden solitude
Of Ararat's tremendous peak ,

213

And think its steeps, though dark and dread,
Heav'n's pathways, if to thee they led!
Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way;—
Ev'n now thou hear'st the sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below!
Like her to whom, at dead of night,
The bridegroom, with his locks of light ,
Came, in the flush of love and pride,
And scal'd the terrace of his bride;—
When, as she saw him rashly spring,
And midway up in danger cling,
She flung him down her long black hair,
Exclaiming, breathless, “There, love, there!”
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold
The hero Zal in that fond hour,

214

Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold,
Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower.
See—light as up their granite steeps
The rock-goats of Arabia clamber ,
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,
And now is in the maiden's chamber.
She loves—but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;—
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the' undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?
Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft Kanoon ,
Alone, at this same witching hour,
She first beheld his radiant eyes

215

Gleam through the lattice of the bower,
Where nightly now they mix their sighs;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay!
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind:
And—though, when terror's swoon had past,
She saw a youth, of mortal kind,
Before her in obeisance cast,—
Yet often since, when he hath spoke
Strange, awful words,—and gleams have broken
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given
To some unhallow'd child of air,
Some erring Spirit cast from heaven,
Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes.
Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he
Who woos thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassion'd sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire

216

As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-God's living fire.
But quench'd to-night that ardour seems,
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow;—
Never before, but in her dreams,
Had she beheld him pale as now:
And those were dreams of troubled sleep,
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep;
Visions, that will not be forgot,
But sadden every waking scene,
Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot
All wither'd where they once have been.
“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that tranquil flood—
“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile
“To-night upon yon leafy isle!
“Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,
“I've wish'd that little isle had wings,
“And we, within its fairy bowers,
“Were wafted off to seas unknown,

217

“Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
“And we might live, love, die alone!
“Far from the cruel and the cold,—
“Where the bright eyes of angels only
“Should come around us, to behold
“A paradise so pure and lonely.
“Would this be world enough for thee?”—
Playful she turn'd, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on;
But when she mark'd how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,
“Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears,
“My dreams have boded all too right—
“We part—for ever part—to-night!
“I knew, I knew it could not last—
“'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past!
“Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
“I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
“I never loved a tree or flower,
“But 'twas the first to fade away.
“I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
“To glad me with its soft black eye,

218

“But when it came to know me well,
“And love me, it was sure to die!
“Now too—the joy most like divine
“Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
“To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—
“Oh misery! must I lose that too?
“Yet go—on peril's brink we meet;—
“Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea—
“No, never come again—though sweet,
“Though heaven, it may be death to thee.
“Farewell—and blessings on thy way,
“Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger!
“Better to sit and watch that ray,
“And think thee safe, though far away,
“Than have thee near me, and in danger!”
“Danger!—oh, tempt me not to boast—”
The youth exclaim'd—“thou little know'st
“What he can brave, who, born and nurst
“In Danger's paths, has dar'd her worst;
“Upon whose ear the signal-word
“Of strife and death is hourly breaking;
“Who sleeps with head upon the sword
“His fever'd hand must grasp in waking.

219

“Danger!—”
“Say on—thou fear'st not then,
“And we may meet—oft meet again?”
“Oh! look not so—beneath the skies
“I now fear nothing but those eyes.
“If aught on earth could charm or force
“My spirit from its destin'd course,—
“If aught could make this soul forget
“The bond to which its seal is set,
“'Twould be those eyes;—they, only they,
“Could melt that sacred seal away!
“But no—'tis fix'd—my awful doom
“Is fix'd—on this side of the tomb
“We meet no more;—why, why did Heaven
“Mingle two souls that earth has riven,
“Has rent asunder wide as ours?
“Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers
“Of Light and Darkness may combine,
“As I be link'd with thee or thine!
“Thy Father—”
“Holy Alla save
“His grey head from that lightning glance!

220

“Thou know'st him not—he loves the brave;
“Nor lives there under heaven's expanse
“One who would prize, would worship thee
“And thy bold spirit, more than he.
“Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd
“With the bright falchion by his side,
“I've heard him swear his lisping maid
“In time should be a warrior's bride.
“And still, whene'er at Haram hours,
“I take him cool sherbets and flowers,
“He tells me, when in playful mood,
“A hero shall my bridegroom be,
“Since maids are best in battle woo'd,
“And won with shouts of victory!
“Nay, turn not from me—thou alone
“Art form'd to make both hearts thy own.
“Go—join his sacred ranks—thou know'st
“The' unholy strife these Persians wage:—
“Good Heav'n, that frown!—even now thou glow'st
“With more than mortal warrior's rage.
“Haste to the camp by morning's light,
“And, when that sword is rais'd in fight,

221

“Oh still remember, Love and I
“Beneath its shadow trembling lie!
“One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,
“Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire
“Abhors—”
“Hold, hold—thy words are death—”
The stranger cried, as wild he flung
His mantle back, and show'd beneath
The Gheber belt that round him clung. —
“Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see
“All that thy sire abhors in me!
“Yes—I am of that impious race,
“Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,
“Hail their Creator's dwelling-place
“Among the living lights of heaven :

222

“Yes—I am of that outcast few,
“To Iran and to vengeance true,
“Who curse the hour your Arabs came
“To desolate our shrines of flame,
“And swear, before God's burning eye,
“To break our country's chains, or die!
“Thy bigot sire,—nay, tremble not,—
“He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
“With me is sacred as the spot
“From which our fires of worship rise!
“But know—'twas he I sought that night,
“When, from my watch-boat on the sea,

223

“I caught this turret's glimmering light,
“And up the rude rocks desperately
“Rush'd to my prey—thou know'st the rest—
“I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
“And found a trembling dove within;—
“Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin—
“If Love hath made one thought his own,
“That Vengeance claims first—last—alone!
“Oh! had we never, never met,
“Or could this heart ev'n now forget
“How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
“Had fate not frown'd so dark between!
“Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,
“In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt,
“Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
“At the same kindling altar knelt,—
“Then, then, while all those nameless ties,
“In which the charm of Country lies,
“Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
“Till Iran's cause and thine were one;
“While in thy lute's awakening sigh
“I heard the voice of days gone by,
“And saw, in every smile of thine,
“Returning hours of glory shine;—

224

“While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land
“Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee,—
“God! who could then this sword withstand?
“Its very flash were victory!
“But now—estrang'd, divorc'd for ever,
“Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;
“Our only ties what love has wove,—
“In faith, friends, country, sunder'd wide;
“And then, then only, true to love,
“When false to all that's dear beside!
“Thy father Iran's deadliest foe—
“Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now—but no—
“Hate never look'd so lovely yet!
“No—sacred to thy soul will be
“The land of him who could forget
“All but that bleeding land for thee.
“When other eyes shall see, unmov'd,
“Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
“Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd,
“And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!
“But look—”
With sudden start he turn'd
And pointed to the distant wave,

225

Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave;
And fiery darts, at intervals ,
Flew up all sparkling from the main,
As if each star that nightly falls,
Were shooting back to heaven again.
“My signal lights!—I must away—
“Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay.
“Farewell—sweet life! thou cling'st in vain—
“Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!”
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd—but from the lattice dropp'd
Down mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.
While pale and mute young Hinda stood,
Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood
A momentary plunge below
Startled her from her trance of woe;—

226

Shrieking she to the lattice flew,
“I come—I come—if in that tide
“Thou sleep'st to-night, I'll sleep there too,
“In death's cold wedlock, by thy side.
“Oh! I would ask no happier bed
“Than the chill wave my love lies under:—
“Sweeter to rest together dead,
“Far sweeter, than to live asunder!”
But no—their hour is not yet come—
Again she sees his pinnace fly,
Wafting him fleetly to his home,
Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie;
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind,
As if it bore all peace within,
Nor left one breaking heart behind!
 

The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores of Persia and Arabia.

The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf.

A Moorish instrument of music.

“At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses.” —Le Bruyn.

“Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.” —Asiat. Res. Disc. 5.

“On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually inscribed.” —Russel.

“There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad.” —Tournefort.

“Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty.” —Hanway.

“The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, is situated in some dark region of the East.” —Richardson.

Arabia Felix.

“In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and inclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckles, make a sort of green wall; large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures.” —Lady M. W. Montagu.

The women of the East are never without their looking-glasses. “In Barbary,” says Shaw, “they are so fond of their looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when after the drudgery of the day they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water.” —Travels.

In other parts of Asia they wear little looking-glasses on their thumbs. “Hence (and from the lotus being considered the emblem of beauty) is the meaning of the following mute intercourse of two lovers before their parents:—

“‘He with salute of deference due,
A lotus to his forehead prest;
She rais'd her mirror to his view,
Then turn'd it inward to her breast.’”

Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii.

“They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of those stones (emeralds), he immediately becomes blind.” —Ahmed ben Abdalaziz, Treatise on Jewels.

“At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus it is sometimes so hot, that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water.” —Marco Polo.

This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible. Struy says, “I can well assure the reader that their opinion is not true, who suppose this mount to be inaccessible.” He adds, that “the lower part of the mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middlemost part very cold, and like clouds of snow, but the upper regions perfectly calm.”—It was on this mountain that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the Deluge, and part of it, they say, exists there still, which Struy thus gravely accounts for:—“Whereas none can remember that the air on the top of the hill did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, which is presumed to be the reason that the Ark has endured so long without being rotten.” —See Carreri's Travels, where the Doctor laughs at this whole account of Mount Ararat.

In one of the books of the Shâh Nâmeh, when Zal (a celebrated hero of Persia, remarkable for his white hair,) comes to the terrace of his mistress Rodahver at night, she lets down her long tresses to assist him in his ascent;—he, however, manages it in a less romantic way by fixing his crook in a projecting beam.—See Champion's Ferdosi.

“On the lofty hills of Arabia Petræa are rock-goats.” —Niebuhr.

“Canun, espéce de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux; les dames en touchent dans le serrail, avec des décailles armées de pointes de cooc.” —Toderini, translated by De Cournand.

“They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it.” —Grose's Voyage. —“Le jeune homme nia d'abord la chose; mais, ayant ètè dèpouillè de sa robe, et la large ceinture qu'il portoit comme Ghebr,” &c. &c. —D'Herbelot, art. Agduani. “Pour se distinguer des Idolatres de l'Inde, les Guebres se ceignent tous d'un cordon de laine, ou de poil de chameau.” —Encyclopèdie Francoise.

D'Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather.

“They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary.” —Hanway. “As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of fire, the Sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for the manifold benefits flowing from its ministerial omniscience. But they are so far from confounding the subordination of the Servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only attribute no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire, in any of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind instrument, directed and governed by the immediate impression on it of the will of God; but they do not even give that luminary, all-glorious as it is, more than the second rank amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous production of divine power, the mind of man.” —Grose. The false charges brought against the religion of these people by their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among many of the truth of this writer's remark, that “calumny is often added to oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it.”

“The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air which in some measure resembled lightning or falling stars.” —Baumgarten.


230

The morn hath risen clear and calm,
And o'er the Green Sea palely shines,
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,
And lighting Kishma's amber vines.
Fresh smell the shores of Araby,
While breezes from the Indian sea
Blow round Selama's sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,—
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd,
Had tow'rd that holy headland cast—
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair!

231

The nightingale now bends her flight
From the high trees, where all the night
She sung so sweet, with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn,—bespangled o'er
With dew, whose night-drops would not stain
The best and brightest scimitar
That ever youthful Sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign.
And see—the Sun himself!—on wings
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of Light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

232

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd?—
When, from the banks of Bendemeer
To the nut-groves of Samarcand,
Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on Cadessia's bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From Iran's broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains:—
Ask the poor exile, cast alone
On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates ,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:
Yet happier so than if he trod
His own belov'd, but blighted, sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod!—

233

Oh, he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed!
Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,
Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves?—
No—she has sons, that never—never—
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
While heaven has light or earth has graves;—
Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong;
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm ,
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!

234

Yes, Emir! he, who scal'd that tower,
And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,
Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest—
Is one of many, brave as he,
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,
Yet dare the issue,—blest to be
Ev'n for one bleeding moment free,
And die in pangs of liberty!
Thou know'st them well—'tis some moons since
Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,
Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,
Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags;
Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band
Ay, in the portal of that land
Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,
Their spears across thy path have thrown;
Here—ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er—
Rebellion brav'd thee from the shore.

235

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame!
As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;—
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!
And who is he, that wields the might
Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,
Before whose sabre's dazzling light
The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink?

236

Who comes, embower'd in the spears
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers?—
Those mountaineers that truest, last,
Cling to their country's ancient rites,
As if that God, whose eyelids cast
Their closing gleam on Iran's heights,
Among her snowy mountains threw
The last light of his worship too!
'Tis Hafed—name of fear, whose sound
Chills like the muttering of a charm!—
Shout but that awful name around,
And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
'Tis Hafed, most accurs'd and dire
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise!
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,
A mingled race of flame and earth,

237

Sprung from those old, enchanted kings ,
Who in their fairy helms, of yore
A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;
And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran's light in blood!
Such were the tales, that won belief,
And such the colouring Fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free,—
His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine

238

Names, that have sanctified their blood;
As Lebanon's small mountain-flood
Is render'd holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks.
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny;
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!—
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—

239

No—far he fled—indignant fled
The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul like drops of flame;
And, as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!
But vain was valour—vain the flower
Of Kerman, in that deathful hour,
Against Al Hassan's whelming power.—
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block'd his way—
In vain—for every lance they rais'd,
Thousands around the conqueror blaz'd;
For every arm that lin'd their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,—
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd
As dates beneath the locust cloud.

240

There stood—but one short league away
From old Harmozia's sultry bay—
A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea
Of Oman beetling awfully ;
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink
Down winding to the Green Sea beach.
Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the Gulf across;
While, on its peak, that brav'd the sky,
A ruin'd Temple tower'd, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross

241

Struck the wild ruins with her wing,
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering
Started—to find man's dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air!
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in;—
And such the strange, mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll'd,—
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison'd there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
On the land side, those towers sublime,
That seem'd above the grasp of Time,

242

Were sever'd from the haunts of men
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between:
It seem'd a place where Gholes might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came,
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
For, each ravine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ;
And, though for ever past the days
When God was worshipp'd in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,—
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burn on ,

243

Through chance and change, through good and ill,
Like its own God's eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led
His little army's last remains;—
“Welcome, terrific glen!” he said,
“Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,
“Is Heav'n to him who flies from chains!”
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his Chiefs alone,
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers,—
“This home,” he cried, “at least is ours;—
“Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
“Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;
“Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
“To quiver to the Moslem's tread.
“Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
“Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
“Here—happy that no tyrant's eye
“Gloats on our torments—we may die!”—

244

'Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin'd altar broke,
Glared on his features, as he spoke:—
“'Tis o'er—what men could do, we've done—
“If Iran will look tamely on,
“And see her priests, her warriors driven
“Before a sensual bigot's nod,
“A wretch who shrines his lusts in heaven,
“And makes a pander of his God;
“If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
“Men, in whose veins—oh last disgrace!
“The blood of Zal and Rustam rolls,—
“If they will court this upstart race,
“And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
“To kneel at shrines of yesterday;
“If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
“Why, let them—till the land's despair
“Cries out to Heav'n, and bondage grows
“Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear!

245

“Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
“Their inmost core, and conscience turns
“Each coward tear the slave lets fall
“Back on his heart in drops of gall.
“But here, at least, are arms unchain'd,
“And souls that thraldrom never stain'd;—
“This spot, at least, no foot of slave
“Or satrap ever yet profaned;
“And though but few—though fast the wave
“Of life is ebbing from our veins,
“Enough for vengeance still remains.
“As panthers, after set of sun,
“Rush from the roots of Lebanon
“Across the dark-sea robber's way ,
“We'll bound upon our startled prey;
“And when some hearts that proudest swell
“Have felt our falchion's last farewell;
“When Hope's expiring throb is o'er,
“And ev'n Despair can prompt no more,
“This spot shall be the sacred grave
“Of the last few who, vainly brave,
“Die for the land they cannot save!”

246

His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid—
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the Mighty sate;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering Spirits of their Dead ;
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate ;
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet ;

247

Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard them, while on that altar's fires
They swore the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in Iran's injur'd name,
To die upon that Mount of Flame—
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled Shrine!
Brave, suffering souls! they little knew
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek maid, one gentle foe,
Whom love first touch'd with others' woe—
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd,—
Tranquil as on some battle plain
The Persian lily shines and towers

248

Before the combat's reddening stain
Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unaw'd, unmov'd,
While Heav'n but spar'd the sire she lov'd,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood—
And oft, when thou hast pac'd along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear!
Far other feelings Love hath brought—
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness!
Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words—“for my sake weep for all;”
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,

249

She weeps a lover snatch'd away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There's not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim;
There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight;
And—had he look'd with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes—
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech—the look estrang'd—
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang'd—
He would have mark'd all this, and known
Such change is wrought by Love alone!
Ah! not the Love, that should have bless'd
So young, so innocent a breast;
Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,
That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress,

250

Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, Hinda, no,—thy fatal flame
Is nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame;—
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-ey'd votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep.
Seven nights have darken'd Oman's sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's bark away,—
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep;—
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,

251

And oft the hateful carrion bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing,
Which reek'd with that day's banquetting—
Was all she saw, was all she heard.
'Tis the eighth morn—Al Hassan's brow
Is brighten'd with unusual joy—
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy?
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea,
When toss'd at midnight furiously ,
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye!
“Up, daughter, up—the Kerna's breath
“Has blown a blast would waken death,
“And yet thou sleep'st—up, child, and see
“This blessed day for Heaven and me,
“A day more rich in Pagan blood
“Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.

252

“Before another dawn shall shine,
“His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;
“This very night his blood shall steep
“These hands all over ere I sleep!”—
His blood!” she faintly scream'd—her mind
Still singling one from all mankind—
“Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,
Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
“Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
“Without whose aid the links accurst,
“That bind these impious slaves, would be
“Too strong for Alla's self to burst!
“That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
“My path with piles of Moslem dead,
“Whose baffling spells had almost driven
“Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,
“This night, with all his band shall know
“How deep an Arab's steel can go,
“When God and Vengeance speed the blow.
“And—Prophet! by that holy wreath
“Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death ,

253

“I swear, for every sob that parts
“In anguish from these heathen hearts,
“A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines
“Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines.
“But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—
“Those livid lips—my child, my child,
“This life of blood befits not thee,
“And thou must back to Araby.
“Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
“In scenes that man himself might dread,
“Had I not hop'd our every tread
“Would be on prostrate Persian necks—
“Curst race, they offer swords instead!
“But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now
“Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,
“To-day shall waft thee from the shore;
“And, e'er a drop of this night's gore
“Have time to chill in yonder towers,
“Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!”
His bloody boast was all too true;
There lurk'd one wretch among the few

254

Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count
Around him on that Fiery Mount,—
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd
The pathway through the valley's shade
To those high towers, where Freedom stood
In her last hold of flame and blood.
Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their Sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay—but died not with the brave;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave;—
And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He liv'd, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn.
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might!

255

May Life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,—
With hopes, that but allure to fly,
With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips!
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame

256

On the parch'd desert thirsting die,—
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh ,
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!
 

The Persian Gulf.—“To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian Gulf.” —Sir W. Jones.

Islands in the Gulf.

Islands in the Gulf.

Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. “The Indians, when they pass the promontory, throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers into the sea, to secure a propitious voyage.” —Morier.

“The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the day-time, and from the loftiest trees at night.” —Russel's Aleppo.

In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, “The dew is of such a pure nature, that if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust.”

The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.

Derbend.—“Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer; ce sont les Caspiæ Portæ des anciens.” —D'Herbelot.

The Talpot or Talipot tree. “This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon.” —Thunberg.

“When the bright cimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink.” —The Moallakat, Poem of Amru.

Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairy-land among the Peris and Dives may be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterwards to his descendants.

This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the “cedar-saints” among which it rises.

In the Lettres Edifiantes, there is a different cause assigned for its name of Holy. “In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the name of the Holy River.” —See Chateaubriand's Beauties of Christianity.

This mountain is my own creation, as the “stupendous chain,” of which I suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf. “This long and lofty range of mountains formerly divided Media from Assyria, and now forms the boundary of the Persian and Turkish empires. It runs parallel with the river Tigris and Persian Gulf, and almost disappearing in the vicinity of Gomberoon (Harmozia) seems once more to rise in the southern districts of Kerman, and following an easterly course through the centre of Meckraun and Balouchistan, is entirely lost in the deserts of Sinde.” —Kinnier's Persian Empire.

These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hope.

“There is an extraordinary hill in this neighbourhood, called Kohé Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it.” —Pottinger's Beloochistan.

The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires.

“At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distinguished by the appellation of the Darûb Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which, they assert, has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city; but for this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the tolerance of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees each man.” —Pottinger's Beloochistan.

Ancient heroes of Persia. “Among the Guebres there are some, who boast their descent from Rustam.” —Stephen's Persia.

See Russel's account of the panther's attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon.

“Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place upon the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves.” —Richardson.

In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their Fire, as described by Lord, “the Daroo,” he says, “giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness.”

“Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, and offer incense to the sun.” —Rabbi Benjamin.

“Nul d'entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand il a pris à témoin cet élément terrible et vengeur.” —Encyclopédie Francoise.

“A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow colour.” —Russel's Aleppo.

“It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire.” —Travels of Two Mohammedans.

A kind of trumpet;—it “was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of which is described as uncommonly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at the distance of several miles.” —Richardson.

“Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, he wore at the battle of Ohod.” —Universal History.

“They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but within are all full of ashes.” —Thevenot. The same is asserted of the oranges there; v. Witman's Travels in Asiatic Turkey.

“The Asphalt Lake, known by the name of the Dead Sea, is very remarkable on account of the considerable proportion of salt which it contains. In this respect it surpasses every other known water on the surface of the earth. This great proportion of bitter tasted salts is the reason why neither animal nor plant can live in this water.”—Klaproth's Chemical Analysis of the Water of the Dead Sea, Annals of Philosophy, January, 1813. Hasselquist, however, doubts the truth of this last assertion, as there are shell-fish to be found in the lake.

Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead Sea, in that wonderful display of genius, his third Canto of Childe Harold,—magnificent beyond any thing, perhaps, that even he has ever written.

“The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from extreme heat; and, which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy as though it had been the face of a clear and still lake.” —Pottinger.

“As to the unbelievers, their works are like a vapour in a plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until when he cometh thereto he findeth it to be nothing.” —Koran, chap. 24.


260

The day is lowering—stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,
Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy.
There's not a cloud in that blue plain
But tells of storm to come or past;—
Here, flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast;—
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!
While some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of heaven;
As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth,
And, having swept the firmament,
Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth 'twas yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours;

261

The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land;—upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse;—
And all was boding, drear, and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore.—
No music tim'd her parting oar ,
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destin'd bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.
And where was stern Al Hassan then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men

262

From bloodshed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewell there?
No—close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,—
With that keen, second-scent of death,
By which the vulture snuffs his food
In the still warm and living breath!
While o'er the wave his weeping daughter
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—
As a young bird of Babylon ,
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.
And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nurs'd—the well-known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves—

263

Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,
And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filleted with gold,
Shooting around their jasper fount ;
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary
In her own sweet acacia bower.—
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow?
No,—silent, from her train apart,—
As if even now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,—
She sits, all lovely in her gloom

264

As a pale Angel of the Grave;
And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!
“Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,
“So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now?
“Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er
“The' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,
“Still glorious—still to this fond heart
“Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!
“Yes—Alla, dreadful Alla! yes—
“If there be wrong, be crime in this,
“Let the black waves that round us roll,
“Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,
“Forgetting faith—home—father—all—
“Before its earthly idol fall,
“Nor worship ev'n Thyself above him—
“For, oh, so wildly do I love him,
“Thy Paradise itself were dim
“And joyless, if not shar'd with him!”
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;

265

And, though her lip, fond raver! burn'd
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show'd,—though wandering earthward now,—
Her spirit's home was in the skies.
Yes—for a spirit pure as hers
Is always pure, ev'n while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!
So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm—the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd—
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head—
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.—
But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—
That crash, as if each engine there,
Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair!

266

Merciful Heaven! what can it be?
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shudder'd as she rode
O'er mountain-waves—“Forgive me, God!
“Forgive me”—shriek'd the maid, and knelt,
Trembling all over—for she felt
As if her judgment-hour was near;
While crouching round, half dead with fear,
Her handmaids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirr'd—
When, hark!—a second crash—a third—
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in—what horrors then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix'd together through the chasm,—
Some wretches in their dying spasm
Still fighting on—and some that call
“For God and Iran!” as they fall!
Whose was the hand that turn'd away
The perils of the' infuriate fray,
And snatch'd her breathless from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death?

267

She knew not—for a faintness came
Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame
Amid the ruins of that hour
Lay, like a pale and scorched flower,
Beneath the red volcano's shower.
But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread
That shock'd her ere her senses fled!
The yawning deck—the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above—
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er
The strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore
Flutter'd like bloody flags—the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high toss'd about
Like meteor brands —as if throughout
The elements one fury ran,
One general rage, that left a doubt
Which was the fiercer, Heav'n or Man!
Once too—but no—it could not be—
'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,
While yet her fading eyes could see,
High on the ruin'd deck she caught

268

A glimpse of that unearthly form,
That glory of her soul,—even then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,
Shining above his fellow-men,
As, on some black and troublous night,
The Star of Egypt , whose proud light
Never hath beam'd on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West ,
Burns through the storm with looks of flame
That put Heav'n's cloudier eyes to shame.
But no—'twas but the minute's dream—
A fantasy—and ere the scream
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips,
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse
Of soul and sense its darkness spread
Around her, and she sunk, as dead.
How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,

269

Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!—
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm;—
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,—
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,

270

And waft no other breath than theirs:
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest.
Such was the golden hour that broke
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,
As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—
But where is she?—her eyes are dark,
Are wilder'd still—is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia's bay
Bore her at morn—whose bloody way
The sea-dog track'd?—no—strange and new
Is all that meets her wondering view.
Upon a galliot's deck she lies,
Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,—
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.

271

But the rude litter, roughly spread
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,
For awning o'er her head are flung.
Shuddering she look'd around—there lay
A group of warriors in the sun,
Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie;
And some, who seem'd but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg'd around the mast.
Blest Alla! who shall save her now?
There's not in all that warrior band
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow
From her own Faithful Moslem land.
Their garb—the leathern belt that wraps
Each yellow vest —that rebel hue—

272

The Tartar fleece upon their caps —
Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,
And Heav'n hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power;—
Hafed, the Gheber!—at the thought
Her very heart's blood chills within;
He, whom her soul was hourly taught
To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,
Some minister, whom Hell had sent
To spread its blast, where'er he went,
And fling, as o'er our earth he trod,
His shadow betwixt man and God!
And she is now his captive,—thrown
In his fierce hands, alive, alone;
His the infuriate band she sees,
All infidels—all enemies!
What was the daring hope that then
Cross'd her like light'ning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,
That ev'n the sternest warrior bow'd

273

Abash'd, when he her glances caught,
As if he guess'd whose form they sought.
But no—she sees him not—'tis gone,
The vision that before her shone
Through all the maze of blood and storm,
Is fled—'twas but a phantom form—
One of those passing, rainbow dreams,
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll
In trance or slumber round the soul.
But now the bark, with livelier bound,
Scales the blue wave—the crew's in motion,
The oars are out, and with light sound
Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees—with horror sees,
Their course is tow'rd that mountain-hold,—
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,
Where Mecca's godless enemies
Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd
In their last deadly, venomous fold!
Amid the' illumin'd land and flood
Sunless that mighty mountain stood;

274

Save where, above its awful head,
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As 'twere the flag of destiny
Hung out to mark where death would be!
Had her bewilder'd mind the power
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how
Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow,
Since ne'er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone.—
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves,
That from the Deep in windings pass
Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;—
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands!—
Instantly o'er the dashing tide
Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal Porch
Through which departed spirits go:—

275

Not ev'n the flare of brand and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated—as if each
Sat breathless, and too aw'd for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark,—so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave,
As 'twere some secret of the grave!
But soft—they pause—the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track;—
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns
The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oars' redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling force;
When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks—the chain is flung—
The oars are up—the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day-beam through the shade
Broke tremulous—but, ere the maid

276

Can see from whence the brightness steals,
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,—
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.
Ev'n Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow'd,
That they had risen from darkness then,
And breath'd the sunny world again!
But soon this balmy freshness fled—
For now the steepy labyrinth led

277

Through damp and gloom—'mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,
Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard, from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way!
The jackal's cry—the distant moan
Of the hyæna, fierce and lone—
And that eternal saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever-dark Profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!
All, all is fearful—ev'n to see,
To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Relief to her imaginings;
Since never yet was shape so dread,
But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown,
And by such sounds of horror fed,
Could frame more dreadful of her own.
But does she dream? has Fear again
Perplex'd the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then

278

Come from the gloom, low whispering near—
“Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?”
She does not dream—all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber's here.”
'Twas his own voice—she could not err—
Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh, sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel's lay
Open her bosom's glowing veil ,
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the belovëd one!
Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think
She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Hath power to make ev'n ruin dear,—
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost.

279

How shall the ruthless Hafed brook
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her—a maid of Araby
A Moslem maid—the child of him,
Whose bloody banner's dire success
Hath left their altars cold and dim,
And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast—Oh! who shall stay
The sword, that once hath tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover?
“Save him, my God!” she inly cries—
“Save him this night—and if thine eyes
“Have ever welcom'd with delight
“The sinner's tears, the sacrifice
“Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night,
“And here, before thy throne, I swear
“From my heart's inmost core to tear
“Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
“Link'd with each quivering life-string there,

280

“And give it bleeding all to Thee!
“Let him but live,—the burning tear,
“The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,
“Which have been all too much his own,
“Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
“Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
“In long and painful pilgrimage,
“Shall leave no traces of the flame
“That wastes me now—nor shall his name
“Ere bless my lips, but when I pray
“For his dear spirit, that away
“Casting from its angelic ray
“The' eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine
“Redeem'd, all glorious and all Thine!
“Think—think what victory to win
“One radiant soul like his from sin,—
“One wandering star of virtue back
“To its own native, heaven-ward track!
“Let him but live, and both are Thine,
“Together thine—for, blest or crost,
“Living or dead, his doom is mine,
“And, if he perish, both are lost!”
 

“The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music.” —Harmer.

“The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navigation, and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead, and to wear mourning for all who had the boldness to hazard the passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean.” —Richardson.

“I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear.” —Pennant.

“They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or Babylonian pigeon.” —Travels of certain Englishmen.

“The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them.” —Harris.

“Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, composé de 99 petites boules d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail, ou d'autre matière precieuse. J'en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Jerpos; il étoit de belles et grosses perles parfaites et égales, estimé trente mille piastres.” —Toderini.

The meteors that Pliny calls “faces.”

“The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates.” —Brown.

See Wilford's learned Essays on the Sacred Isles in the West.

A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients, Ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had been fire in it; and the author of the Dissertation in Harris's Voyages, supposes it to be the opal.

D'Herbelot, art. Agduani.

“The Guebres are known by a dark yellow colour, which the men affect in their clothes.” —Thevenot.

“The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the sheep of Tartary.” —Waring.

A frequent image among the oriental poets. “The nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud and the rose.” —Jami.


283

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting—when the West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!
'Twas stillness all—the winds that late
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves ,

284

Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl
Were melted all to form the stream:
And her fair islets, small and bright,
With their green shores reflected there,
Look like those Peri isles of light,
That hang by spell-work in the air.
But vainly did those glories burst
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And, pale and aw'd as those who waken
In their dark tombs—when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave appear,—
She shuddering turn'd to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flash'd around;
And saw those towers all desolate,
That o'er her head terrific frown'd,
As if defying ev'n the smile
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile.

285

In vain with mingled hope and fear,
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear—
Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.
And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread
That through her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim
Hafed, the Chief”—and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name!
He comes—the rock resounds his tread—
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare
Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter'd like some vast caravan,

286

When, stretch'd at evening round the well,
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now:
And shuddering as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.—
Never was pause so full of dread;
Till Hafed with a trembling hand
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,
Hinda;”—that word was all he spoke,
And 'twas enough—the shriek that broke
From her full bosom, told the rest.—
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—
Is her own loved Gheber, mild
And glorious as when first he smil'd

287

In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believ'd her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse—
Or, like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past—the future—all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!
Ev'n he, this youth—though dimm'd and gone
Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on—
His glories lost—his cause betray'd—
Iran, his dear-lov'd country, made
A land of carcasses and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves!—
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long struggling breath

288

Of Liberty's great soul depart,
Then lay him down and share her death—
Ev'n he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o'er him,
Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was lov'd—well, warmly lov'd—
Oh! in this precious hour he prov'd
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe;—
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup—how keenly quaff'd,
Though death must follow on the draught!
She, too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,
Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty Ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,

289

Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood,
Where lightly o'er the illumin'd surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay
Now bounded on, and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's Star
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,
Were still with lingering glories bright,—
As if, to grace the gorgeous West,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his sunny vest
Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight.
Never was scene so form'd for love!
Beneath them waves of crystal move
In silent swell—Heav'n glows above,
And their pure hearts, to transport given,
Swell like the wave, and glow like Heav'n.
But ah! too soon that dream is past—
Again, again her fear returns;—

290

Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast,
More faintly the horizon burns,
And every rosy tint that lay
On the smooth sea hath died away.
Hastily to the darkening skies
A glance she casts—then wildly cries
At night, he said—and, look, 'tis near—
“Fly, fly—if yet thou lov'st me, fly—
“Soon will his murderous band be here,
“And I shall see thee bleed and die.—
“Hush! heard'st thou not the tramp of men
“Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—
“Perhaps ev'n now they climb the wood—
“Fly, fly—though still the West is bright,
“He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—
“I know him—he'll not wait for night!”
In terrors ev'n to agony
She clings around the wondering Chief;—
“Alas, poor wilder'd maid! to me
“Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief.
“Lost as I am, nought ever grew
“Beneath my shade but perish'd too—

291

“My doom is like the Dead Sea air,
“And nothing lives that enters there!
“Why were our barks together driven
“Beneath this morning's furious heaven?
“Why, when I saw the prize that chance
“Had thrown into my desperate arms,—
“When, casting but a single glance
“Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,
“I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er
“Thy safety through that hour's alarms)
“To meet the' unmanning sight no more—
“Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?
“Why weakly, madly met thee now?—
“Start not—that noise is but the shock
“Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd—
“Dread nothing here—upon this rock
“We stand above the jarring world,
“Alike beyond its hope—its dread—
“In gloomy safety, like the Dead!
“Or, could ev'n earth and hell unite
“In league to storm this Sacred Height,
“Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night,
“And each o'erlooking star that dwells
“Near God will be thy sentinels;—

292

“And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,
“Back to thy sire—”
“To-morrow!—no—”
The maiden scream'd—“thou'lt never see
“To-morrow's sun—death, death will be
“The night-cry through each reeking tower,
“Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!
“Thou art betray'd—some wretch who knew
“That dreadful glen's mysterious clew—
“Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true—
“Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;
“This morning, with that smile so dire
“He wears in joy, he told me all,
“And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,
“As though thy heart already beat
“Its last life-throb beneath his feet!
“Good Heav'n, how little dream'd I then
“His victim was my own lov'd youth!—
“Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—
“By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!”
Oh! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,

293

Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,
As if the tale had froz'n his blood,
So maz'd and motionless was he;—
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of Ishmonie!
But soon the painful chill was o'er,
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look'd from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days.
Never, in moment most elate,
Did that high spirit loftier rise;—
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal lights of Fate
Were shining in those awful eyes!
'Tis come—his hour of martyrdom
In Iran's sacred cause is come;

294

And, though his life hath pass'd away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret,—and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery's night
For vengeance on the' oppressor's crimes.
This rock, his monument aloft,
Shall speak the tale to many an age;
And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where Hafed fell;
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country's ancient fanes,
Never—while breath of life shall live
Within them—never to forgive
The' accursed race, whose ruthless chain
Hath left on Iran's neck a stain
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that now
Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow;

295

And ne'er did Saint of Issa gaze
On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd,
More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind,
Half lighted by the altar's fire,
Glimmers—his destin'd funeral pyre!
Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands,
Of every wood of odorous breath,
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,
Ready to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o'er—
The few, to whom that couch of flame,
Which rescues them from bonds and shame,
Is sweet and welcome as the bed
For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd!

296

With watchfulness the maid attends
His rapid glance, where'er it bends—
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?
What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
Hafed, my own beloved Lord,”
She kneeling cries—“first, last ador'd!
“If in that soul thou'st ever felt
“Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
“Here, on my knees that never knelt
“To any but their God before,
“I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—
“Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh.
“Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither
“Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea
“East—west—alas, I care not whither,
“So thou art safe, and I with thee!
“Go where we will, this hand in thine,
“Those eyes before me smiling thus,

297

“Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
“The world's a world of love for us!
“On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
“Where 'tis no crime to love too well;—
“Where thus to worship tenderly
“An erring child of light like thee
“Will not be sin—or, if it be,
“Where we may weep our faults away,
“Together kneeling, night and day,
“Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
“And I—at any God's, for thine!”
Wildly these passionate words she spoke—
Then hung her head, and wept for shame;
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke
With every deep-heav'd sob that came.
While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not
If, for a moment, pride and fame,
His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,
And Iran's self are all forgot
For her whom at his feet he sees
Kneeling in speechless agonies.
No, blame him not, if Hope awhile
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile

298

O'er hours to come—o'er days and nights,
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights
Which she, who bends all beauteous there,
Was born to kindle and to share.
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o'er his soul.
Starting, he brush'd the drops away,
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;—
Like one who, on the morn of fight,
Shakes from his sword the dews of night,
That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.
Yet, though subdued the' unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray'd,
Half thought the hero's soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,—
“Yes—if there be some happier sphere,
“Where fadeless truth like ours is dear,—

299

“If there be any land of rest
“For those who love and ne'er forget,
“Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest
“We'll meet in that calm region yet!”
Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
When the rous'd youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows.—
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew;
For 'twas the' appointed warning-blast,
The' alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast!
And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o'er land and sea
That dirge-note of the brave and free.

300

They came—his Chieftains at the call
Came slowly round, and with them all—
Alas, how few!—the worn remains
Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun,
And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind ,
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing'd, and every Chief a God!
How fall'n, how alter'd now! how wan
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came;—
How deadly was the glare it cast,
As mute they paus'd before the flame
To light their torches as they pass'd!
'Twas silence all—the youth hath plann'd
The duties of his soldier-band;

301

And each determin'd brow declares
His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.
But minutes speed—night gems the skies—
And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes,
That look from heaven, ye may behold
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,
The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,
And lay it at her trembling feet;—
And now the youth, with gentle care,
Hath plac'd her in the shelter'd seat,
And press'd her hand—that lingering press
Of hands, that for the last time sever;
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,
When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.
And yet to her this sad caress
Gives hope—so fondly hope can err!
'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess—
Their happy flight's dear harbinger;
'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—
'Twas any thing but leaving her.

302

“Haste, haste!” she cried, “the clouds grow dark,
“But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark;
“And by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss!
“With thee upon the sun-bright deep,
“Far off, I'll but remember this,
“As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep;
“And thou—” but ah!—he answers not—
Good Heavn'!—and does she go alone?
She now has reach'd that dismal spot,
Where, some hours since, his voice's tone
Had come to soothe her fears and ills,
Sweet as the angel Israfil's ,
When every leaf on Eden's tree
Is trembling to his minstrelsy—
Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.—
Hafed! my Hafed!—if it be
“Thy will, thy doom this night to die,
“Let me but stay to die with thee,
“And I will bless thy loved name,
“Till the last life-breath leave this frame.
“Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid
“But near each other while they fade;

303

“Let us but mix our parting breaths,
“And I can die ten thousand deaths!
“You too, who hurry me away
“So cruelly, one moment stay—
“Oh! stay—one moment is not much—
“He yet may come—for him I pray—
Hafed! dear Hafed!—” all the way
In wild lamentings, that would touch
A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name
To the dark woods—no Hafed came:—
No—hapless pair—you've look'd your last:—
Your hearts should both have broken then:
The dream is o'er—your doom is cast—
You'll never meet on earth again!
Alas for him, who hears her cries!
Still half-way down the steep he stands,
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes
The glimmer of those burning brands,
That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth away!
Hopeless as they who, far at sea,
By the cold moon have just consign'd

304

The corse of one, lov'd tenderly,
To the bleak flood they leave behind;
And on the deck still lingering stay,
And long look back, with sad delay,
To watch the moonlight on the wave,
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
But see—he starts—what heard he then?
That dreadful shout!—across the glen
From the land-side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell,
Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!
“They come—the Moslems come!”—he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes,—
“Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam
“Enfranchis'd through yon starry dome,
“Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire
“Are on the wing to join your choir!”
He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound
To their young loves, reclimb'd the steep

305

And gain'd the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round—
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accurst,
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark!—again—again it rings;
Near and more near its echoings
Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame
Turn'd on their Chief—could doubt the shame,
The' indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts and yet stand still?
He read their thoughts—they were his own—
“What! while our arms can wield these blades,
“Shall we die tamely? die alone?
“Without one victim to our shades,
“One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
“The sabre from its toil may sleep?
“No—God of Iran's burning skies!
“Thou scorn'st the' inglorious sacrifice.
“No—though of all earth's hope bereft,
“Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.

306

“We'll make yon valley's reeking caves
“Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
“Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
“Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen.
“Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains
“Our refuge still from life and chains;
“But his the best, the holiest bed,
“Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead!”
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart.—The' exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire,
Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale
The mighty serpent, in his ire,
Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.
No torch the Ghebers need—so well
They know each mystery of the dell,
So oft have, in their wanderings,
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things
Untam'd and fearless like themselves!

307

There was a deep ravine, that lay
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fall'n before the few.
The torrents from that morning's sky
Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil'd,—
The guards with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain-shrines.
Here, at this pass, the scanty band
Of Iran's last avengers stand;
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem's tread
So anxiously, the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard!
They come—that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your blades
Had point or prowess, prove them now—
Woe to the file that foremost wades!
They come—a falchion greets each brow,

308

And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk,
Beneath the gory waters sunk,
Still o'er their drowning bodies press
New victims quick and numberless;
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,
So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,
But listless from each crimson hand
The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre.
Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome—never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations pour'd!
All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red, murky glimmer seen
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—
Wretches who wading, half on fire
From the toss'd brands that round them fly,

309

'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;—
And some who, grasp'd by those that die,
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er
In their dead brethren's gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;
Countless as tow'rds some flame at night
The North's dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light,
To this terrific spot they pour—
Till, bridg'd with Moslem bodies o'er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o'er the dying and the dead,
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,
What hope was left for you? for you,
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;—
Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,
And burn with shame to find how few.
Crush'd down by that vast multitude,
Some found their graves where first they stood;

310

While some with hardier struggle died,
And still fought on by Hafed's side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Tow'rds the high towers his gory track;
And, as a lion swept away
By sudden swell of Jordan's pride
From the wild covert where he lay ,
Long battles with the' o'erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.
But whither now? their track is lost,
Their prey escap'd—guide, torches gone—
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on—
“Curse on those tardy lights that wind,”
They panting cry, “so far behind;
“Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent,
“To track the way the Gheber went!”

311

Vain wish—confusedly along
They rush, more desperate as more wrong:
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, maz'd and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash'd into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang, impal'd on rocks,
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks
Of ravening vultures,—while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrible yell.
Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear,
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,—
Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,
And Iran's self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness—'twas she,
His heart's pure planet, shining yet

312

Above the waste of memory,
When all life's other lights were set.
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd,
Each fear that chill'd their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain'd
Between him and her radiance cast;—
As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!
A voice spoke near him—'twas the tone
Of a lov'd friend, the only one
Of all his warriors, left with life
From that short night's tremendous strife.—
“And must we then, my chief, die here?
“Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!”
These words have rous'd the last remains
Of life within him—“what! not yet
“Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!”
The thought could make ev'n Death forget

313

His icy bondage—with a bound
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown
Ev'n feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow!
They mount—they bleed—oh save them now—
The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;—
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below—
One effort more—thank Heav'n! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine—
When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the shrine.
“Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!
“And must I leave thee withering here,
“The sport of every ruffian's tread,
“The mark for every coward's spear?

314

“No, by yon altar's sacred beams!”
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame
Bears him along;—with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea.—
“Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,”
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile,
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!
What shriek was that on Oman's tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just hath caught upon her side
The death-light—and again is dark.
It is the boat—ah, why delay'd?—
That bears the wretched Moslem maid;
Confided to the watchful care
Of a small veteran band, with whom

315

Their generous Chieftain would not share
The secret of his final doom,
But hop'd when Hinda, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.—
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell—
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,
Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
And, driving at the current's will,
They rock'd along the whispering tide;
While every eye, in mute dismay,
Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.
Oh! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power
Of Fancy's most terrific touch

316

To paint thy pangs in that dread hour—
Thy silent agony—'twas such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and liv'd to tell!
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart;—
When, though the inmate Hope be dead,
Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart;
No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on,
Like things, within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain;—
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonis'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!

317

Calm is the wave—heav'n's brilliant lights
Reflected dance beneath the prow;—
Time was when, on such lovely nights,
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown—
No joy but that, to make her blest,
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being,
Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,—
Itself a star, not borrowing light,
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now!—but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings—brave men!
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand
On the bark's edge—in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath;
All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie:—
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
Ev'n now, this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour—
Ah! she could tell you—she, who leans

318

Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast;—
Too well she knows—her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,
Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see—what moves upon the height?
Some signal!—'tis a torch's light.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine
All eyes are turn'd—thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
'Twas but a moment—fierce and high
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away, o'er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrin'd in its own grand element!
“'Tis he!”—the shuddering maid exclaims,—
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!

319

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave;
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,—
Deep, deep,—where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!
Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its frame!
But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom

320

Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning ,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee—
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,

321

Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep;
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

322

Farewell—farewell—until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
END OF THE SIXTH VOLUME.
 

“In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers.” —Ebn Haukal.

The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called “the Searchers of the Grave” in the “Creed of the orthodox Mahometans” given by Ockley, vol. ii.

“The Arabians call the mandrake ‘the Devil's candle,’ on account of its shining appearance in the night.” —Richardson.

For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c. to be seen to this day, see Perry's View of the Levant.

Jesus.

The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into “a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed.” —Tavernier.

Of their other Prophet, Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Prusæus, Orat. 36., that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. —v. Patrick on Exodus, iii. 2.

“The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound.” —Pennant.

“The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies.” —Thevenot.

“The angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice of all God's creatures.” —Sale.

See Hoole upon the Story of Sinbad.

“In this thicket upon the banks of the Jordan several sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbour themselves, whose being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the river, gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall come up like a lion from the swelling of Jordan.” —Maundrell's Aleppo.

“This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts.” —Stephen's Persia.

“One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays.” —Mirza Abu Taleb.

For a description of the merriment of the date-time, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, see Kempfer, Amœnitat. Exot.

Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds. —See Trevoux, Chambers.

“The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire.” —Struy.


12

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave ,
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
 

“The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odour has long been proverbial in the East.” —Forster.

Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the Lake
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of pray'r from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.

13

Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the water-falls gleam, like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one
Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun.
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees , till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

14

But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer's ray,
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay
As now it shines—all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night!
A happier smile illumes each brow,
With quicker spread each heart uncloses,
And all is ecstasy,—for now
The Valley holds its Feast of Roses ;
The joyous Time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round and, in their shower,
Hearts open, like the Season's Rose,—
The Flow'ret of a hundred leaves ,
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,
And every leaf its balm receives.
 

“Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing melody.” —Song of Jayadeva.

“The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbours and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall.” —Bernier.

“The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahommetans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake.” —Forster.

“The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom.” —See Pietro de la Valle.

“Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular species.” —Ouseley.

'Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the Lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule ,

15

When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And wak'd to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad—the busiest hive
On Bela's hills is less alive,
When saffron-beds are full in flower,
Than look'd the Valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches play'd
Through every grove and island shade;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret;
And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear,
That you could see, in wandering round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks, that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because 'twas night.

16

And all were free, and wandering,
And all exclaim'd to all they met,
That never did the summer bring
So gay a Feast of Roses yet;—
The moon had never shed a light
So clear as that which bless'd them there;
The roses ne'er shone half so bright,
Nor they themselves look'd half so fair.
 

Bernier.

A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehanguire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron-flowers about Cashmere.

And what a wilderness of flowers!
It seem'd as though from all the bowers
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here.
The Lake, too, like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o'er it lie,—
As if a shower of fairy wreaths
Had fall'n upon it from the sky!
And then the sounds of joy,—the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet;—
The minaret-crier's chaunt of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery ,

17

And answer'd by a ziraleet
From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;—
The merry laughter, echoing
From gardens, where the silken swing
Wafts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange-grove;
Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tents that line the way,
Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother,
Handfuls of roses at each other.—
Then, the sounds from the Lake,—the low whispering in boats,
As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars,

18

And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats,
Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores,
Like those of Kathay, utter'd music, and gave
An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.
But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling,
That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—
Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.
Oh! best of delights as it every where is
To be near the lov'd One,—what a rapture is his
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide
O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by his side!

19

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think, think what a Heav'n she must make of Cashmere!
 

“It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chaunt from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous chorus.” —Russell.

“The swing is a favourite pastime in the East, as promoting a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates.” —Richardson.

“The swings are adorned with festoons. This pastime is accompanied with music of voices and of instruments, hired by the masters of the swings.” — Thevenot.

“At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, with music, dances,” &c. &c. —Herbert.

“An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them.” —Grosier.

This miraculous quality has been attributed also to the shore of Attica. “Hujus littus, ait Capella, concentum musicum illisis terræ undis reddere, quod propter tantam eruditionis vim puto dictum.” —Ludov. Vives in Augustin de Civitat. Dei, lib. xviii. c. 8.

So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar ,
When from power and pomp and the trophies of war
He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all
With the Light of the Haram, his young Nourmahal.
When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror rov'd
By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov'd,
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match,
And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.
 

Jehanguire was the son of the Great Acbar.

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.

20

This was not the beauty—oh, nothing like this,
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss!
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams.
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face!
And when angry,—for ev'n in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes—
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings.
Then her mirth—oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;

21

Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages.
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,—
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.
Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave
Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave:
And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre
Of the flow'rs of this planet—though treasures were there,
For which Soliman's self might have giv'n all the store
That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his shore,

22

Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all,
And the Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal!
 

In the wars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, “they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they were visited by their companions, who brought them the choicest odours.” —Richardson.

In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers.

But where is she now, this night of joy,
When bliss is every heart's employ?—
When all around her is so bright,
So like the visions of a trance,
That one might think, who came by chance
Into the vale this happy night,
He saw that City of Delight
In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers
Are made of gems and light and flowers!
Where is the lov'd Sultana? where,
When mirth brings out the young and fair,
Does she, the fairest, hide her brow,
In melancholy stillness now?
 

The capital of Shadukiam. See note, Vol. VI. p. 184.

Alas!—how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

23

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something, light as air—a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken—
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever.
Oh, you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

24

As in the Fields of Bliss above
He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round ;—
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For ev'n an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird,—whose nest
Is found beneath far Eastern skies,—
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies!
 

See the representation of the Eastern Cupid, pinioned closely round with wreaths of flowers, in Picart's Cérémonies Religieuses.

“Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies they lose all their splendour.” — Grosier.

Some difference, of this dangerous kind,—
By which, though light, the links that bind
The fondest hearts may soon be riven;
Some shadow in Love's summer heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst;—

25

Such cloud it is, that now hangs over
The heart of the Imperial Lover,
And far hath banish'd from his sight
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light!
Hence is it, on this happy night,
When Pleasure through the fields and groves
Has let loose all her world of loves,
And every heart has found its own,
He wanders, joyless and alone,
And weary as that bird of Thrace,
Whose pinion knows no resting-place.
 

“As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are called by the French ‘les âmes damnées.’” — Dalloway.

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes
This Eden of the Earth supplies
Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale,
The eyes are dim:—though rich the spot
With every flow'r this earth has got,
What is it to the nightingale,
If there his darling rose is not?

26

In vain the Valley's smiling throng
Worship him, as he moves along;
He heeds them not—one smile of hers
Is worth a world of worshippers.
They but the Star's adorers are,
She is the Heav'n that lights the Star!
 

“You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose.” —Jami.

Hence is it, too, that Nourmahal,
Amid the luxuries of this hour,
Far from the joyous festival,
Sits in her own sequester'd bower,
With no one near, to soothe or aid,
But that inspir'd and wond'rous maid,
Namouna, the Enchantress;—one,
O'er whom his race the golden sun
For unremember'd years has run,
Yet never saw her blooming brow
Younger or fairer than 'tis now.
Nay, rather,—as the west wind's sigh
Freshens the flower it passes by,—
Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er,
To leave her lovelier than before.
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung

27

Of other worlds, there came a light
From her dark eyes so strangely bright,
That all believ'd nor man nor earth
Were concious of Namouna's birth!
All spells and talismans she knew,
From the great Mantra , which around
The Air's sublimer Spirits drew,
To the gold gems of Afric, bound
Upon the wandering Arab's arm,
To keep him from the Siltim's harm.
And she had pledg'd her powerful art,—
Pledg'd it with all the zeal and heart
Of one who knew, though high her sphere,
What 'twas to lose a love so dear,—
To find some spell that should recall
Her Selim's smile to Nourmahal!

28

'Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath'd
With woodbine, many a perfume breath'd
From plants that wake when others sleep,
From timid jasmine buds, that keep
Their odour to themselves all day,
But, when the sun-light dies away,
Let the delicious secret out
To every breeze that roams about;—
When thus Namouna:—“'Tis the hour
“That scatters spells on herb and flower,
“And garlands might be gather'd now,
“That, twin'd around the sleeper's brow,
“Would make him dream of such delights,
“Such miracles and dazzling sights,
“As Genii of the Sun behold,
“At evening, from their tents of gold
“Upon the' horizon—where they play
“Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,
“Their sunny mansions melt away.
“Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath'd
“Of buds o'er which the moon has breath'd,
“Which worn by her, whose love has stray'd,
“Might bring some Peri from the skies,

29

“Some sprite, whose very soul is made
“Of flow'rets' breaths and lovers' sighs,
“And who might tell—”
“For me, for me,”
Cried Nourmahal impatiently,—
“Oh! twine that wreath for me to night.”
Then, rapidly, with foot as light
As the young musk-roe's, out she flew,
To cull each shining leaf that grew
Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams,
For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.
Anemones and Seas of Gold ,
And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flow'rets, that unfold
Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ;—
The tube-rose, with her silvery light,
That in the Gardens of Malay
Is call'd the Mistress of the Night ,

30

So like a bride, scented and bright,
She comes out when the sun's away;—
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through Zamara's shades ;—
And the white moon-flower, as it shows,
On Serendib's high crags, to those
Who near the isle at evening sail,
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;
In short, all flow'rets and all plants,
From the divine Amrita tree ,
That blesses heaven's inhabitants
With fruits of immortality,
Down to the basil tuft , that waves,
Its fragrant blossom over graves,
And to the humble rosemary,

31

Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed
To scent the desert and the dead:—
All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gather'd by young Nourmahal,
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more;
Then to Namouna flies, and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.
With what delight the' Enchantress views
So many buds, bath'd with the dews
And beams of that bless'd hour!—her glance
Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures,
As, in a kind of holy trance,
She hung above those fragrant treasures,
Bending to drink their balmy airs,
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs.
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flow'rs and scented flame, that fed

32

Her charmed life—for none had e'er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,
The' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:—
 

“He is said to have found the great Mantra, spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations.” —Wilford.

“The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain.” —Jackson.

“A demon, supposed to haunt woods, &c. in a human shape.” —Richardson.

The name of Jehanguire before his accession to the throne.

“Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold colour.” —Sir W. Jones.

“This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightful on earth, and the delicious odour of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love.” —Id.

“The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tuberosa) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night.” —Pennant.

The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names), “when not engaged in war, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, mostly prevails.” — Marsden.

“The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called Amrita, or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit.” —Sir W. Jones.

Sweet basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in churchyards.

“The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the dead; and the custom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rihan, and which is our sweet basil. —Maillet, Lett. 10.

“In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavender and rosemary.” —Asiat. Res.

I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;
I know each herb and flow'ret's bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The image of love, that nightly flies
To visit the bashful maid,
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs
Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The dream of a future, happier hour,
That alights on misery's brow,

33

Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The visions, that oft to worldly eyes
The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb , that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.

34

The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—
That appal the murderer's sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,
That shrieks, when pluck'd at night!
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,
That smiles at the wrongs of men,
Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
 

“The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches.” —Hasselquist.

An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it.

Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern alchymists look to as a means of making gold. “Most of those alchymical enthusiasts think themselves sure of success, if they could but find out the herb, which gilds the teeth and gives a yellow colour to the flesh of the sheep that eat it. Even the oil of this plant must be of a golden colour. It is called Haschischat ed dab.”

Father Jerom Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver colour; and adds, “this confirms me that which I observed in Candia: to wit, that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, which renders their teeth of a golden colour; which, according to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the mines which are under ground.” —Dandini, Voyage to Mount Libanus.

No sooner was the flowery crown
Placed on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of Nourmahal;—
And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,
As full of small, rich harmonies

35

As ever wind, that o'er the tents
Of Azab blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear, and floats and swells,
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,
Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ;
And now a Spirit form'd, 'twould seem,
Of music and of light,—so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,
And such a sound is in the air
Of sweetness when he waves his wings,—
Hovers around her, and thus sings:
 

The myrrh country.

“This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea.” —Wilford.

From Chindara's warbling fount I come,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.

36

Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
 

“A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing.” —Richardson.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly:—
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too.
Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;—
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.

37

And mine is the gentle song that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.
 

“The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree.” —See Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;

38

When Memory links the tone that is gone
With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on
To a note more heavenly still that is near.
 

“Whenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sounds, it is a perception of a complicated nature, made up of a sensation of the present sound or note, and an idea or remembrance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight, as neither could have produced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the succeeding notes. Thus Sense, Memory, and Imagination, are conjunctively employed.” —Gerrard on Taste.

This is exactly the Epicurean theory of Pleasure, as explained by Cicero:—“Quocirca corpus gaudere tamdiu, dum præsentem sentiret voluptatem: animum et præsentem percipere pariter cum corpore et prospicere venientem, nec præteritam præterfluere sinere.”

Madame de Staël accounts upon the same principle for the gratification we derive from rhyme:—“Elle est l'image de l'espérance et du souvenir. Un son nous fait désirer celui qui doit lui répondre, et quand le second retentit il nous rappelle celui qui vient de nous échapper.”

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath!
And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,
When Music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll.
So, hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
'Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn ,

39

As if the morn had wak'd, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And Nourmahal is up, and trying
The wonders of her lute, whose strings—
Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighing
From that ambrosial Spirit's wings.
And then, her voice—'tis more than human—
Never, till now, had it been given
To lips of any mortal woman
To utter notes so fresh from heaven;
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,
When angel sighs are most divine.—
“Oh! let it last till night,” she cries,
“And he is more than ever mine.”

40

And hourly she renews the lay,
So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness
Should, ere the evening, fade away,—
For things so heavenly have such fleetness!
But, far from fading, it but grows
Richer, diviner as it flows;
Till rapt she dwells on every string,
And pours again each sound along,
Like echo, lost and languishing,
In love with her own wondrous song.
 

“The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break. They account for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day-break. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain, and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning.” —Scott Waring. He thinks Milton may allude to this, when he says,—

“Ere the blabbing Eastern scout,
The nice morn on the Indian steep
From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.”

That evening, (trusting that his soul
Might be from haunting love releas'd
By mirth, by music, and the bowl,)
The' Imperial Selim held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar :—
In whose Saloons, when the first star

41

Of evening o'er the waters trembled,
The Valley's loveliest all assembled;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its founts and streams ;
And all those wandering minstrel-maids,
Who leave—how can they leave?—the shades
Of that dear Valley, and are found
Singing in gardens of the South

42

Those songs, that ne'er so sweetly sound
As from a young Cashmerian's mouth.
 

“In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back of the garden, and flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief beauty of the Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul Princes of India have displayed an equal magnificence and taste; especially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor Mahl, made Kashmire his usual residence during the summer months. On arches thrown over the canal are erected, at equal distances, four or five suites of apartments, each consisting of a saloon, with four rooms at the angles, where the followers of the court attend, and the servants prepare sherbets, coffee, and the hookah. The frame of the doors of the principal saloon is composed of pieces of a stone of a black colour, streaked with yellow lines, and of a closer grain and higher polish than porphyry. They were taken, it is said, from a Hindoo temple, by one of the Mogul princes, and are esteemed of great value.” —Forster.

“The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to them.” —Ali Yezdi.

“From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of India.” —Persian Miscellanies.

There, too, the Haram's inmates smile;—
Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,
And from the Garden of the Nile,
Delicate as the roses there ;—
Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks,
With Paphian diamonds in their locks ;—
Light Peri forms, such as there are
On the gold meads of Candahar ;
And they, before whose sleepy eyes,
In their own bright Kathaian bowers,
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,
That they might fancy the rich flowers,

43

That round them in the sun lay sighing,
Had been by magic all set flying.
 

“The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the Emperor of Marocco's palace), are unequalled, and matrasses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon.” —Jackson.

“On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamond.” —Mariti.

“There is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land.” —Thevenot. In some of those countries to the north of India vegetable gold is supposed to be produced.

“These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colours, and are so variegated, that they may be called flying flowers; and indeed they are always produced in the finest flower-gardens.” —Dunn.

Every thing young, every thing fair
From East and West is blushing there,
Except—except—oh, Nourmahal!
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,
The one, whose smile shone out alone,
Amidst a world the only one;
Whose light, among so many lights,
Was like that star on starry nights,
The seaman singles from the sky,
To steer his bark for ever by!
Thou wert not there—so Selim thought,
And every thing seem'd drear without thee;
But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought
Thy charm of song all fresh about thee.
Mingling unnotic'd with a band
Of lutanists from many a land,

44

And veil'd by such a mask as shades
The features of young Arab maids ,—
A mask that leaves but one eye free,
To do its best in witchery,—
She rov'd, with beating heart, around,
And waited, trembling, for the minute,
When she might try if still the sound
Of her lov'd lute had magic in it.
 

“The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily ordered.” —Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation.

The board was spread with fruits and wine;
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On Casbin's hills ;—pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears,
And sunniest apples that Caubul
In all its thousand gardens bears;—

45

Plantains, the golden and the green,
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of Samarcand,
And Basra dates, and apricots,
Seed of the Sun , from Iran's land;—
With rich conserve of Visna cherries ,
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells.
All these in richest vases smile,
In baskets of pure santal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,

46

Whence oft the lucky diver brings
Vases to grace the halls of kings.
Wines, too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw;
Amber Rosolli ,—the bright dew
From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing ;
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran
As if that jewel, large and rare,
The ruby for which Kublai-Khan
Offer'd a city's wealth , was blushing
Melted within the goblets there!
 

“The golden grapes of Casbin.” —Description of Persia.

“The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, pomegranates,” &c. —Elphinstone.

“We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account: that city and its 100,000 gardens,” &c. —Id.

“The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; the pride of the Malay islands.” —Marsden.

“A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokmek-shems, signifying sun's seed.” —Description of Persia.

“Sweetmeats, in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with lemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers,” &c. —Russell.

“Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac.” —The Moallakat, Poem of Tarafa.

“Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan. See Kempfer.

Persian Tales.

The white wine of Kishma.

“The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for it, but the King answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world.” —Marco Polo.

And amply Selim quaffs of each,
And seems resolv'd the flood shall reach
His inward heart,—shedding around
A genial deluge, as they run,
That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd,
For Love to rest his wings upon.

47

He little knew how well the boy
Can float upon a goblet's streams,
Lighting them with his smile of joy;—
As bards have seen him in their dreams,
Down the blue Ganges laughing glide
Upon a rosy lotus wreath ,
Catching new lustre from the tide
That with his image shone beneath.
 

The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges on the Nymphæa Nelumbo. —See Pennant.

But what are cups, without the aid
Of song to speed them as they flow?
And see—a lovely Georgian maid,
With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow
Of her own country maidens' looks,
When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks ;
And with an eye, whose restless ray,
Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows
His heart is weak, of Heav'n should pray
To guard him from such eyes as those!—

48

With a voluptuous wildness flings
Her snowy hand across the strings
Of a syrinda , and thus sings:—
 

Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths. —See Ebn Haukal.

“The Indian Syrinda, or guitar.” —Symez.

Come hither, come hither—by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ;

49

And precious their tears as that rain from the sky ,
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,
And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow'd by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above,
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.
And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?
For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
 

“Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white marble—‘If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.’” —Franklin.

“Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain-tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil.” —Song of Jayadeva.

“The Nisan or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells.” —Richardson.

For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, see Mariti.


50

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,
When the same measure, sound for sound,
Was caught up by another lute,
And so divinely breathed around,
That all stood hush'd and wondering,
And turn'd and look'd into the air,
As if they thought to see the wing
Of Israfil , the Angel, there;—
So powerfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float
Along its chords, and so entwine
Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether
The voice or lute was most divine,
So wondrously they went together:—
 

The Angel of Music. See note, Vol. VI. p. 302.

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!

51

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As Music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
“It is the mask'd Arabian maid!”
While Selim, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o'er,
Too inly touch'd for utterance,
Now motion'd with his hand for more:—
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

52

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come—thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestin'd to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

53

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath'd and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years.
Then fly with me,—if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place;—
Then, fare thee well—I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake

54

When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
 

The Hudhud, or Lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.

There was a pathos in this lay,
That, ev'n without enchantment's art,
Would instantly have found its way
Deep into Selim's burning heart;
But, breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music's Spirit,—'twas too much!
Starting, he dash'd away the cup,—
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if 'twere fix'd by magic there,—
And naming her, so long unnam'd,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd,
“Oh Nourmahal! oh Nourmahal!
“Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,
“I could forget—forgive thee all,
“And never leave those eyes again.”

55

The mask is off—the charm is wrought—
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light!
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance
The charm of every brighten'd glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile:
And, happier now for all her sighs,
As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him, with laughing eyes,
“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!”

57

POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.


73

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. P*RC*V*L.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had err'd,
And wept for the husband, the father, and friend.
Oh, proud was the meed his integrity won,
And gen'rous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When, in grief, we forgot all the ill he had done,
And, though wrong'd by him, living, bewail'd him, when dead.
Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude,
'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was—and, content to be good,
Had ne'er, for our ruin, aspired to be great.

74

So, left through their own little orbit to move,
His years might have roll'd inoffensive away;
His children might still have been bless'd with his love,
And England would ne'er have been cursed with his sway.

75

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

[_]
To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle.

Sir,

In order to explain the following Fragment, it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, “Fum, The Chinese Bird of Royalty,” is a principal ornament.

I am, Sir, yours, &c. Mum.
One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, Fum,
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, Hum,
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)
Where Fum had just come to pay Hum a short visit.—
Near akin are these Birds, though they differ in nation
(The breed of the Hums is as old as creation);

76

Both, full-craw'd Legitimates—both, birds of prey,
Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way
'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord C*stl---gh.
While Fum deals in Mandarins, Bonzes, Bohea,
Peers, Bishops, and Punch, Hum, are sacred to thee!
So congenial their tastes, that, when Fum first did light on
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,
The lanterns, and dragons, and things round the dome
Were so like what he left, “Gad,” says Fum, “I'm at home.”—
And when, turning, he saw Bishop L---ge, “Zooks, it is,”
Quoth the Bird, “Yes—I know him—a Bonze, by his phyz—
“And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low
“Can be none but our round-about godhead, fat Fo!”
It chanced at this moment, th' Episcopal Prig
Was imploring the P---e to dispense with his wig ,

77

Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head,
And some Tobit-like marks of his patronage shed,
Which so dimm'd the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye,
That, while Fum cried “Oh Fo!” all the court cried “Oh fie!”
But, a truce to digression;—these Birds of a feather
Thus talk'd, t'other night, on State matters together;
(The P---e just in bed, or about to depart for't,
His legs full of gout, and his arms full of H*rtf---d,)
“I say, Hum,” says Fum—Fum, of course, spoke Chinese,
But, bless you, that's nothing—at Brighton one sees
Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease—
“I say, Hum, how fares it with Royalty now?
“Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney—or how?”
(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree
Under B---rr---m---re, Y---th, and young Master L---e)
“As for us in Pekin”—here, a dev'l of a din
From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin,

78

C*stl---gh (whom Fum calls the Confusius of Prose),
Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose
To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.
(Nota bene—his Lordship and L*v*rp---l come,
In collateral lines, from the old Mother Hum,
C*stl---gh a Hum-bug—L*v*rp---l a Hum-drum.)
The Speech being finish'd, out rush'd C*stl---gh,
Saddled Hum in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away,
Through the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,
Ne'er paused, till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.
[OMITTED]
 

In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his R---l H---ss.


79

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SH*R*D*N.

Principibus placuisse viris! —Horat.

Yes, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those,
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career,
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—
Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave;—
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
Like the Ghole of the East, comes to feed at his grave.
Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;

80

To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died—friendless and lorn!
How proud they can press to the fun'ral array
Of one, whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sorrow:—
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day,
Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!
And Thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass'd,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam,
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:—
No, not for the wealth of the land, that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;—
No, not for the riches of all who despise thee,
Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;—
Would I suffer what—ev'n in the heart that thou hast—
All mean as it is—must have consciously burn'd,

81

When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,
And which found all his wants at an end, was return'd!
“Was this then the fate,”—future ages will say,
When some names shall live but in history's curse;
When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day
Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse;—
“Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
“The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,
“The orator,—dramatist,—minstrel,—who ran
“Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all;—
“Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art
“From the finest and best of all other men's powers;—
“Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
“And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers;—

82

“Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light,
“Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd;—
“Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,
“Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—
“Whose eloquence—bright'ning whatever it tried,
“Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,—
“Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide,
“As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!”
Yes—such was the man, and so wretched his fate;—
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.
In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ;
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die!
 

The sum was two hundred pounds—offered when Sh*r*d*n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.

Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them. —History of Poland.


83

EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN

CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.

“Ahi, mio Ben!” Metastasio.

What! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown?
Is this the new go?—kick a man when he's down!
When the foe has knock'd under, to tread on him then—
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben!
“Foul! foul!” all the lads of the Fancy exclaim—
Charley Shock is electrified—Belcher spits flame—
And Molyneux—ay, even Blacky cries “shame!”

84

Time was, when John Bull little difference spied
'Twixt the foe at his feet, and the friend at his side:
When he found (such his humour in fighting and eating)
His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating.
But this comes, Master Ben, of your curst foreign notions,
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions;
Your Noyaus, Curaçoas, and the Devil knows what—
(One swig of Blue Ruin is worth the whole lot!)
Your great and small crosses—(my eyes, what a brood!
A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good!)
Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise,
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus;
And (as Jim says) the only one trick, good or bad,
Of the Fancy you're up to, is fibbing, my lad.
Hence it comes,—Boxiana, disgrace to thy page!—
Having floor'd, by good luck, the first swell of the age!—
Having floor'd, by good luck, the first swell of the age,

85

Having conquer'd the prime one, that mill'd us all round,
You kick'd him, old Ben, as he gasp'd on the ground!
Ay—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any—
Kick'd him, and jaw'd him, and lag'd him to Botany!
Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger! you, who, alas,
Doubled up, by the dozen, those Mounseers in brass,
On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes,
When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes,
Look down upon Ben—see him, dunghill all o'er,
Insult the fall'n foe, that can harm him no more!
Out, cowardly spooney!—again and again,
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben.
To show the white feather is many men's doom,
But, what of one feather?—Ben shows a whole Plume.
 

A nickname given, at this time, to the Pr---ce R*g---t.

Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St.Helena.

Tom, I suppose, was “assisted” to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.

Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.

Gin.

Transported.

A Life Guardsman, one of the Fancy, who distinguished himself, and was killed in the memorable set-to at Waterloo.


87

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento. Castiglione.

89

LETTER I. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ---, OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.
Dear Doll, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,
The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,
Into very bad French is, as usual, translating
His English resolve not to give a sou more,
I sit down to write you a line—only think!—
A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,
How delightful! though, would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;

94

No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,
But the corn-fields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!
In vain, at Dessein's, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, Sterne, and fall reading “The Monk;”
In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,
And remember the crust and the wallet—alas!
No monks can be had now for love or for money,
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel Boney;)
And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!
By the by, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling Dixhuit
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet ,
(Modell'd out so exactly, and—God bless the mark!
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarque),

95

He exclaim'd, “Oh, mon Roi!” and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot—while some Jacobin, nigh,
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
“Ma foi, he be right—'tis de Englishman's King;
And dat gros pied de cochon—begar, me vil say
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn'd toder way.”
There's the pillar, too—Lord! I had nearly forgot—
What a charming idea!—rais'd close to the spot;
The mode being now, (as you've heard, I suppose,)
To build tombs over legs , and raise pillars to toes.
This is all that's occurr'd sentimental as yet;
Except, indeed, some little flow'r-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flow'rs in your path, and then—bawling for sous!
And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recall the good days of the ancien regime,
All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin as they were in the time of dear Sterne.

96

Our party consists (in a neat Calais job)
Of Papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob.
You remember how sheepish Bob look'd at Kilrandy,
But, Lord! he's quite alter'd—they've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With heads, so immovably stuck in shirt-collars,
That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them,
To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round them.
In short, dear, “a Dandy” describes what I mean,
And Bob's far the best of the genus I've seen:
An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes,
Whose names—think, how quick! he already knows pat,
À la braise, petits pâtés, and—what d'ye call that

97

They inflict on potatoes?—oh! maitre d' hôtel
I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well
As if nothing else all his life he had eat,
Though a bit of them Bobby has never touch'd yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.
As to Pa, what d'ye think?—mind, it's all entre nous,
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you—
Why, he's writing a book—what! a tale? a romance?
No, ye Gods, would it were!—but his Travels in France;
At the special desire (he let out t'other day)
Of his great friend and patron, my Lord C*stl*r---gh,
Who said, “My dear Fudge”—I forget th' exact words,
And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's;
But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,
To expound to the world the new—thingummie—science,
Found out by the—what's-its-name—Holy Alliance,
And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,
Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, Dolly),

98

“There's none,” said his Lordship, “if I may be judge,
Half so fit for this great undertaking as Fudge!”
The matter's soon settled—Pa flies to the Row
(The first stage your tourists now usually go),
Settles all for his quarto—advertisements, praises—
Starts post from the door, with his tablets—French phrases—
Scott's Visit,” of course—in short, ev'ry thing he has
An author can want, except words and ideas:—
And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,
Is Phil. Fudge at the front of a Quarto, my dear!
But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better
Draw fast to a close:—this exceeding long letter
You owe to a déjeûner à la fourchette,
Which Bobby would have, and is hard at it yet.—
What's next? oh, the tutor, the last of the party,
Young Connor:—they say he's so like Bonaparte,
His nose and his chin—which Papa rather dreads,
As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads

99

That resemble old Nap's, and who knows but their honours
May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor Connor's?
Au reste (as we say), the young lad's well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way—poor as Job
(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to Bob;—
Entre nous, too, a Papist—how lib'ral of Pa!
This is all, dear,—forgive me for breaking off thus,
But Bob's déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.
B. F.

P. S.

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop
Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop;
And my début in Paris, I blush to think on it,
Must now, Doll, be made in a hideous low bonnet.
But Paris, dear Paris!—oh, there will be joy,
And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le Roi!
 

To commemorate the landing of Louis le Desiré from England, the impression of his foot is marked out on the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot.

Ci-git la jambe de, &c. &c.

A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.


100

LETTER II. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C*ST---R---GH.

Paris.
At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
“Demoraliz'd” metropolis;
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turn'd quite topsy turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
“Stood prostrate” at the people's feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)
The level of obedience slopes
Upward and downward, as the stream
Of hydra faction kicks the beam!

101

Where the poor Palace changes masters
Quicker than a snake its skin,
And Louis is roll'd out on castors,
While Boney's borne on shoulders in:—
But where, in every change, no doubt,
One special good your Lordship traces,—
That 'tis the Kings alone turn out,
The Ministers still keep their places.
How oft, dear Viscount C---gh,
I've thought of thee upon the way,
As in my job (what place could be
More apt to wake a thought of thee?)—
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting
Upon my dicky, (as is fitting
For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see,)
I've thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings, and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown
And spread, beyond man's usual share,
At home, abroad, till thou art known,
Like Major Semple, every where!

102

And marv'lling with what pow'rs of breath
Your Lordship, having speech'd to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speech'd to Sovereigns' ears,—and when
All Sovereigns else were doz'd, at last
Speech'd down the Sovereign of Belfast.
Oh! mid the praises and the trophies
Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis;
Mid all the tributes to thy fame,
There's one thou should'st be chiefly pleas'd at—
That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,
And C---gh's the thing now sneez'd at!
But hold, my pen!—a truce to praising—
Though ev'n your Lordship will allow
The theme's temptations are amazing;
But time and ink run short, and now,

103

(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher
In these gay metaphoric fringes,
I must embark into the feature
On which this letter chiefly hinges ;—
My Book, the Book that is to prove—
And will, (so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labours of the Fudges!)
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant;
That Europe—thanks to royal swords
And bay'nets, and the Duke commanding—
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,
Passeth all human understanding:
That France prefers her go-cart King
To such a coward scamp as Boney;
Though round, with each a leading-string,
There standeth many a Royal crony,
For fear the chubby, tottering thing
Should fall, if left there loney-poney;—
That England, too, the more her debts,
The more she spends, the richer gets;

104

And that the Irish, grateful nation!
Remember when by thee reign'd over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As Heloisa did her lover! —
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch
Upon the side-board, snug reposes:
While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,
And Norway “on a bed of roses!”
That, as for some few million souls,
Transferr'd by contract, bless the clods!
If half were strangled—Spaniards, Poles,
And Frenchmen—'twouldn't make much odds,
So Europe's goodly Royal ones
Sit easy on their sacred thrones;
So Ferdinand embroiders gaily ,
And Louis eats his salmi , daily;

105

So time is left to Emperor Sandy
To be half Cæsar and half Dandy;
And G---ge the R*g---t (who'd forget
That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,
For dragons, after Chinese models,
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo
Might come and nine times knock their noddles!—
All this my Quarto 'll prove—much more
Than Quarto ever proved before:—
In reas'ning with the Post I'll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes V---ns---t, P---le my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!
My Journal, penn'd by fits and starts,
On Biddy's back or Bobby's shoulder,
(My son, my Lord, a youth of parts,
Who longs to be a small place-holder,)
Is—though I say't, that shouldn't say—
Extremely good; and, by the way,
One extract from it—only one—
To show its spirit, and I've done.

106

Jul. thirty-first.—Went, after snack,
“To the Cathedral of St. Denny;
“Sigh'd o'er the Kings of ages back,
“And—gave the old Concierge a penny.
“(Mem.—Must see Rheims, much fam'd, 'tis said,
“For making Kings and gingerbread.)
“Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
“A little Bourbon, buried lately,
“Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
“Though only twenty-four hours old!
“Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins:
“Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!
“If Royalty, but aged a day,
“Can boast such high and puissant sway,
“What impious hand its pow'r would fix,
“Full fledg'd and wigg'd at fifty-six!”
The argument's quite new, you see,
And proves exactly Q. E. D.

107

So now, with duty to the R*g---t,
I am, dear Lord,
Your most obedient,
P. F.
Hôtel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.
Neat lodgings—rather dear for me;
But Biddy said she thought 'twould look
Genteeler thus to date my Book;
And Biddy's right—besides, it curries
Some favour with our friends at Murray's,
Who scorn what any man can say,
That dates from Rue St. Honoré!
 

This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B---, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, “He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and,” &c. &c.

The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom his Lordship (with the “studium immane loquendi” attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother, Lord S., proposed the health of “The best cavalry officer in Europe—the Regent!”

Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's Speeches— “And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges.”

See her Letters.

It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the P---e R---t!

Οψα τε, οια εδονσι διοτρεφεες βασιληες

Homer, Odyss. 3.

So described on the coffin: “très-haute et puissante Princesse, agée d'un jour.”

There is a fulness and breadth in this portrait of Royalty, which reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan's great qualities:—“nonne longè lateque Principem ostentant?”

See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816, where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book “in a back street of the French capital.”


108

LETTER III. FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ---, ESQ.

Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,
Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding;
And this is the place for it, Dicky, you dog,
Of all places on earth—the head-quarters of Prog!
Talk of England—her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte at old Véry's;
And as for your Juries—who would not set o'er 'em
A Jury of Tasters , with woodcocks before 'em?
Give Cartwright his Parliaments, fresh every year;
But those friends of short Commons would never do here;

109

And, let Romilly speak as he will on the question,
No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion!
By the by, Dick, I fatten—but n'importe for that,
'Tis the mode—your Legitimates always get fat.
There's the R*g---t, there's Louis—and Boney tried too,
But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do:—
He improv'd, indeed, much in this point, when he wed,
But he ne'er grew right royally fat in the head.
Dick, Dick, what a place is this Paris!—but stay—
As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a Day,
As we pass it, myself and some comrades I've got,
All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what.
After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne ,
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,

110

Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,
And the skaiters in winter show off on cream-ice;
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,
Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields;
Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,
And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!
I rise—put on neck-cloth—stiff, tight, as can be—
For a lad who goes into the world, Dick, like me,
Should have his neck tied up, you know—there's no doubt of it—
Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it.
With whiskers well oil'd, and with boots that “hold up
“The mirror to nature”—so bright you could sup
Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws
On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause!—

111

With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader,
And stays—devil's in them—too tight for a feeder,
I strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet
Beats the field at a déjeûner à la fourchette.
There, Dick, what a breakfast!—oh, not like your ghost
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast ;

112

But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about,
Like a Turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out
One's paté of larks, just to tune up the throat,
One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillote,
One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,
Or one's kidneys—imagine, Dick—done with champagne!
Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute—or, mayhap,
Chambertin , which you know's the pet tipple of Nap,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.—
Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then, Dick,'s
The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,

113

(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't,
I'd swallow ev'n W*tk*ns', for sake of the end on't,)
A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipp'd over one's lips.
This repast being ended, and paid for—(how odd!
Till a man's us'd to paying, there's something so queer in't!)—
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,
And the world enough air'd for us, Nobs, to appear in't,
We lounge up the Boulevards, where—oh, Dick, the phyzzes,
The turn-outs, we meet—what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.;
A lac'd hat, worsted stockings, and—noble old soul!
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our Pr---ce, who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without ev'n a court-martial, on hundreds.

114

Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye,
(Rather eatable things these grisettes by the by);
And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond,
In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.
There goes a French Dandy—ah, Dick! unlike some ones
We've seen about White's—the Mounseers are but rum ones;
Such hats!—fit for monkies—I'd back Mrs. Draper
To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper:
And coats—how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em,
They'd club for old Br*mm*l, from Calais, to dress 'em!
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,
That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lopping nation,
To leave there behind them a snug little place
For the head to drop into, on decapitation.
In short, what with mountebanks, counts, and friseurs,
Some mummers by trade, and the rest amateurs—

115

What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,
Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats,
And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches,
There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!
From the Boulevards—but hearken!—yes—as I'm a sinner,
The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner:
So no more at present—short time for adorning—
My Day must be finish'd some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old Beauvilliers' larder, my boy!
And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy
Were to write “Come and kiss me, dear Bob!” I'd not budge—
Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is
R. Fudge.
 

The Bill of Fare.—Véry, a well-known Restaurateur.

Mr. Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous Jury Dégustateur, which used to assemble at the Hotel of M. Grimod de la Reynière, and of which this modern Archestratus has given an account in his Almanach des Gourmands, cinquième, année, p. 78.

The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise; “Pais, où le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuites, et où, comme on parle, les alouèttes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquère.” —Duchat.

The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose is enlarged, in order to produce that richest of all dainties, the foie gras, of which such renowned patés are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse, is thus described in the Cours Gastronomique: —“On déplume l'estomac des oies; on attache ensuite ces animaux aux chenets d'une cheminée, et on les nourrit devant le feu. La captivité et la chaleur donnent à ces volatiles, une maladie hépatique, qui fait gonfler leur foie,” &c. p. 206.

Is Mr. Bob aware that his contempt for tea renders him liable to a charge of atheism? Such, at least, is the opinion cited in Christian, Falster. Amœnitat. Philolog.—“Atheum interpretabatur hominem ad herbâ The aversum.” He would not, I think, have been so irreverent to this beverage of scholars, if he had read Peter Petit's Poem in praise of Tea, addressed to the learned Huet—or the Epigraphe which Pechlinus wrote for an altar he meant to dedicate to this herb—or the Anacreontics of Peter Francius, in which he calls Tea

Θεαν, θεην, θεαιναν.

The following passage from one of these Anacreontics will, I have no doubt, be gratifying to all true Theists.

Θεοις, θεων τε πατρι,
Εν χρυσεοις σκυφοισι
Διδοι το νεκταρ Ηβη.
Σε μοι διακονοιντο
Σκυφοις εν μυρρινοισι,
Τω καλλει πρεπουσαι
Καλαις χερεσσι κουραι

Which may be thus translated:—

Yes, let Hebe, ever young,
High in heav'n her nectar hold,
And to Jove's immortal throng
Pour the tide in cups of gold—
I'll not envy heaven's Princes,
While, with snowy hands, for me,
Kate the china tea-cup rinses,
And pours out her best Bohea!

The favourite wine of Napoleon.

Velours en bouteille.

It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years ago, “Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers que tous les autres Rois de la Chrétienté ensemble.”—What would he say now?

A celebrated restaurateur.


116

LETTER IV. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ---.

Return!”—no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Ev'n in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscrib'd, and—like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there—
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!—let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors,
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:

117

Still let your [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Still hope and suffer, all who can!—but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
But whither?—every-where the scourge pursues—
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,
Countless reflections of th' Oppressor's face.
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Are serv'd up victims to the vile and few;
While E*gl---d, every where—the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow—
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.
Oh, E*gl---d! could such poor revenge atone
For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one;
Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate
The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,

118

To hear his curses on such barbarous sway
Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;—
Could this content him, every lip he meets
Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;
Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounc'd, but he doth banquet on thy shame;
Hears maledictions ring from every side
Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy, which to blast
A neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast;—
That monster, Self, too gross to be conceal'd,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffer'd shield;—
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'd,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, rav'ning flock, whose vampire wings
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promis'd good,
Of hope, of freedom—but to drain her blood!
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss
That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,

119

That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fall'n and tarnish'd thing thou art;
That, as the centaur gave th' infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast,
We sent thee C---gh:—as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breath'd out, thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste, and rot thee, soul and limb,
Her worst infections all condens'd in him! [OMITTED]
When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when
Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heav'n and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a Nero's mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;—
But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones

120

Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given—
Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!
When will this be?—or, oh! is it, in truth,
But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
'Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all resigned?—and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by Kings partition'd, truck'd, and weigh'd
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?
Who [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be God, that o'er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for Jove's!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks,

121

Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living Truth, that now must stagnate there!—
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight
For Liberty, which once awak'd my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder ev'n than He of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny.
Instead of him, th' Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd,
Welcome [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
And, 'stead of Aristides—woe the day
Such names should mingle!—welcome C---gh!
Here break we off, at this unhallow'd name
Like priests of old, when words ill-omen'd came.

122

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell,
Thoughts that [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Thoughts that—could patience hold—'twere wiser far
To leave still hid and burning where they are.
 

“They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,’ &c.) or the words—‘The memory of the desolation.’” —Leo of Modena.

I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.

------ Membra et Herculeos toros
Urit lues Nessea. ------
Ille, ille victor vincitur.

Senec. Hercul. Œt.

The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;—he held that every man with three names was a jacobin. His instances in Ireland were numerous:—viz. Archibald Hamilton Rowan, Theobald Wolfe Tone, James Napper Tandy, John Philpot Curran, &c. &c. and, in England, he produced as examples Charles James Fox, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, John Horne Tooke, Francis Burdett Jones, &c. &c.

The Romans called a thief “homo trium literarum.”

Tun' trium literarum homo
Me vituperas? Fur.
Plautus, Aulular. Act ii. Scene 4.

Dissaldeus supposes this word to be a glossema:—that is, he thinks “Fur” has made his escape from the margin into the text.


123

LETTER V. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ---.

What a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad, naughty girl—
For, though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;—
Yet ev'n (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!—there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words “superbe,” “magnifique,”
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd—I forget—à la—something which sounded
Like alicampane—but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame le Roi's:

124

What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the diff'rence, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyche and curls à la braise.—
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la Francaise,
With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimnies from smoking.
Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkies, and sights—
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the Opera—mercy, my ears!
Brother Bobby's remark, t'other night, was a true one;—
“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,
“For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!”

125

Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out
'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.—
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,
If, when of age, every man in the realm
Had a voice like old Laïs , and chose to make use of it!
No—never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
So bad too, you'd swear that the God of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!
But, the dancing—ah parlez-moi, Dolly, de ca
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

126

Such beauty—such grace—oh ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny Bias in Flora—dear creature!—you'd swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels
Her black flowing hair, and by dæmons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven?
Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,
So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh
To make love to me then—you've a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 'twould be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

127

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)
They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin
Quite charming—and very religious—what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly ;
And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime , bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions,

128

While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;—
Here Bégrand , who shines in this scriptural path,
As the lovely Susanna, without ev'n a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath
In a manner that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic!
But in short, dear, 'twould take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we're at, day and night;
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad
Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.
Last night, at the Beaujon , a place where—I doubt
If its charms I can paint—there are cars, that set out
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,
And rattle you down Doll—you hardly know where.

129

These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two.
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether
You'll venture down with him—you smile—'tis a match;
In an instant you're seated, and down both together
Go thund'ring, as if you went post to old scratch!
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd,
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,—
That there came up—imagine, dear Doll, if you can—
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man,
With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,
As Hyænas in love may be fancied to look, or
A something between Abelard and old Blucher!
Up he came, Doll, to me, and, uncovering his head,
(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,

130

“Ah! my dear—if Ma'mselle vil be so very good—
Just for von littel course”—though I scarce understood
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.
Off we set—and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether
My head or my heels were the uppermost then,
For 'twas like heav'n and earth, Dolly, coming together,—
Yet, spite of the danger, we dar'd it again.
And oh! as I gaz'd on the features and air
Of the man, who for me all this peril defied,
I could fancy almost he and I were a pair
Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side,
Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a
Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!
This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about,
Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd “magnifique!” at each cracker,

131

And, when 'twas all o'er, the dear man saw us out
With the air I will say, of a Prince, to our fiacre.
Now, hear me—this Stranger—it may be mere folly—
But who do you think we all think it is, Dolly?
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,
Who's here now incog. —he, who made such a fuss, you
Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,
When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off!
Pa says he's come here to look after his money,
(Not taking things now as he us'd under Boney,)
Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver receiv'd at the door.
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)

132

Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Us'd three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declar'd that such grief
Should—unless 'twould to utter despairing its folly push—
Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief
By rattling, as Bob says, “like shot through a holly-bush.”
I must now bid adieu;—only think, Dolly, think
If this should be the King—I have scarce slept a wink
With imagining how it will sound in the papers,
And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,
When they read that Count Ruppin, to drive away vapours,
Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.
Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he—
For he knows the Legitimate cut, and could see,
In the way he went poising and manag'd to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.
 

The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera.

The Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin, which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.—A few days after this dreadful fire, which lasted more than a week, and in which several persons perished, the Parisian élégantes displayed flame-coloured dresses, “couleur de feu d'Opéra!” —Dulaure, Curiosités de Paris.

“The Old Testament,” says the theatrical Critic in the Gazette de France, “is a mine of gold for the managers of our small play-houses. A multitude crowd round the Théâtre de la Gaieté every evening to see the Passage of the Red Sea.”

In the play-bill of one of these sacred melo-drames at Vienna, we find “The Voice of G*d, by M. Schwartz.”

A piece very popular last year, called “Daniel, ou La Fosse aux Lions.” The following scene will give an idea of the daring sublimity of these scriptural pantomimes. “Scene 20.—La fournaise devient un berceau de nuages azurés, au fond duquel est un grouppe de nuages plus lumineux, et au milieu ‘Jehovah’ au centre d'un cercle de rayons brillans, qui annonce la présence de l'Éternel.”

Madame Bégrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in “Susanna and the Elders,”—“L'Amour et la Folie,” &c. &c

The Promenades Aëriennes, or French Mountains.— See a description of this singular and fantastic place of amusement in a pamphlet, truly worthy of it, by “F. F. Cotterel. Médecin, Docteur de la Faculté de Paris,” &c. &c.

According to Dr. Cotterel the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour.

In the Café attached to these gardens there are to be (as Doctor Cotterel informs us) “douze nègres, très-alertes, qui contrasteront par l'ébène de leur peau avec le teint de lis et de roses de nos belles. Les glaces et les sorbets, servis par une main bien noire, fera davantage ressortir l'albâtre des bras arrondis de celles-ci.”—P. 22.

His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling name of Count Ruppin, is known to have gone down the Beaujon very frequently.


133

LETTER VI. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO HIS BROTHER TIM FUDGE, ESQ. BARRISTER AT LAW.

Yours of the 12th receiv'd just now—
Thanks for the hint, my trusty brother!
'Tis truly pleasing to see how
We, Fudges, stand by one another.
But never fear—I know my chap,
And he knows me too—verbum sap.
My Lord and I are kindred spirits,
Like in our ways as two young ferrets;
Both fashion'd, as that supple race is,
To twist into all sorts of places;—
Creatures lengthy, lean, and hungering,
Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.
As to my Book in 91,
Call'd “Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?”

134

Bless you, the Book's long dead and gone,—
Not ev'n th' Attorney-General bought it.
And, though some few seditious tricks
I play'd in 95 and 6,
As you remind me in your letter,
His Lordship likes me all the better;—
We proselytes, that come with news full,
Are, as he says, so vastly useful!
Reynolds and I—(you know Tom Reynolds
Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise—
Lucky the dog that first unkennels
Traitors and Luddites now-a-days;
Or who can help to bag a few,
When S---d---th wants a death or two;)
Reynolds and I, and some few more,
All men, like us, of information,
Friends, whom his Lordship keeps in store,
As under-saviours of the nation—
Have form'd a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,

135

And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King Midas,
Who, though in fable typified as
A royal Ass, by grace divine
And right of ears, most asinine,
Was yet no more, in fact historical,
Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;
And these, his ears, but allegorical,
Meaning Informers, kept at high rent —
Gem'men, who touch'd the Treasury glisteners,
Like us, for being trusty listeners;
And picking up each tale and fragment,
For royal Midas's Green Bag meant.
“And wherefore,” said this best of Peers,
“Should not the R*g---t too have ears ,

136

“To reach as far, as long and wide as
“Those of his model, good King Midas?”
This speech was thought extremely good,
And (rare for him) was understood—
Instant we drank “The R*g---t's Ears,”
With three times three illustrious cheers,
Which made the room resound like thunder—
“The R*g---t's Ears, and may he ne'er
“From foolish shame, like Midas, wear
“Old paltry wigs to keep them under!”
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,
Made us as merry all as grigs.
In short (I'll thank you not to mention
These things again), we get on gaily;
And, thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.

137

Castles, and Oliver, and such,
Who don't as yet full salary touch,
Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy
Houses and lands, like Tom and I,
Of course don't rank with us, salvators ,
But merely serve the Club as waiters.
Like Knights, too, we've our collar days,
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,)
When, in our new costume adorn'd,—
The R*g---t's buff-and-blue coats turn'd
We have the honour to give dinners
To the chief Rats in upper stations ;
Your W---ys, V---ns,—half-fledg'd sinners,
Who shame us by their imitations;
Who turn, 'tis true—but what of that?
Give me the useful peaching Rat;
Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,
Whose wooden heads are all they've brought;
Who, false enough to shirk their friends,
But too faint-hearted to betray,

138

Are, after all their twists and bends,
But souls in Limbo, damn'd half way.
No, no, we nobler vermin are
A genus useful as we're rare;
'Midst all the things miraculous
Of which your natural histories brag,
The rarest must be Rats like us,
Who let the cat out of the bag.
Yet still these Tyros in the cause
Deserve, I own, no small applause;
And they're by us receiv'd and treated
With all due honours—only seated
In th' inverse scale of their reward,
The merely promis'd next my Lord;
Small pensions then, and so on, down,
Rat after rat, they graduate
Through job, red ribbon, and silk gown,
To Chanc'llorship and Marquisate.
This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;
The less the bribe the more the merit.
Our music's good, you may be sure;
My Lord, you know, 's an amateur —

139

Takes every part with perfect ease,
Though to the Base by nature suited;
And, form'd for all, as best may please,
For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,
Turns from his victims to his glees,
And has them both well executed.
H---t---d, who, tho' no Rat himself,
Delights in all such liberal arts,
Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,
And superintends the Corni parts.
While C*nn---g , who'd be first by choice,
Consents to take an under voice;

140

And Gr*v*s , who well that signal knows,
Watches the Volti Subitos.
In short, as I've already hinted,
We take, of late, prodigiously;
But as our Club is somewhat stinted
For Gentlemen, like Tom and me,
We'll take it kind if you'll provide
A few Squireens from 'tother side;—
Some of those loyal, cunning elves
(We often tell the tale with laughter),
Who us'd to hide the pikes themselves,
Then hang the fools who found them after.
I doubt not you could find us, too,
Some Orange Parsons that might do;
Among the rest, we've heard of one,
The Reverend—something—Hamilton,
Who stuff'd a figure of himself
(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,

141

To bring some Papists to the shelf,
That couldn't otherwise be got at—
If he'll but join the Association,
We'll vote him in by acclamation.
And now, my brother, guide, and friend,
This somewhat tedious crawl must end.
I've gone into this long detail,
Because I saw your nerves were shaken
With anxious fears lest I should fail
In this new, loyal, course I've taken.
But, bless your heart! you need not doubt—
We, Fudges, know what we're about.
Look round, and say if you can see
A much more thriving family.
There's Jack, the Doctor—night and day
Hundreds of patients so besiege him,
You'd swear that all the rich and gay
Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.
And while they think, the precious ninnies,
He's counting o'er their pulse so steady,
The rogue but counts how many guineas
He's fobb'd, for that day's work, already.

142

I'll ne'er forget th' old maid's alarm,
When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he
Said, as he dropp'd her shrivell'd arm,
“Damn'd bad this morning—only thirty!”
Your dowagers, too, every one,
So gen'rous are, when they call him in,
That he might now retire upon
The rheumatisms of three old women.
Then, whatsoe'er your ailments are,
He can so learnedly explain ye 'em—
Your cold, of course, is a catarrh,
Your headach is a hemi-cranium:—
His skill, too, in young ladies' lungs,
The grace with which, most mild of men,
He begs them to put out their tongues,
Then bids them—put them in again:
In short, there's nothing now like Jack!—
Take all your doctors great and small,
Of present times and ages back,
Dear Doctor Fudge is worth them all.
So much for physic—then, in law too,
Counsellor Tim, to thee we bow;

143

Not one of us gives more eclat to
Th' immortal name of Fudge than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art
With which you play'd the patriot's part,
Till something good and snug should offer;—
Like one, who, by the way he acts
Th' enlight'ning part of candle-snuffer,
The manager's keen eye attracts,
And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my Tim!—
Who shall describe thy pow'rs of face,
Thy well-fee'd zeal in every case,
Or wrong or right—but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former—
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight
In puzzling all that's clear and right,
Which, though conspicuous in thy youth,
Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride's to waylay Truth,
And leave her not a leg to stand on.
Thy patent, prime, morality,—
Thy cases, cited from the Bible—
Thy candour, when it falls to thee
To help in trouncing for a libel;—

144

“God knows, I, from my soul, profess
“To hate all bigots and benighters!
“God knows, I love, to ev'n excess,
“The sacred Freedom of the Press,
“My only aim's to—crush the writers.”
These are the virtues, Tim, that draw
The briefs into thy bag so fast;
And these, oh Tim—if Law be Law—
Will raise thee to the Bench at last.
I blush to see this letter's length—
But 'twas my wish to prove to thee
How full of hope, and wealth, and strength,
Are all our precious family.
And, should affairs go on as pleasant
As, thank the Fates, they do at present—
Should we but still enjoy the sway
Of S---dm---h and of C---gh,
I hope, ere long, to see the day
When England's wisest statesmen, judges,
Lawyers, peers, will all be—Fudges!
Good-bye—my paper's out so nearly,
I've only room for
Yours sincerely.
 

Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.

This interpretation of the fable of Midas's ears seems the most probable of any, and is thus stated in Hoffmann:— “Hâc allegoriâ significatum, Midam, utpote tynannum, subauscultatores dimittere solitum, per quos, quæcunque per omnem regionem vel fierent, vel dicerentur, cognosceret, nimirum illis utens aurium vice.”

Brossette, in a note on this line of Boileau,

“Midas, le Roi Midas, a des oreilles d'Ane,”
tells us, that “M. Perrault le Médecin voulut faire à notre auteur un crime d'état de ce vers, comme d'une maligne allusion au Roi.” I trust, however, that no one will suspect the line in the text of any such indecorous allusion.

It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavoured to conceal these appendages:

Tempora purpureis tentat velare tiaris.

Ovid.

The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the P---e R*g---t together.

Mr. Fudge and his friends ought to go by this name— as the man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was ever after called Salvator Rosa.

This intimacy between the Rats and Informers is just as it should be—“verè dulce sodalitium.”

His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial career, took lessons three times a week from a celebrated music-master, in glee-singing.

How amply these two propensities of the Noble Lord would have been gratified among that ancient people of Etruria, who, as Aristotle tells us, used to whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes!

This Right Hon. Gentleman ought to give up his present alliance with Lord C., if upon no other principle than that which is inculcated in the following arrangement between two Ladies of Fashion:—

Says Clarinda, “though tears it may cost,
It is time we should part, my dear Sue;
For your character's totally lost,
And I have not sufficient for two!”

The rapidity of this Noble Lord's transformation, at the same instant, into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous.

Turn instantly—a frequent direction in music-books.

The Irish diminutive of Squire.


145

LETTER VII. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ------.

Before we sketch the Present—let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.
When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;—
When, loos'd, as if by magic, from a chain
That seem'd like Fate's, the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;—
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sigh'd for justice—liberty—repose,
And hop'd the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;—Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And Man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,

146

And heard, like accents thaw'd in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!
Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heav'n look'd on,—
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush, and deviate into right at last?
But no—the hearts, that nurs'd a hope so fair,
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,
The only quite untameable are Kings!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And “Rapine! rapine!” was the cry again.
How quick they carv'd their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injur'd Genoa tell;—
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truck'd away,—

147

The million souls that, in the face of heaven,
Were split to fractions , barter'd, sold, or given
To swell some despot Power, too huge before,
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.
How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;—
Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;—
Her Press enthrall'd—her Reason mock'd again
With all the monkery it had spurn'd in vain;
Her crown disgrac'd by one, who dar'd to own
He thank'd not France but England for his throne;
Her triumphs cast into the shade by those,
Who had grown old among her bitterest foes,
And now return'd, beneath her conquerors' shields,
Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields;
To tread down every trophy of her fame,
And curse that glory which to them was shame!—
Let these—let all the damning deeds, that then
Were dar'd through Europe, cry aloud to men,

148

With voice like that of crashing ice that rings
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;
And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,
Then, and then only, monarchs may be trusted.
It could not last—these horrors could not last—
France would herself have ris'n, in might, to cast
Th' insulters off—and oh! that then, as now,
Chain'd to some distant islet's rocky brow,
Napoleon ne'er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matur'd, a cause so proudly bright;—
To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,
And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;—
To rush into the lists, unask'd, alone,
And make the stake of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what power
A people can put forth in Freedom's hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have blaz'd;—
For every single sword, reluctant rais'd

149

In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leap'd forth in her own;
And never, never had th' unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgrac'd her shores again.
But fate decreed not so—th' Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighbouring cage, unfear'd, unstirr'd,
Had seem'd to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watch'd the moment for a daring spring;—
Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made
His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world, thus trampled o'er
By clumsy tyrants, would be his once more:—
Forth from his cage the eagle burst to light,
From steeple on to steeple wing'd his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his ærie, furl'd
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

150

What was your fury then, ye crown'd array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday
Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,
By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!
Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,—
“Assassinate, who will—enchain, who can,
“The vile, the faithless, outlaw'd, low-born man!”
“Faithless!”—and this from you—from you, forsooth,
Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,
Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;
Whose true Swiss zeal had serv'd on every side;
Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,
Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,
And lash your lordly tails, and fume to see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!
Yes—yes—to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong.—
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and “outlaw” is the cry!
What, though long years of mutual treachery

151

Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murder'd 'mong yourselves;
Though each by turns was knave and dupe—what then?
A Holy League would set all straight again;
Like Juno's virtue, which a dip or two
In some bless'd fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia—faithful to whoe'er
Could plunder best, and give him amplest share;
Who, ev'n when vanquish'd, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends ,
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stript of all, then fleec'd relations!
Most mild and saintly Prussia—steep'd to th' ears
In persecuted Poland's blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O'er sever'd Saxony's devoted head!
Pure Austria too—whose hist'ry nought repeats
But broken leagues and subsidiz'd defeats;

152

Whose faith, as Prince, extinguish'd Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widow'd daughter knows!
And thou, oh England—who, though once as shy
As cloister'd maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to C---gh,
In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!
Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits
Th' escape from Elba frighten'd into fits;—
Such were the saints, who doom'd Napoleon's life,
In virtuous frenzy, to th' assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-fac'd tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnish'd villanies;—
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honour, when they've stain'd them most;
From whose affection men should shrink as loath
As from their hate, for they'll be fleec'd by both;
Who, ev'n while plund'ring, forge Religion's name
To frank their spoil, and, without fear or shame,

153

Call down the Holy Trinity to bless
Partition leagues, and deeds of devilishness!
But hold—enough—soon would this swell of rage
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;—
So, here I pause—farewell—another day,
Return we to those Lords of pray'r and prey,
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine
Deserve a lash—oh! weightier far than mine!
 

“Whilst the Congress was re-constructing Europe—not according to rights, natural affiances, language, habits, or laws; but by tables of finance, which divided and subdivided her population into souls, demi-souls, and even fractions, according to a scale of the direct duties or taxes, which could be levied by the acquiring state,” &c. —Sketch of the Military and Political Power of Russia. The words on the protocol are ames, demi-ames, &c.

“L'aigle volera de clocher en clocher, jusqu'aux tours de Notre-Dame.”—Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.

Singulis annis in quodam Atticæ fonte lota virginitatem recuperâsse fingitur.

At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory.

The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.

The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn “thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles;” and commanded that each of them should “swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!”


154

LETTER VIII. FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ---, ESQ.

Dear Dick, while old Donaldson's mending my stays,—
Which I knew would go smash with me one of these days,
And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle,
We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle
Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back
Just to order another, by Jove I went crack!—
Or, as honest Tom said, in his nautical phrase,
“D---n my eyes, Bob, in doubling the Cape you've miss'd stays.”
So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them,
They're now at the Schneider's —and, while he's about them,

155

Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop.
Let us see—in my last I was—where did I stop?
Oh, I know—at the Boulevards, as motley a road as
Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon;
With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas,
Its founts, and old Counts sipping beer in the sun:
With its houses of all architectures you please,
From the Grecian and Gothic, Dick, down by degrees
To the pure Hottentot, or the Brighton Chinese;
Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it,
Lunch at a mosque, and see Punch from a minaret.
Then, Dick, the mixture of bonnets and bowers,
Of foliage and frippery, fiacres and flowers,
Green-grocers, green gardens—one hardly knows whether
'Tis country or town, they're so mess'd up together!
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclin'd under trees;
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,
Enjoying their news and groseille in those arbours;

156

While gaily their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,
And founts of red currant-juice round them are purling.
Here, Dick, arm in arm as we chattering stray,
And receive a few civil “God-dems” by the way,—
For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,—though we've wasted our wealth
And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into a phthisic,
To cram down their throats an old King for their health,
As we whip little children to make them take physic;—
Yet, spite of our good-natur'd money and slaughter,
They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water!
But who the deuce cares, Dick, as long as they nourish us
Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes—

157

Long as, by bay'nets protected, we, Natties,
May have our full fling at their salmis and pâtés?
And, truly, I always declar'd 'twould be pity
To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city.
Had Dad but his way, he'd have long ago blown
The whole batch to old Nick—and the people, I own,
If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks,
Well deserve a blow-up—but then, damn it, their Cooks!
As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage,
For aught that I care, you may knock them to spinage;
But think, Dick, their Cooks—what a loss to mankind!
What a void in the world would their art leave behind!
Their chronometer spits—their intense salamanders—
Their ovens—their pots, that can soften old ganders,
All vanish'd for ever—their miracles o'er,
And the Marmite Perpétuelle bubbling no more!

158

Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies!
Take whatever ye fancy—take statues, take money—
But leave them, oh leave them, their Perigueux pies,
Their glorious goose-livers, and high pickled tunny!
Though many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,
Though Royalty's here on her very last legs,
Yet, who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?
You see, Dick, in spite of their cries of “God-dam,”
“Coquin Anglais,” et cæt'ra—how generous I am!
And now (to return, once again, to my “Day,”
Which will take us all night to get through in this way,)

159

From the Boulevards we saunter through many a street,
Crack jokes on the natives—mine, all very neat—
Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,
And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops;—
Here, a Louis Dix-huit—there, a Martinmas goose,
(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)—
Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,
But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:—
St. Tony, who used all temptations to spurn,
Here hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;
While there St. Venecia sits hemming and frilling her
Holy mouchoir o'er the door of some milliner;—
Saint Austin's the “outward and visible sign
“Of an inward” cheap dinner, and pint of small wine;

160

While St. Denys hangs out o'er some hatter of ton,
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own ,
Takes an int'rest in Dandies, who've got—next to none!
Then we stare into shops—read the evening's affiches
Or, if some, who're Lotharios in feeding, should wish
Just to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick,
As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite, Dick,)
To the Passage des—what d'ye call't—des Panoramas
We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram as
Seducing young pâtés as ever could cozen
One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen.
We vary, of course—petits pâtés do one day,
The next we've our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais ,

161

That popular artist, who brings out, like Sc*tt,
His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;
Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,—
Divine maresquino, which—Lord, how one swallows!
Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,
And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use
To regen'rate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,
Who've laps'd into snacks—the perdition of dinners.
And here, Dick—in answer to one of your queries,
About which we, Gourmands, have had much discussion—
I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's,
And think, for digestion , there's none like the Russian;

162

So equal the motion—so gentle, though fleet—
It, in short, such a light and salubrious scamper is,
That take whom you please—take old L---s D---xh---t,
And stuff him—ay, up to the neck—with stew'd lampreys ,
So wholesome these Mounts, such a solvent I've found them,
That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them,
The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away,
And the regicide lampreys be foiled of their prey!

163

Such, Dick, are the classical sports that content us,
Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous ,
That epoch—but woa! my lad—here comes the Schneider,
And, curse him, has made the stays three inches wider—
Too wide by an inch and a half—what a Guy!
But, no matter—'twill all be set right by-and-by.
As we've Massinot's eloquent carte to eat still up,
An inch and a half's but a trifle to fill up.

164

So—not to lose time, Dick—here goes for the task;
Au revoir, my old boy—of the Gods I but ask,
That my life, like “the Leap of the German ,” may be,
“Du lit à la table, d'la table au lit!”
R. F.
 

An English tailor at Paris.

A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking.

The dandy term for a tailor.

“Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells, to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers.”—See Lady Morgan's lively description of the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, book vi.

These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille water is administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the streets of Paris.

“Cette merveilleuse Marmite Perpétuelle, sur le feu depuis près d'un siècle; qui a donné le jour à plus de 300,000 chapons.” —Alman. de Gourmands, Quatrième Année, p. 152.

Le thon mariné, one of the most favourite and indigestible hors-d'œuvres. This fish is taken chiefly in the Golfe de Lyon. “La tête et le dessous du ventre sont les parties les plus recherchées des gourmets.”Cours Gastronomique, p. 252.

The exact number mentioned by M. de la Reynière— “On connoit en France 685 manières différentes d'accommoder les œufs; sans compter celles que nos savans imaginent chaque jour.”

Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, is also, under the name of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of milliners.

St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off. The mot of a woman of wit upon this legend is well known: —“Je le crois bien; en pareil cas, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute.”

Off the Boulevards Italiens.

In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamand, so long celebrated for the moëlleux of his Gaufres.

Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French Mountains, and calls them “une médecine aérienne, couleur de rose;” but I own I prefer the authority of Mr. Bob, who seems, from the following note found in his own hand-writing, to have studied all these mountains very carefully:—

Memoranda—The Swiss little notice deserves,
While the fall at Ruggieri's is death to weak nerves;
And (whate'er Doctor Cott'rel may write on the question)
The turn at the Beaujon's too sharp for digestion.
I doubt whether Mr. Bob is quite correct in accenting the second syllable of Ruggieri.

A dish so indigestible, that a late novelist, at the end of his book, could imagine no more summary mode of getting rid of all his heroes and heroines than by a hearty supper of stewed lampreys.

They killed Henry I. of England:—“a food (says Hume, gravely,) which always agreed better with his palate than his constitution.”

Lampreys, indeed, seem to have been always a favourite dish with kings—whether from some congeniality between them and that fish, I know not; but Dio Cassius tells us that Pollio fattened his lampreys with human blood. St. Louis of France was particularly fond of them.—See the anecdote of Thomas Aquinas eating up his majesty's lamprey, in a note upon Rabelais, liv. iii. chap. 2.

Had Mr. Bob's Dinner Epistle been inserted, I was prepared with an abundance of learned matter to illustrate it, for which, as, indeed, for all my “scientia popinæ ,“ I am indebted to a friend in the Dublin University,—whose reading formerly lay in the magic line; but, in consequence of the Provost's enlightened alarm at such studies, he has taken to the authors, “de re cibariâ” instead; and has left Bodin, Remigius, Agrippa and his little dog Filiolus, for Apicius, Nonius, and that most learned and savoury jesuit, Bulengerus.

Seneca.

A famous Restaurateur—now Dupont.

An old French saying;—“Faire le saut de l'Allemand, du lit à la table et de la table au lit.”


165

LETTER IX. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C*ST---GH.

My Lord, th' Instructions, brought to-day,
“I shall in all my best obey.”
Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly!
And—whatsoe'er some wags may say—
Oh! not at all incomprehensibly.
I feel th' inquiries in your letter
About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, though somewhat better,
Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:—
Nothing, of course, that can compare
With his who made the Congress stare
(A certain Lord we need not name),
Who ev'n in French, would have his trope,
And talk of “batir un systême
“Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!”

166

Sweet metaphor!—and then th' Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—
That tender letter to “Mon Prince ,”
Which show'd alike thy French and sense;—
Oh no, my Lord—there's none can do
Or say un-English things like you;
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast
Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,
What charming Turkish would'st thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
Fall'n Monarchs, out of Chambaud's grammar—
Bless you, you do not, cannot know
How far a little French will go;
For all one's stock, one need but draw
On some half-dozen words like these—

167

Comme ça—par-là—là-bas—ah ha!
They'll take you all through France with ease.
 

The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English,) in which his Lordship, professing to see “no moral or political objection” to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as “not only the most devoted, but the most favoured of Bonaparte's vassals.”

Your Lordship's praises of the scraps
I sent you from my Journal lately,
(Enveloping a few lac'd caps
For Lady C.), delight me greatly.
Her flattering speech—“What pretty things
“One finds in Mr. Fudge's pages!”
Is praise which (as some poet sings)
Would pay one for the toils of ages.
Thus flatter'd, I presume to send
A few more extracts by a friend;
And I should hope they'll be no less
Approv'd of than my last MS.—
The former ones, I fear, were creas'd,
As Biddy round the caps would pin them;
But these will come to hand, at least
Unrumpled, for there's—nothing in them.

168

Extracts from Mr. Fudge's Journal, addressed to Lord C.

Aug. 10.
Went to the Mad-house—saw the man ,
Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend
Of Discord here full riot ran,
He, like the rest, was guillotin'd;—
But that when, under Boney's reign,
(A more discreet, though quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restor'd again,
He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.
Accordingly, he still cries out
This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;
And always runs, poor dev'l, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!
While to his case a tear I dropt,
And saunter'd home, thought I—ye Gods!

169

How many heads might thus be swopp'd,
And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's V---s---tt---t's head—
(“Tam carum ” it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
To settle on Bill Soames's shoulders,
Th' effect would turn out much the same
On all respectable cash-holders:
Except that while, in its new socket,
The head was planning schemes to win
A zig-zag way into one's pocket,
The hands would plunge directly in.
Good Viscount S---dm---h, too, instead
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
Old Lady Wilhelmina Frump's—
So while the hand sign'd Circulars,
The head might lisp out “What is trumps?”—
The R*g---t's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,

170

The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versâ, take the pains
To give the P---ce the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.
'Twas thus I ponder'd on, my Lord;
And, ev'n at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snor'd,
Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship's on,
And then I grew completely addled—
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was—Bottom.
 

This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicêtre. He imagines, exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that, when the heads of those who had been guillotined were restored, he by mistake got some other person's instead of his own.

Tam cari capitis.— Horat.

A celebrated pickpocket.

Aug. 21.
Walk'd out with daughter Bid—was shown
The House of Commons, and the Throne,

171

Whose velvet cushion's just the same
Napoleon sat on—what a shame!
Oh, can we wonder, best of speechers,
When Louis seated thus we see,
That France's “fundamental features”
Are much the same they us'd to be?
However,—God preserve the Throne,
And cushion too—and keep them free
From accidents, which have been known
To happen ev'n to Royalty!
 

The only change, if I recollect right, is the substitution of lilies for bees. This war upon the bees is, of course, universal; “exitium misêre apibus,” like the angry nymphs in Virgil:— but may not new swarms arise out of the victims of Legitimacy yet?

I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor L---s le D---s---é, some years since, at one of the R*g---t's Fêtes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

Aug. 28.
Read, at a stall (for oft one pops
On something at these stalls and shops,
That does to quote, and gives one's Book
A classical and knowing look.—

172

Indeed I've found, in Latin, lately,
A course of stalls improves me greatly)—
'Twas thus I read, that, in the East,
A monarch's fat's a serious matter;
And once in every year, at least,
He's weigh'd—to see if he gets fatter :
Then, if a pound or two he be
Increas'd, there's quite a jubilee!
Suppose, my Lord—and far from me
To treat such things with levity—
But just suppose the R*g---t's weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, ev'ry sessions, at the close,—
'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is
Heavy and dull enough, God knows—
We were to try how heavy he is.

173

Much would it glad all hearts to hear
That, while the Nation's Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,
The P---e, God bless him! gains a few.
With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,
I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—
But, for the R*g---t, my advice is,
We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance ---'s quarto volumes,
Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominie St*dd---t's Daily columns,
“Prodigious!”—in, of course, we'd clap them—
Letters, that C*rtw---t's pen indites,
In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,
And never comes to a Conclusion:—
Lord S---m---rs' pamphlet—or his head—
(Ah, that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir John C*x H---pp---sly;
That Baronet of many words,
Who loves so, in the House of Lords,

174

To whisper Bishops—and so nigh
Unto their wigs in whisp'ring goes,
That you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose!—
If this wo'n't do, we in must cram
The “Reasons” of Lord B*ck---gh*m;
(A Book his Lordship means to write,
Entitled “Reasons for my Ratting:”)
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His r---p's a host—we'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the R*g---t's ponderous scale,
Why then, my Lord, in heaven's name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of R*gl---y's beauteous Dame—
If that wo'n't raise him, devil's in it!
 

“The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care.” —F. Bernier's Voyage to Surat, &c.

“I remember,” says Bernier, “that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding.”—Another author tells us that “Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven. An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a Prince a joulter head is invaluable.” —Oriental Field Sports.

Major Cartwright.

Aug. 31.
Consulted Murphy's Tacitus
About those famous spies at Rome ,

175

Whom certain Whigs—to make a fuss—
Describe as much resembling us ,
Informing gentlemen, at home.
But, bless the fools, they can't be serious,
To say Lord S---dm---th's like Tiberius!
What! he, the Peer, that injures no man,
Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!—
'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to
All sorts of spies—so doth the Peer, too.
'Tis true my Lord's Elect tell fibs,
And deal in perj'ry—ditto Tib's.
'Tis true, the Tyrant screen'd and hid
His rogues from justice — ditto Sid.

176

'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib
At moral speeches—ditto Tib.
'Tis true, the feats the Tyrant did
Were in his dotage—ditto Sid.
So far, I own, the parallel
'Twixt Tib and Sid goes vastly well;
But there are points in Tib that strike
My humble mind as much more like
Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him,
Of th' India Board—that soul of whim!
Like him, Tiberius lov'd his joke ,
On matters, too, where few can bear one;
E.g. a man, cut up, or broke
Upon the wheel—a devilish fair one!
Your common fractures, wounds, and fits,
Are nothing to such wholesale wits;
But, let the suff'rer gasp for life,
The joke is then worth any money;

177

And, if he writhe beneath a knife,—
Oh dear, that's something quite too funny.
In this respect, my Lord, you see
The Roman wag and ours agree:
Now as to your resemblance—mum—
This parallel we need not follow ;
Though 'tis, in Ireland, said by some
Your Lordship beats Tiberius hollow;
Whips, chains—but these are things too serious
For me to mention or discuss;
Whene'er your Lordship acts Tiberius,
Phil. Fudge's part is Tacitus!
 

The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo;—“qui formam vitæ iniit, quam postea celebrem miseriæ temporum et audaciæ hominum fecerunt.” —Tacit. Annal. i. 74.

They certainly possessed the same art of instigating their victims, which the Report of the Secret Committee attributes to Lord Sidmouth's agents:—“socius (says Tacitus of one of them) libidinum et necessitatum, quo pluribus indiciis inligaret.”

“Neque tamen id Sereno noxæ fuit, quem odium publicum tutiorem faciebat. Nam ut quis districtior accusator velut sacrosanctus erat.”—Annal. lib. iv. 36.—Or, as it is translated by Mr. Fudge's friend, Murphy:—“This daring accuser had the curses of the people, and the protection of the Emperor. Informers, in proportion as they rose in guilt, became sacred characters.”

Murphy even confers upon one of his speeches the epithet “constitutional.” Mr. Fudge might have added to his parallel, that Tiberius was a good private character:—“egregium vitâ famâque quoad privatus.”

Ludibria seriis permiscere solitus.”

There is one point of resemblance between Tiberius and Lord C. which Mr. Fudge might have mentioned —“suspensa semper et obscura verba.”

Sept. 2.
Was thinking, had Lord S---dm---th got
Any good decent sort of Plot
Against the winter-time—if not,
Alas, alas, our ruin's fated;
All done up, and spiflicated!
Ministers and all their vassals,
Down from C---tl---gh to Castles,—
Unless we can kick up a riot,
Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet!

178

What's to be done?—Spa-Fields was clever;
But even that brought gibes and mockings
Upon our heads—so, mem.—must never
Keep ammunition in old stockings;
For fear some wag should in his curst head
Take it to say our force was worsted.
Mem. too—when Sid an army raises,
It must not be “incog.” like Bayes's:
Nor must the General be a hobbling
Professor of the art of cobbling;
Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,
Should say, with Jacobinic grin,
He felt, from soleing Wellingtons ,
A Wellington's great soul within!
Nor must an old Apothecary
Go take the Tower, for lack of pence,
With (what these wags would call, so merry,)
Physical force and phial-ence!
No—no—our Plot, my Lord, must be
Next time contriv'd more skilfully.
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing
So troublesomely sharp and knowing,

179

So wise—in short, so Jacobin—
'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.
 

Short boots, so called.

Sept. 6.
Heard of the fate of our Ambassador
In China, and was sorely nettled;
But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er
Till all this matter's fairly settled;
And here's the mode occurs to me:—
As none of our Nobility,
Though for their own most gracious King
(They would kiss hands, or—any thing),
Can be persuaded to go through
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;
And as these Mandarins wo'n't bend,
Without some mumming exhibition,
Suppose, my Lord, you were to send
Grimaldi to them on a mission:
As Legate, Joe could play his part,
And if, in diplomatic art,
The “volto sciolto” 's meritorious,
Let Joe but grin, he has it, glorious!

180

A title for him's easily made;
And, by-the-by, one Christmas time,
If I remember right, he play'd
Lord Morley in some pantomime ;—
As Earl of M*rl*y then gazette him.
If t'other Earl of M*rl*y'll let him.
(And why should not the world be blest
With two such stars, for East and West?)
Then, when before the Yellow Screen
He's brought—and, sure, the very essence
Of etiquette would be that scene
Of Joe in the Celestial Presence!—
He thus should say:—“Duke Ho and Soo,
“I'll play what tricks you please for you,
“If you'll, in turn, but do for me
“A few small tricks you now shall see.
“If I consult your Emperor's liking,
“At least you'll do the same for my King.”

181

He then should give them nine such grins,
As would astound ev'n Mandarins;
And throw such somersets before
The picture of King George (God bless him!)
As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er,
Would, by Confucius, much distress him!
I start this merely as a hint,
But think you'll find some wisdom in't;
And, should you follow up the job,
My son, my Lord (you know poor Bob),
Would in the suite be glad to go
And help his Excellency, Joe;—
At least, like noble Amh*rst's son,
The lad will do to practise on.
 

The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of “Lord Morley” in the pantomime,—so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name. The expostulatory letters of the Noble Earl to Mr. H*rr*s, upon this vulgar profanation of his spick-and-span new title, will, I trust, some time or other, be given to the world.

See Mr. Ellis's account of the Embassy.


182

LETTER X. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ---.

Well, it isn't the King, after all, my dear creature!
But don't you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in't—
For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He might be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't.
At first, I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own,
If for no other cause but to vex Miss Malone,—
(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here,
Showing off with such airs, and a real Cashmere ,
While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!)
But Pa says, on deeply consid'ring the thing,
“I am just as well pleas'd it should not be the King;

183

“As I think for my Biddy, so gentille and jolie,
“Whose charms may their price in an honest way fetch,
“That a Brandenburgh”—(what is a Brandenburgh, Dolly?)—
“Would be, after all, no such very great catch.
“If the R*g---t indeed—” added he, looking sly—
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopp'd him with “La, Pa, how can you say so,
“When the R*g---t loves none but old women, you know!”
Which is fact, my dear Dolly—we, girls of eighteen,
And so slim—Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen;
And would like us much better as old—ay, as old
As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told
That she liv'd to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,
Who, though not a King, is a hero I'll swear,—
You shall hear all that's happen'd, just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

184

Let me see—'twas on Saturday—yes, Dolly, yes—
From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;
When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,
Whose journey, Bob says, is so like Love and Marriage,
“Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly,
“And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!”
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through;
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
I set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois
And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!
The gardens seem'd full—so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,
And daphnes, and vases, and many a statue
There staring, with not ev'n a stitch on them, at you!

185

The ponds, too, we view'd—stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—
Live bullion,” says merciless Bob, “which, I think,
“Would, if coin'd, with a little mint sauce, be delicious!”

186

But what, Dolly, what, is the gay orange-grove,
Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?
In vain did I wildly explore every chair
Where a thing like a man was—no lover sate there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
At the whiskers, mustachios, and wigs that went past,
To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,—
A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says , is to Mussulmen giv'n,
For the angel to hold by that “lugs them to heaven!”
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out “well-a-day,”—
Thought of the words of T*m M---re's Irish Melody,

187

Something about the “green spot of delight ”
(Which, you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day):
Ah Dolly, my “spot” was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!
We din'd at a tavern—La, what do I say?
If Bob was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear;
Where your properest ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine Bob (for he's really grown super-fine)
Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;
Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,
And in spite of my grief, love, I own I eat hearty.
Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief,
I have always found eating a wond'rous relief;
And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same, quite
“My sighs,” said he, “ceas'd with the first glass I drank you;

188

“The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,
“And—now that all's o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!”
To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate
About singing and cookery—Bobby, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force ;
And Pa saying, “God only knows which is worst,
“The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it—
“What with old Laïs and Véry, I'm curst
“If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!”
'Twas dark, when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,
And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis,

189

When, sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul—
That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's
We enter'd—and, scarcely had Bob, with an air,
For a grappe à la jardinière call'd to the waiters,
When, oh Doll! I saw him—my hero was there
(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),
A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him ,
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!
Oh Dolly, these heroes—what creatures they are;
In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter!
As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car,
As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er ic'd currant water!
He join'd us—imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy—
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
Bob wish'd to treat him with Punch à la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beauté, my grace,

190

And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd)
Were, to him, “on de top of all Ponch in de vorld.”—
How pretty!—though oft (as, of course, it must be)
Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me.
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did;
And happier still, when 'twas fix'd, ere we parted,
That, if the next day should be pastoral weather,
We all would set off, in French buggies, together,
To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau.
His card then he gave us—the name, rather creas'd—
But 'twas Calicot—something—a Colonel, at least!
After which—sure there never was hero so civil—he
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,
Where his last words, as, at parting, he threw
A soft look o'er his shoulders, were—“How do you do!”
But, lord,—there's Papa for the post—I'm so vext—
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.

191

That dear Sunday night!—I was charmingly drest,
And—so providential!—was looking my best;
Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills,
You've no notion how rich—(though Pa has by the bills)
And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,
Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flow'rs in my bonnet—but, la, it's in vain—
So, good-by, my sweet Doll—I shall soon write again.
B. F.
Nota bene—our love to all neighbours about—
Your Papa in particular—how is his gout?
P. S.—I've just open'd my letter to say,
In your next you must tell me, (now do, Dolly, pray,
For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz,)
What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.
 

See Lady Morgan's “France” for the anecdote, told her by Madame de Genlis, of the young gentleman whose love was cured by finding that his mistress wore a shawl “peau de lapin.”

The cars, on the return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.

Mr. Bob need not be ashamed of his cookery jokes, when he is kept in countenance hy such men as Cicero, St. Augustine, and that jovial bishop, Venantius Fortunatus. The pun of the great orator upon the “jus Verrinum,” which he calls bad hogbroth, from a play upon both the words, is well known; and the Saint's puns upon the conversion of Lot's wife into salt are equally ingenious:—“In salem conversa hominibus fidelibus quoddam præstitit condimentum, quo sapiant aliquid, unde illud caveatur exemplum.”—De Civitat. Dei, lib. xvi. cap. 30. —The jokes of the pious favourite of Queen Radagunda, the convivial Bishop Venantius, may be found among his poems, in some lines against a cook who had robbed him. The following is similar to Cicero's pun:—

Plus juscella Coci quam mea jura valent.

See his poems, Corpus Poetar. Latin. tom. ii. p. 1732.— Of the same kind was Montmaur's joke, when a dish was spilt over him—“summum jus, summa injuria;” and the same celebrated parasite, in ordering a sole to be placed before him, said,—

Eligi cui dicas, tu mihi sola places.

The reader may likewise see, among a good deal of kitchen erudition, the learned Lipsius's jokes on cutting up a capon in his Saturnal. Sermon. lib. ii. cap. 2.

For this scrap of knowledge “Pa” was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's Ruins; a book which usually forms part of a Jacobin's library, and with which Mr. Fudge must have been well acquainted at the time when he wrote his “Down with Kings,” &c. The note in Volney is as follows: —“It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise.”

The young lady, whose memory is not very correct, must allude, I think, to the following lines:—

Oh that fairy form is ne'er forgot,
Which First Love traced;
Still it ling'ring haunts the greenest spot
On Memory's waste!

Cookery has been dignified by the researches of a Bacon; (see his Natural History, Receipts, &c.) and takes its station as one of the Fine Arts in the following passage of Mr. Dugald Stewart:—“Agreeably to this view of the subject, sweet may be said to be intrinsically pleasing, and bitter to be relatively pleasing; which both are, in many cases, equally essential to those effects, which, in the art of cookery, correspond to that composite beauty, which it is the object of the painter and of the poet to create.” —Philosophical Essays.

A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards.

“You eat your ice at Tortoni's,” says Mr. Scott, “under a Grecian group.”

Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.


192

LETTER XI. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ---.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate—
A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,
And own no power but of the Nation's choice!
Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on Napoleon's single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrament, that pour'd,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A hallowing light, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illum'd its way!
Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;
When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye,
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,

193

Denounc'd against the land, that spurn'd his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track
Through your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe's Kings, that never yet combin'd
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoin'd,
Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind,
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating Napoleon much, but Freedom more,
And, in that coming strife, appall'd to see
The world yet left one chance for liberty!—
No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,
When every hope was in his speed and might—
To waste the hour of action in dispute,
And coolly plan how freedom's boughs should shoot,
When your Invader's axe was at the root!
No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws,
Thy light around, like his own sunshine, knows
How well I love thee, and how deeply hate
All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate—
Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,
I would have follow'd, with quick heart and hand,

194

Napoleon, Nero—ay, no matter whom—
To snatch my country from that damning doom,
That deadliest curse that on the conquer'd waits—
A Conqueror's satrap, thron'd within her gates!
True, he was false—despotic—all you please—
Had trampled down man's holiest liberties—
Had, by a genius, form'd for nobler things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,
But rais'd the hopes of men—as eaglets fly
With tortoises aloft into the sky—
To dash them down again more shatteringly!
All this I own—but still [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
 

See Ælian, lib. v. cap. 29.—who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles—διαπετονται σιωπωντες.

Somebody (Fontenelle, I believe,) has said, that if he had his hand full of truths, he would open but one finger at a time; and the same sort of reserve I find to be necessary with respect to Mr. Connor's very plain-spoken letters. The remainder of this Epistle is so full of unsafe matter-of-fact, that it must, for the present at least, be withheld from the public.


195

LETTER XII. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ------.

At last, Dolly,—thanks to a potent emetic,
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallow'd this morning, to balance the bliss,
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'ecrevisses
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady Jane, in the novel, less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord Neville's
Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.
But Love, Dolly, Love is the theme I pursue;
With Blue Devils, thank heav'n, I have nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that colour in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, Doll, at his do the same;
Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, “Lord, Sir, for shame!”

196

Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion—the sunshine express
Had we order'd it, dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like Gattie's rose-water,—and, bright, here and there,
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet!
While the birds seem'd to warble as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plum'd Calicot had for her spouse;
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And—in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;
And, ah, I shall ne'er, liv'd I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was but one drawback—at first when we started,
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;
How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with Bob;

197

And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of Boney's—
Served with him of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies.
So martial his features! dear Doll, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass ,
Which the poor Duc de B*ri must hate so to pass!
It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example—misled by the names, I dare say—
He confounded Jack Castles with Lord C---gh;
And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the present Lord C*md*n the clever one!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, Doll, to know
All the life and adventures of Jean Jacques Rousseau!—

198

“'Twas there,” said he—not that his words I can state—
'Twas a gibb'rish that Cupid alone could translate;—
But “there,” said he, (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose,) “there his Julie he wrote,—
“Upon paper gilt-edg'd , without blot or erasure;
“Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
“And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?—
“Tied the leaves up together with nompareille blue!”
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjur'd up here!
Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

199

“'Twas here, too, perhaps,” Colonel Calicot said—
As down the small garden he pensively led—
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the lov'd periwinkle)
“'Twas here he receiv'd from the fair D'Epinay
“(Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear , every day,)
“That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
“A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!”
Such, Doll, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd.
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!)
Led us to talk about other commodities,

200

Cambric, and silk, and—I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun was then hast'ning in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd me, with eagerness,—who made my gown?
The question confus'd me—for, Doll, you must know,
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturière, Madame le Roi;
But am forc'd now to have Victorine, who—deuce take her!—
It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker—
I mean of his party—and, though much the smartest,
Le Roi is condemn'd as a rank Bonapartist.
Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;

201

I stammer'd out something—nay, even half nam'd
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
“Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
“It was made by that Bourbonite b---h, Victorine!”
What a word for a hero!—but heroes will err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were.
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.
But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,—
The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Bob calls the “Twopenny-post of the Eyes”—
Ah, Doll! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractis'd these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

202

But here I must finish—for Bob, my dear Dolly,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seiz'd with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre—“for there is,”
Said he, looking solemn, “the tomb of the Vèrys!
“Long, long have I wish'd, as a votary true,
“O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
“And, to-day—as my stomach is not in good cue
“For the flesh of the Vérys—I'll visit their bones!”
He insists upon my going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie
Unseal'd in my draw'r, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-bye.
B. F.
 

The column in the Place Vendôme.

“Employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré, séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue.”—Les Confessions, part ii. liv. 9.

This word, “exquisite,” is evidently a favourite of Miss Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little angry when her brother Bob committed a pun on the last two syllables of it in the following couplet:—

“I'd fain praise your Poem—but tell me, how is it
When I cry out “Exquisite,” Echo cries “quiz it?”

The flower which Rousseau brought into such fashion among the Parisians, by exclaiming one day, “Ah, voilà de la pervenche!”

Mon ours, voilà votre asyle—et vous, mon ours, ne viendrez vous pas aussi?”—&c. &c.

“Un jour, qu'il geloit très fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyoit, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquoit avoir porté, et dont elle vouloit que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fût dépouillée pour me vétir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et le jupon.”

Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for “Le Roi.”

Le Roi, who was the Couturière of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, Victorine.

It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Montmartre. The inscription on the column at the head of the tomb concludes with the following words:—“Toute sa vie fut consacrée aux arts utiles.”

Four o'clock.
Oh, Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruin'd for ever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never!

203

To think of the wretch—what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die—
My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!
Oh, what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper—
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!
'Tis true as I live—I had coax'd brother Bob so,
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,)
For some little gift on my birth-day—September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That Bob to a shop kindly order'd the coach,
(Ah, little I thought who the shopman would prove,)
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,
Which, in happier hours, I have sigh'd for, my love—
(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—
And one's name in the corner embroider'd so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop,
But—ye Gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—

204

There he stood, my dear Dolly—no room for a doubt—
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,
With a piece of French cambric, before him roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure uprais'd in his hand!
Oh—Papa, all along, knew the secret, 'tis clear—
'Twas a shopman he meant by a “Brandenburgh,” dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And, when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worshipp'd—vile, treacherous thing—
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam around—the wretch smil'd, I believe,
But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive—
I fell back on Bob—my whole heart seem'd to wither—
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that Bob, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said, “Curse the Kiddy!
“A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
“But now I find out he's a Counter one, Biddy!”

205

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss Malone!
What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever!
What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!
It will spread through the country—and never, oh, never
Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell—I shall do something desp'rate, I fear—
And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my Doll will not grudge
To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend,
Biddy Fudge.
Nota bene—I am sure you will hear, with delight,
That we're going, all three, to see Brunet to-night.
A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

211

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

Tu Regibus alas
Eripe.
Virgil, Georg. lib. iv.

------ Clip the wings
Of these high-flying, arbitrary Kings.
Dryden's Translation.


213

DEDICATION.

TO LORD BYRON.

215

FABLE I. THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I've have a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess—
As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess—
It seems to me extremely awful.
Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,

216

A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne ,
Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is—
Like an Aurora Borealis.
In this said Palace, furnish'd all
And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
Giv'n by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,
Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.
The thought was happy—and design'd
To hint how thus the human Mind
May, like the stream imprison'd there,
Be check'd and chill'd, till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-prais'd, to dance upon it.

217

And all were pleas'd, and cold, and stately,
Shivering in grand illumination—
Admir'd the superstructure greatly,
Nor gave one thought to the foundation.
Much too the Czar himself exulted,
To all plebeian fears a stranger,
For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,
Had pledg'd her word there was no danger.
So, on he caper'd, fearless quite,
Thinking himself extremely clever,
And waltz'd away with all his might,
As if the Frost would last for ever.
Just fancy how a bard like me,
Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled
To see that goodly company,
At such a ticklish sport assembled.
Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded—
For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy
Were seiz'd with an ill-omen'd dripping,
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,
Their Holinesses took to slipping.

218

The Czar, half through a Polonaise,
Could scarce get on for downright stumbling;
And Prussia, though to slippery ways
Well us'd, was cursedly near tumbling.
Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.—
And now, to an Italian air,
This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;
Now—while old Louis, from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare—
Call'd loudly out for a Fandango.
And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to, like mad!
Never were Kings (though small th' expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)
So out of all their princely senses.
But, ah, that dance—that Spanish dance—
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light through all the chambers flam'd,
Astonishing old Father Frost,

219

Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd,
“A thaw, by Jove—we're lost, we're lost!
“Run, France—a second Waterloo
“Is come to drown you—sauve qui peut!”
Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations?—
Instantly all was in a flow,
Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations—
Those Royal Arms, that look'd so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice—
Those Eagles, handsomely provided
With double heads for double dealings—
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
Out of their claws on all the ceilings!
Proud Prussia's double bird of prey
Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;
While—just like France herself, when she
Proclaims how great her naval skill is—
Poor Louis' drowning fleurs-de-lys
Imagin'd themselves water-lilies.
And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,
But—still more fatal execution—

220

The Great Legitimates themselves
Seem'd in a state of dissolution.
Th' indignant Czar—when just about
To issue a sublime Ukase,
“Whereas all light must be kept out”—
Dissolv'd to nothing in its blaze.
Next Prussia took his turn to melt,
And, while his lips illustrious felt
The influence of this southern air,
Some word, like “Constitution”—long
Congeal'd in frosty silence there—
Came slowly thawing from his tongue.
While Louis, lapsing by degrees,
And sighing out a faint adieu
To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese
And smoking fondus, quickly grew,
Himself, into a fondu too;—
Or like that goodly King they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,
When, in some urchin's mouth, alas,
It melts into a shapeless mass!
In short, I scarce could count a minute,
Ere the bright dome, and all within it,

221

Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone—
And nothing now was seen or heard
But the bright river, rushing on,
Happy as an enfranchis'd bird,
And prouder of that natural ray,
Shining along its chainless way—
More proudly happy thus to glide
In simple grandeur to the sea,
Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,
'Twas deck'd with all that kingly pride
Could bring to light its slavery!
Such is my dream—and, I confess,
I tremble at its awfulness.
That Spanish Dance—that southern beam—
But I say nothing—there's my dream—
And Madame Krudener, the she-prophet,
May make just what she pleases of it.
 

“It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect.” —Pinkerton.


222

FABLE II. THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections
Rais'd to the throne, 'tis strange to see
What different and what odd perfections
Men have requir'd in Royalty.
Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,
Have chos'n their Sovereigns by the weight;—
Some wish'd them tall, some thought your dumpy,
Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.
The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said,
Prefer what's call'd a jolter-head :
Th' Egyptians wer'n't at all partic'lar,
So that their Kings had not red hair—
This fault not ev'n the greatest stickler
For the blood-royal well could bear.

223

A thousand more such illustrations
Might be adduc'd from various nations.
But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,
Touching th' acquir'd or natural right
Which some men have to rule their fellows,
There's one, which I shall here recite:—

FABLE.

There was a land—to name the place
Is neither now my wish nor duty—
Where reign'd a certain Royal race,
By right of their superior beauty.
What was the cut legitimate
Of these great persons' chins and noses,
By right of which they rul'd the state,
No history I have seen discloses.
But so it was—a settled case—
Some Act of Parliament, pass'd snugly,
Had voted them a beauteous race,
And all their faithful subjects ugly.

224

As rank, indeed, stood high or low,
Some change it made in visual organs;
Your Peers were decent—Knights, so so—
But all your common people, gorgons!
Of course, if any knave but hinted
That the King's nose was turn'd awry,
Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted—
The judges doom'd that knave to die.
But rarely things like this occurr'd,
The people to their King were duteous,
And took it, on his Royal word,
That they were frights, and He was beauteous.
The cause whereof, among all classes,
Was simply this—these island elves
Had never yet seen looking-glasses,
And, therefore, did not know themselves.
Sometimes, indeed, their neighbours' faces
Might strike them as more full of reason,
More fresh than those in certain places—
But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

225

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbour,
And take his face's part, 'tis known
We ne'er so much in earnest labour,
As when the face attack'd's our own.
So, on they went—the crowd believing—
(As crowds well govern'd always do)
Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving—
So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.
But jokes, we know, if they too far go,
Must have an end—and so, one day,
Upon that coast there was a cargo
Of looking-glasses cast away.
'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere,
Had laid their wicked heads together,
And forc'd that ship to founder there,—
While some believe it was the weather.
However this might be, the freight
Was landed without fees or duties;
And from that hour historians date
The downfal of the Race of Beauties.

226

The looking-glasses got about,
And grew so common through the land,
That scarce a tinker could walk out,
Without a mirror in his hand.
Comparing faces, morning, noon,
And night, their constant occupation—
By dint of looking-glasses, soon,
They grew a most reflecting nation.
In vain the Court, aware of errors
In all the old, establish'd mazards,
Prohibited the use of mirrors,
And tried to break them at all hazards:—
In vain—their laws might just as well
Have been waste paper on the shelves;
That fatal freight had broke the spell;
People had look'd—and knew themselves.
If chance a Duke, of birth sublime,
Presum'd upon his ancient face,
(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,)
They popp'd a mirror to his Grace:—

227

Just hinting, by that gentle sign,
How little Nature holds it true,
That what is call'd an ancient line,
Must be the line of Beauty too.
From Dukes' they pass'd to regal phizzes,
Compar'd them proudly with their own,
And cried, “How could such monstrous quizzes
“In Beauty's name usurp the throne!”—
They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,
Upon Cosmetical Œconomy,
Which made the King try various looks,
But none improv'd his physiognomy.
And satires at the Court were levell'd,
And small lampoons, so full of slynesses,
That soon, in short, they quite be-devil'd
Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.
At length—but here I drop the veil,
To spare some loyal folks' sensations;—
Besides, what follow'd is the tale
Of all such late-enlighten'd nations;

228

Of all to whom old Time discloses
A truth they should have sooner known—
That Kings have neither rights nor noses
A whit diviner than their own.
 

The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King. Munster, Cosmog. lib. iii. p. 164.

“In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable.” Oriental Field Sports.


229

FABLE III. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.

I saw it all in Fancy's glass—
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bid this splendid day-dream pass,
And nam'd each gliding apparition.
'Twas like a torch-race—such as they
Of Greece perform'd, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
Pass'd the bright torch triumphant on.
I saw th' expectant nations stand,
To catch the coming flame in turn;—
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear, though struggling, glory burn.

230

And, oh, their joy, as it came near,
'Twas, in itself, a joy to see;—
While Fancy whisper'd in my ear,
“That torch they pass is Liberty!”
And, each, as she receiv'd the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.
From Albion first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnish'd with the fire already,
Columbia caught the boon divine,
And lit a flame, like Albion's, steady.
The splendid gift then Gallia took,
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,
As she would set the world a-blazing!
Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high
Her altar blaz'd into the air,
That Albion, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back, and shudder'd at its glare!

231

Next, Spain, so new was light to her,
Leap'd at the torch—but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
'Twas quench'd—and all again was dark.
Yet, no—not quench'd—a treasure, worth
So much to mortals, rarely dies:
Again her living light look'd forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.
Who next receiv'd the flame? alas,
Unworthy Naples—shame of shames,
That ever through such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!
Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch,
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting ev'n to feel the scorch,
She dropp'd it to the earth—and fled.
And fall'n it might have long remain'd;
But Greece, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd,
And wav'd it round her beauteous brow.

232

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair, laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar,
Who thus in song their voices blended:—
“Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,
“Divinest gift of Gods to men!
“From Greece thy earliest splendour came,
“To Greece thy ray returns again.
“Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,
“When dimm'd, revive, when lost, return,
“Till not a shrine through earth be found,
“On which thy glories shall not burn!”

233

FABLE IV. THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey,
This world presents of topsy-turvy,
There's nought so much disturbs one's patience,
As little minds in lofty stations.
'Tis like that sort of painful wonder,
Which slender columns, labouring under
Enormous arches, give beholders;—
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemn'd to smile and stand at ease,
With a whole house upon their shoulders.
If, as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are born into such places—
If they are there, by Right Divine,
Or any such sufficient reason,

234

Why—Heav'n forbid we should repine!—
To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, ev'n to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call misprision.
Sir Robert Filmer saith—and he,
Of course, knew all about the matter—
“Both men and beasts love Monarchy;”
Which proves how rational—the latter.
Sidney, we know, or wrong or right,
Entirely differ'd from the Knight:
Nay, hints a King may lose his head,
By slipping awkwardly his bridle:—
But this is treasonous, ill-bred,
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led
In patent snaffles) downright idle.
No, no—it isn't right-line Kings,
(Those sovereign lords in leading-strings
Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,)
That move my wrath—'tis your pretenders,
Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,
Who—not, like t'others, bores by birth,

235

Establish'd gratiâ Dei blockheads,
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets—
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,
Push up into the loftiest stations,
And, though too dull to manage shops,
Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!
This class it is, that moves my gall,
And stirs up bile, and spleen, and all.
While other senseless things appear
To know the limits of their sphere—
While not a cow on earth romances
So much as to conceit she dances—
While the most jumping frog we know of,
Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off—
Your ***s, your ***s dare,
Untrain'd as are their minds, to set them
To any business, any where,
At any time that fools will let them.
But leave we here these upstart things—
My business is, just now, with Kings;
To whom, and to their right-line glory,
I dedicate the following story.

236

FABLE.

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;
And, ev'n when they most condescended to teach,
They pack'd up their meaning, as they did their mummies,
In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.
They were also, good people, much given to Kings—
Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery;
But blue-bottle flies were their best belov'd things—
As will partly appear in this very short history.
A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say,
To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)
Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,
To have a short peep at their mystical farces.
He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar,
Made much of, and worshipp'd, as something divine;

237

While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter,
Before it lay stabb'd at the foot of the shrine.
Surpris'd at such doings, he whisper'd his teacher—
“If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why
“Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature,
“Be thus offer'd up to a blue-bottle Fly?”
“No wonder”—said t'other—“you stare at the sight,
“But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it—
“That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right,
“And that Bullock, the People, that's sacrific'd to it.”
 

According to Ælian, it was in the island of Leucadia they practised this ceremony—θυειν βουν ταις μυιαις.De Animal. lib. ii. cap. 8.


238

FABLE V. CHURCH AND STATE.

PROEM.

“The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them.” —Soame Jenyns.

Thus did Soame Jenyns—though a Tory,
A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion's simple glory
Is stain'd by State associations.
When Catherine, ere she crush'd the Poles,
Appeal'd to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls —
All in the name of the bless'd Trinity;
Or when her grandson, Alexander,
That mighty Northern salamander ,

239

Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom out—
When he, too, winds up his Ukases
With God and the Panagia's praises—
When he, of royal Saints the type,
In holy water dips the spunge,
With which, at one imperial wipe,
He would all human rights expunge;
When Louis (whom as King, and eater,
Some name Dix-huit, and some Des-huitres,)
Calls down “St. Louis' God” to witness
The right, humanity, and fitness
Of sending eighty thousand Solons,
Sages, with muskets and lac'd coats,
To cram instruction, nolens volens,
Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats—
I can't help thinking, (though to Kings
I must, of course, like other men, bow,)
That when a Christian monarch brings
Religion's name to gloss these things—
Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow!

240

Or—not so far for facts to roam,
Having a few much nearer home—
When we see Churchmen, who, if ask'd,
“Must Ireland's slaves be tith'd, and task'd,
“And driv'n, like Negroes or Croäts,
“That you may roll in wealth and bliss?”
Look from beneath their shovel hats
With all due pomp, and answer “Yes!”
But then, if question'd, “Shall the brand
“Intolerance flings throughout that land,—
“Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow
“Betwixt her palaces and hovels,
“Be ever quench'd?”—from the same shovels
Look grandly forth, and answer “No.”—
Alas, alas! have these a claim
To merciful Religion's name?
If more you seek, go see a bevy
Of bowing parsons at a levee—
(Choosing your time, when straw's before
Some apoplectic bishop's door,)
Then, if thou canst, with life, escape
That rush of lawn, that press of crape,
Just watch their rev'rences and graces,
As on each smirking suitor frisks,

241

And say, if those round shining faces
To heav'n or earth most turn their disks?
This, this it is—Religion, made,
'Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade—
This most ill-match'd, unholy Co.,
From whence the ills we witness flow;
The war of many creeds with one—
Th' extremes of too much faith, and none—
Till, betwixt ancient trash and new,
'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy—the two
Rank ills with which this age is curst—
We can no more tell which is worst,
Than erst could Egypt, when so rich
In various plagues, determine which
She thought most pestilent and vile,
Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle,
Croaking their native mud-notes loud,
Or her fat locusts, like a cloud
Of pluralists, obesely lowering,
At once benighting and devouring!—
This—this it is—and here I pray
Those sapient wits of the Reviews,

242

Who make us poor, dull authors say,
Not what we mean, but what they choose;
Who to our most abundant shares
Of nonsense add still more of theirs,
And are to poets just such evils
As caterpillars find those flies,
Which, not content to sting like devils,
Lay eggs upon their backs likewise—
To guard against such foul deposits
Of other's meaning in my rhymes,
(A thing more needful here, because it's
A subject, ticklish in these times)—
I, here, to all such wits make known,
Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory,
'Tis this Religion—this alone—
I aim at in the following story:—
 

Ames, demi-ames, &c.

The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.

A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

“The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body—at every dart they depose an egg.” —Goldsmith


243

FABLE.

When Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become—
If 'tisn't civil to say old,
At least, a ci-devant jeune homme;
One evening, on some wild pursuit,
Driving along, he chanc'd to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
And took him in his vis-à-vis.
This said Religion was a Friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.
“I say”—quoth Royalty, who rather
Enjoy'd a masquerading joke—
“I say, suppose, my good old father,
“You lend me, for a while, your cloak.”

244

The Friar consented—little knew
What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted too
By a lac'd coat he got in stead.
Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows, shiver'd lamps to smash,
And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.
While nought could they, whose heads were broke,
Learn of the “why” or the “wherefore,”
Except that 'twas Religion's cloak
The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.
Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd
By the lac'd coat, grew frisky too;
Look'd big—his former habits spurn'd—
And storm'd about, as great men do:
Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses—
Said “d*mn you” often, or as bad—
Laid claim to other people's purses—
In short, grew either knave, or mad.

245

As work like this was unbefitting,
And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense, then sitting,
Summon'd the culprits both before it.
Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As Courts must wrangle to decide well),
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,
And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell.
With this proviso—should they be
Restor'd, in due time, to their senses,
They both must give security,
In future, against such offences—
Religion ne'er to lend his cloak,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke,—
But not to crack poor people's heads too.

246

FABLE VI. THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese,
The daughter of a learn'd Law Doctor,
Who had with all the subtleties
Of old and modern jurists stock'd her,
Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said,
And over hearts held such dominion,
That when her father, sick in bed,
Or busy, sent her, in his stead,
To lecture on the Code Justinian,
She had a curtain drawn before her,
Lest, if her charms were seen, the students
Should let their young eyes wander o'er her,
And quite forget their jurisprudence.

247

Just so it is with Truth, when seen,
Too dazzling far,—'tis from behind
A light, thin allegoric screen,
She thus can safest teach mankind.
 

Andreas.

Quand il étoit occupé d'aucune essoine, il envoyoit Novelle, sa fille, en son lieu lire aux escholes en charge, et, afin que la biaüté d'elle n'empêchât la pensée des oyants, elle avoit une petite courtine devant elle. —Christ. de Pise, Cité des Dames, p. 11. cap. 36.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told,
A little Lama, one year old—
Rais'd to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut—as near as can be reckon'd—
Some say his first tooth, some his second.
Chronologers and Nurses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary.
We only know th' important truth,
His Majesty had cut a tooth.

248

And much his subjects were enchanted,—
As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
And would have giv'n their heads, if wanted,
To make tee-totums for the baby.
Thron'd as he was by Right Divine—
(What Lawyers call Jure Divino,
Meaning a right to yours, and mine,
And every body's goods and rhino,)
Of course, his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succours;
Nothing was seen but pension'd Nurses,
And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.
Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet,
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye Gods, what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes
And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles!
What calls for papers to expose
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no—if Thibet had M. P.'s,
They were far better bred than these;

249

Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch's whole dentition.
But short this calm;—for, just when he
Had reach'd th' alarming age of three,
When Royal natures, and, no doubt,
Those of all noble beasts break out—
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh;
Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry,
And trod on the old Generals' toes;
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,
Rode cock-horse on the City maces,
And shot from little devilish guns,
Hard peas into his subjects' faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he play'd,
And grew so mischievous, God bless him!
That his Chief Nurse—with ev'n the aid
Of an Archbishop—was afraid,
When in these moods, to comb or dress him.

250

Nay, ev'n the persons most inclin'd
Through thick and thin, for Kings to stickle,
Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind,
Which they did not) an odious pickle.
At length some patriot lords—a breed
Of animals they've got in Thibet,
Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,
For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit—
Some patriot lords, who saw the length
To which things went, combin'd their strength,
And penn'd a manly, plain and free
Remonstrance to the Nursery;
Protesting warmly that they yielded
To none, that ever went before 'em,
In loyalty to him who wielded
Th' hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em;
That, as for treason, 'twas a thing
That made them almost sick to think of—
That they and theirs stood by the King,
Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,
When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!—

251

But, still—though much admiring Kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings),
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control
Of birch before their ruler's eyes;
But that, of late, such pranks, and tricks,
And freaks occurr'd the whole day long,
As all, but men with bishopricks,
Allow'd, in ev'n a King, were wrong.
Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd
That Honourable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,
As all good men desir'd to see;—
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping—
They ventur'd humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!
When this was read, no Congreve rocket,
Discharg'd into the Gallic trenches,

252

E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it
Produced upon the Nursery benches.
The Bishops, who of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss—
“What, whip a Lama! suffer birch
“To touch his sacred ------ infamous!
“Deistical!—assailing thus
“The fundamentals of the Church!—
“No—no—such patriot plans as these,
“(So help them Heaven—and their Sees!)
“They held to be rank blasphemies.”
Th' alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread through the land, till, such a pother,
Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state,
Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, though late,
Was put at last in execution.

253

The Parliament of Thibet met—
The little Lama, call'd before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.
And though, 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounc'd like B),
Yet to th' example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
That her long line of Lamas, since,
Have all behav'd themselves much better.
 

See Turner's Embassy to Thibet for an account of his interview with the Lama.—“Teshoo Lama (he says) was at this time eighteen months old. Though he was unable to speak a word, he made the most expressive signs, and conducted himself with astonishing dignity and decorum.”


254

FABLE VII. THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

Though soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think
Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,—
And reasoners, whether clad in pink,
Or red, or blue, are on the brink
(Nine cases out of ten) of treason.
Not many soldiers, I believe, are
As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else—woe to Kings, when Freedom's fever
Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then—but hold—'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:—

255

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shock'd to find he had, for neighbours,
Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,
Whose fires, beneath his very nose,
In heretic combustion rose.
But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,
Do what they will—so, one fine morning,
He turn'd the rascal Ghebers out,
First giving a few kicks for warning.
Then, thanking heaven most piously,
He knock'd their Temple to the ground,
Blessing himself for joy to see
Such Pagan ruins strew'd around.
But much it vex'd my Lord to find,
That, while all else obey'd his will,
The Fire these Ghebers left behind,
Do what he would, kept burning still.
Fiercely he storm'd, as if his frown
Could scare the bright insurgent down;

256

But, no—such fires are headstrong things,
And care not much for Lords or Kings.
Scarce could his Lordship well contrive
The flashes in one place to smother,
Before—hey presto!—all alive,
They sprung up freshly in another.
At length when, spite of prayers and damns,
'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,
His stewards came, with low salams,
Offering, by contract, to provide him
Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,
Much us'd, they said, at Ispahan,
Vienna, Petersburgh—in short,
Wherever Light's forbid at court,)
Machines no Lord should be without,
Which would, at once, put promptly out
All kinds of fires,—from staring, stark
Volcanos to the tiniest spark;
Till all things slept as dull and dark,
As, in a great Lord's neighbourhood,
'Twas right and fitting all things should.
Accordingly, some large supplies
Of these Extinguishers were furnish'd

257

(All of the true Imperial size),
And there, in rows, stood black and burnish'd,
Ready, where'er a gleam but shone
Of light or fire, to be clapp'd on.
But, ah, how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, so thought he) dark, secure—
The flame, at all its exits, entries,
Obstructed to his heart's content,
And black extinguishers, like sentries,
Plac'd over every dangerous vent—
Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,
His wrath, his rage, when, on returning,
He found not only the old blaze,
Brisk as before, crackling and burning,—
Not only new, young conflagrations,
Popping up round in various stations—
But, still more awful, strange, and dire,
Th' Extinguishers themselves on fire!!

258

They, they—those trusty, blind machines
His Lordship had so long been praising,
As, under Providence, the means
Of keeping down all lawless blazing,
Were now, themselves—alas, too true
The shameful fact—turn'd blazers too,
And, by a change as odd as cruel,
Istead of dampers, served for fuel!
Thus, of his only hope bereft,
“What,” said the great man, “must be done?”—
All that, in scrapes like this, is left
To great men is—to cut and run.
So run he did; while to their grounds,
The banish'd Ghebers blest return'd;
And, though their Fire had broke its bounds,
And all abroad now wildly burn'd,
Yet well could they, who lov'd the flame,
Its wand'ring, its excess reclaim;
And soon another, fairer Dome
Arose to be its sacred home,

259

Where, cherish'd, guarded, not confin'd,
The living glory dwelt inshrin'd,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Though born of earth, grew worthy heav'n.
 

The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the “Letters to Julia,”—a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers
Is, that such Lords are simple elves,
In trusting to Extinguishers,
That are combustible themselves.

260

FABLE VIII. LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG.

The money rais'd—the army ready—
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,
To the old tune “Eh, eh, Sire Âne!” —
Nought wanting, but some coup dramatic,
To make French sentiment explode,
Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,
And make the war “la dernière mode”—
Instantly, at the Pav'llon Marsan,
Is held an Ultra consultation—
What's to be done, to help the farce on?
What stage-effect, what decoration,

261

To make this beauteous France forget,
In one, grand, glorious pirouette,
All she had sworn to but last week,
And, with a cry of “Magnifique!”
Rush forth to this, or any war,
Without inquiring once—“What for?”
After some plans propos'd by each,
Lord Chateaubriand made a speech,
(Quoting, to show what men's rights are,
Or rather what men's rights should be,
From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Czar,
And other friends to Liberty,)
Wherein he—having first protested
'Gainst humouring the mob—suggested
(As the most high-bred plan he saw
For giving the new War éclat)
A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,
To be got up at Nôtre Dame,
In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!
Had by his hilt acquir'd such fame,
'Twas hop'd that he as little shyness
Would show, when to the point he came,)

262

Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,
Be christen'd Hero, ere he started;
With power, by Royal Ordonnance,
To bear that name—at least in France.
Himself—the Viscount Chateaubriand—
(To help th' affair with more esprit on)
Offering, for this baptismal rite,
Some of his own fam'd Jordan water —
(Marie Louise not having quite
Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her,)
The baptism, in this case, to be
Applied to that extremity,
Which Bourbon heroes most expose;
And which (as well all Europe knows)
Happens to be, in this Defender
Of the true Faith, extremely tender.
Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme
Too rash and premature should seem—

263

If thus discounting heroes, on tick—
This glory, by anticipation,
Was too much in the genre romantique
For such a highly classic nation,
He begg'd to say, the Abyssinians
A practice had in their dominions,
Which, if at Paris got up well,
In full costume, was sure to tell.
At all great epochs, good or ill,
They have, says Bruce (and Bruce ne'er budges
From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille
In public danc'd by the Twelve Judges —
And, he assures us, the grimaces,
The entre-chats, the airs and graces
Of dancers, so profound and stately,
Divert the Abyssinians greatly.
“Now (said the Viscount), there's but few
“Great Empires, where this plan would do:
“For instance, England;—let them take
“What pains they would—'twere vain to strive—

264

“The twelve stiff Judges there would make
“The worst Quadrille-set now alive.
“One must have seen them, ere one could
“Imagine properly Judge Wood,
“Performing, in his wig, so gaily,
“A queue-de-chat with Justice Bailey!
French Judges, though, are, by no means,
“This sort of stiff, be-wigg'd machines;
“And we, who've seen them at Saumur,
“And Poitiers lately, may be sure
“They'd dance quadrilles, or any thing,
“That would be pleasing to the King—
“Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,
“To please the little Duke de Bordeaux!”
After these several schemes there came
Some others—needless now to name,
Since that, which Monsieur plann'd, himself,
Soon doom'd all others to the shelf,
And was receiv'd par acclamation,
As truly worthy the Grande Nation.
It seems (as Monsieur told the story)
That Louis the Fourteenth,—that glory,

265

That Coryphée of all crown'd pates,—
That pink of the Legitimates—
Had, when, with many a pious pray'r, he
Bequeath'd unto the Virgin Mary
His marriage deeds, and cordon bleu ,
Bequeath'd to her his State Wig too—
(An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought,
The Virgin values as she ought)—
That Wig, the wonder of all eyes,
The Cynosure of Gallia's skies,
To watch and tend whose curls ador'd,
Re-build its towering roof, when flat,
And round its rumpled base, a Board
Of sixty Barbers daily sat ,

266

With Subs, on State-Days, to assist,
Well pension'd from the Civil List:—
That wondrous Wig, array'd in which,
And form'd alike to awe or witch,
He beat all other heirs of crowns,
In taking mistresses and towns,
Requiring but a shot at one,
A smile at t'other, and 'twas done!—
“That Wig (said Monsieur, while his brow
Rose proudly,) “is existing now;—
“That Grand Perruque, amid the fall
Of every other Royal glory,
“With curls erect survives them all,
“And tells in every hair their story.
“Think, think, how welcome at this time
“A relic, so belov'd, sublime!
“What worthier standard of the Cause
“Of Kingly Right can France demand?
“Or who among our ranks can pause
“To guard it, while a curl shall stand?
“Behold, my friends—(while thus he cried,
A curtain, which conceal'd this pride
Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside)

267

“Behold that grand Perruque—how big
“With recollections for the world—
“For France—for us—Great Louis' Wig,
“By Hippolyte new frizz'd and curl'd—
New frizz'd! alas, 'tis but too true,
“Well may you start at that word new
“But such the sacrifice, my friends,
“Th' Imperial Cossack recommends;
“Thinking such small concessions sage,
“To meet the spirit of the age,
“And do what best that spirit flatters,
“In Wigs—if not in weightier matters.
“Wherefore, to please the Czar, and show
“That we too, much-wrong'd Bourbons, know
“What liberalism in Monarchs is,
“We have conceded the New Friz!
“Thus arm'd, ye gallant Ultras, say,
“Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray?
“With this proud relic in our van,
“And D'Angoulême our worthy leader,
“Let rebel Spain do all she can,
“Let recreant England arm and feed her,—

268

“Urg'd by that pupil of Hunt's school,
“That Radical, Lord Liverpool
“France can have nought to fear—far from it—
“When once astounded Europe sees
“The Wig of Louis, like a Comet,
“Streaming above the Pyrenées,
“All's o'er with Spain—then on, my sons,
“On, my incomparable Duke,
“And, shouting for the Holy Ones,
“Cry Vive la Guerre—et la Perruque!
 

They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, “Eh, eh, eh, Sire Âne, eh, eh, eh, Sire Âne.” —Warton's Essay on Pope.

Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

See the Duke's celebrated letter to madame, written during his campaign in 1815, in which he says, “J'ai le posterieur légèrement endommagé.”

“On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance,” &c. —Book v.

“Louis XIV. fit présent à la Vierge de son cordon bleu, que l'on conserve soigneusement, et lui envoya ensuite, son Contrat de Mariage et le Traité des Pyrenées, magnifiquement relié.” —Mémoires, Anecdotes pour servir, &c.

The learned author of Recherches Historiques sur les Perruques says that the Board consisted but of Forty—the same number as the Academy. “Le plus beau tems des perruques fut celui où Louis XIV. commenç à porter, lui-même, perruque; ------ On ignore l'époque où se fit cette révolution; mais on sait qu'elle engagea Louis le Grand à y donner ses soins paternels, en créant, en 1656, quarante charges de perruquiers, suivant la cour; et en 1673, il forma un corps de deux cents perruquiers pour la Ville de Paris.” —P. 111.

A celebrated Coiffeur of the present day.


269

RHYMES ON THE ROAD,

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY, 1819.


271

[_]

The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an old calêche, for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses, made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been lately called “a psychological curiosity,” it is to be hoped that verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honoured with some appellation equally Greek.


273

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.—Bayes, Henry Stephens, Herodotus, &c.—Writing in Bed—in the Fields. —Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.—Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.—Madame de Staël.—Rhyming on the Road, in an old Calêche.

What various attitudes, and ways,
And tricks, we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some, like Bayes,
Usually stand, while they're inditing.
Poets there are, who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;
While some, like Henry Stephens, pour out
Rhymes by the dozen, while they ride.

274

Herodotus wrote most in bed;
And Richerand, a French physician,
Declares the clock-work of the head
Goes best in that reclin'd position.
If you consult Montaigne and Pliny on
The subject, 'tis their joint opinion
That Thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad, among the woods and fields;
That bards, who deal in small retail,
At home may, at their counters, stop;
But that the grove, the hill, the vale,
Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.
And, verily, I think they're right—
For, many a time, on summer eves,
Just at that closing hour of light,
When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves
For distant war his Haram bowers,
The Sun bids farewell to the flowers,
Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing
Mid all the glory of his going!—

275

Ev'n I have felt, beneath those beams,
When wand'ring through the fields alone,
Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,
Which, far too bright to be my own,
Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Power,
That was abroad at that still hour.
If thus I've felt, how must they feel,
The few, whom genuine Genius warms;
Upon whose souls he stamps his seal,
Graven with Beauty's countless forms;—
The few upon this earth, who seem
Born to give truth to Plato's dream,
Since in their thoughts, as in a glass,
Shadows of heavenly things appear,
Reflections of bright shapes that pass
Through other worlds, above our sphere!
But this reminds me I digress;—
For Plato, too, produc'd, 'tis said,
(As one, indeed, might almost guess,)
His glorious visions all in bed.

276

'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme;
And (if the wits don't do him wrong)
'Twixt death and epics pass'd his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long—
Like Phœbus in his car, at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes.
There was a hero 'mong the Danes,
Who wrote, we're told, 'mid all the pains
And horrors of exenteration,
Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look,
You'll find preserv'd, with a translation,
By Bartholinus in his book.

277

In short, 'twere endless to recite
The various modes in which men write.
Some wits are only in the mind,
When beaus and belles are round them prating;
Some, when they dress for dinner, find
Their muse and valet both in waiting;
And manage, at the self-same time,
To' adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.
Some bards there are who cannot scribble
Without a glove, to tear or nibble;
Or a small twig to whisk about—
As if the hidden founts of Fancy,
Like wells of old, were thus found out
By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
Such was the little feathery wand ,
That, held for ever in the hand
Of her , who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down
Those words of lightning to her page.

278

As for myself—to come, at last,
To the odd way in which I write—
Having employ'd these few months past
Chiefly in travelling, day and night,
I've got into the easy mode,
Of rhyming thus along the road—
Making a way-bill of my pages,
Counting my stanzas by my stages—
'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost—
In short, in two words, writing post.
 

Pleraque sua carmina equitans composuit. —Paravicin. Singular.

“Mes pensées dorment, si je les assis.”

—Montaigne.

Animus eorum qui in aperto aere ambulant, attollitur.

Pliny.

The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says:—

Lucifer Herodotum vidit Vesperque cubantem,
Desedit totos heic Plato sæpe dies.

Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, as well as a bad poet.

Eâdem curâ nec minores inter cruciatus animam infelicem agenti fuit Asbiorno Prudæ Danico heroi, cum Bruso ipsum, intestina extrahens, immaniter torqueret, tunc enim novem carmina cecinit, &c. —Bartholin. de Causis Contempt. Mort.

Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather.

Madame de Staël.


279

EXTRACT I.

Geneva.

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura. —Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.—Obliged to proceed on Foot.— Alps.—Mont Blanc.—Effect of the Scene.

'Twas late—the sun had almost shone
His last and best, when I ran on,
Anxious to reach that splendid view,
Before the day-beams quite withdrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first
Approaching scenes, where, they are told,
Such glories on their eyes will burst,
As youthful bards in dreams behold.
'Twas distant yet, and, as I ran,
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turn'd to the sun, who now began
To call in all his out-post rays,

280

And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.
Oh, how I wish'd for Joshua's power,
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no—the sun still less became,
Diminish'd to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
That on th' Apostles' heads descended!
'Twas at this instant—while there glow'd
This last, intensest gleam of light—
Suddenly, through the opening road,
The valley burst upon my sight!
That glorious valley, with its Lake,
And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty, and pure, and fit to make
The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling.
I stood entranc'd—as Rabbins say
This whole assembled, gazing world
Will stand, upon that awful day,
When the Ark's Light, aloft unfurl'd,
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity's own radiant sign!

281

Mighty Mont Blanc, thou wert to me,
That minute, with thy brow in heaven,
As sure a sign of Deity
As e'er to mortal gaze was given.
Nor ever, were I destined yet
To live my life twice o'er again,
Can I the deep-felt awe forget,
The dream, the trance that rapt me then!
'Twas all that consciousness of power
And life, beyond this mortal hour;—
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heav'n—as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies;—
That proud assurance of our claim
To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame—oh bitter shame!—
At having risk'd that splendid right,
For aught that earth through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!
'Twas all this, at that instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought—

282

'Twas all this, kindled to a glow
Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever, man might grow,
Ev'n upon earth a thing divine,
And be, once more, the creature made
To walk unstain'd th' Elysian shade!
No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in this bright place.
And, should my spirit's hope grow weak,
Should I, oh God, e'er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour,
And here, at the sublimest shrine
That Nature ever rear'd to Thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!
 

Between Vattay and Gex.


283

EXTRACT II. FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782.

A FRAGMENT.

Geneva.
Yes—if there yet live some of those,
Who, when this small Republic rose,
Quick as a startled hive of bees,
Against her leaguering enemies—
When, as the Royal Satrap shook
His well-known fetters at her gates,
Ev'n wives and mothers arm'd, and took
Their stations by their sons and mates;
And on these walls there stood—yet, no,
Shame to the traitors—would have stood

284

As firm a band as e'er let flow
At Freedom's base their sacred blood;
If those yet live, who, on that night,
When all were watching, girt for fight,
Stole, like the creeping of a pest,
From rank to rank, from breast to breast,
Filling the weak, the old with fears,—
Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,—
Betraying Honour to that brink,
Where, one step more, and he must sink—
And quenching hopes, which, though the last,
Like meteors on a drowning mast,
Would yet have led to death more bright,
Than life e'er look'd, in all its light!
Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms
Throughout th' embattled thousands ran,
And the high spirit, late in arms,
The zeal, that might have work'd such charms,
Fell, like a broken talisman—
Their gates, that they had sworn should be
The gates of Death, that very dawn,
Gave passage widely, bloodlessly,
To the proud foe—nor sword was drawn,

285

Nor ev'n one martyr'd body cast
To stain their footsteps, as they pass'd;
But, of the many sworn at night
To do or die, some fled the sight,
Some stood to look, with sullen frown,
While some, in impotent despair,
Broke their bright armour and lay down,
Weeping, upon the fragments there!—
If those, I say, who brought that shame,
That blast upon Geneva's name,
Be living still—though crime so dark
Shall hang up, fix'd and unforgiven,
In History's page, th' eternal mark
For Scorn to pierce—so help me, Heaven,
I wish the traitorous slaves no worse,
No deeper, deadlier disaster,
From all earth's ills no fouler curse
Than to have --- their master!
 

In the year 1782, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in 1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic-struck or betrayed, to the surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and submitted without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties. —See an account of this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland.


286

EXTRACT III.

Geneva.

Fancy and Truth.—Hippomenes and Atalanta.—Mont Blanc.—Clouds.

Even here, in this region of wonders, I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind;
Or, at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way.
What a glory it seem'd the first evening I gaz'd!
Mont Blanc, like a vision, then suddenly rais'd
On the wreck of the sunset—and all his array
Of high-towering Alps, touch'd still with a light
Far holier, purer than that of the Day,
As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!
Then the dying, at last, of these splendours away
From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,

287

One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly,
O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
Like the last sunny step of Astræa, when high
From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!
And those infinite Alps, stretching out from the sight
Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,
Stood lofty, and lifeless, and pale in the sky,
Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!
That scene—I have view'd it this evening again,
By the same brilliant light that hung over it then—
The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms—
Mont Blanc in his awfullest pomp—and the whole
A bright picture of Beauty, reclin'd in the arms
Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!
But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
One dazzling horizon of miracles, burst?
Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
Like the waves of eternity—where are they gone?

288

Clouds—clouds—they were nothing but clouds, after all!
That chain of Mont Blancs, which my fancy flew o'er,
With a wonder that nought on this earth can recall,
Were but clouds of the evening, and now are no more.
What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night,
Drop thy curtain, at once, and hide all from my sight.
 
------ nitidique cupidine pomi
Declinat cursus, aurumque volubile tollit.

Ovid.

It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.


289

EXTRACT IV.

Milan.

The Picture Gallery.—Albano's Rape of Proserpine.—Reflections. —Universal Salvation.—Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.—Genius.

Went to the Brera—saw a Dance of Loves
By smooth Albano ; him, whose pencil teems
With Cupids, numerous as in summer groves
The leaflets are, or motes in summer beams
'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth,
These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth
Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath—
Those, that are nearest, link'd in order bright,

290

Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath;
And those, more distant, showing from beneath
The others' wings their little eyes of light.
While see, among the clouds, their eldest brother,
But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss
This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!
Well might the Loves rejoice—and well did they,
Who wove these fables, picture, in their weaving,
That blessed truth, (which, in a darker day,
Origen lost his saintship for believing ,)—
That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray
Nor time, nor death, nor sin can overcast,
Ev'n to the depths of hell will find his way,
And soothe, and heal, and triumph there at last!
 

This picture, the Agar of Guercino, and the Apostles of Guido (the two latter of which are now the chief ornaments of the Brera), were formerly in the Palazzo Zampieri at Bologna.

------ that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine, gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis was gather'd.

The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the regions of the damned.

Guercino's Agar—where the bond-maid hears
From Abram's lips that he and she must part;

291

And looks at him with eyes all full of tears,
That seem the very last drops from her heart.
Exquisite picture!—let me not be told
Of minor faults, of colouring tame and cold—
If thus to conjure up a face so fair ,
So full of sorrow; with the story there
Of all that woman suffers, when the stay
Her trusting heart hath lean'd on falls away—
If thus to touch the bosom's tenderest spring,
By calling into life such eyes, as bring
Back to our sad remembrance some of those
We've smil'd and wept with, in their joys and woes,
Thus filling them with tears, like tears we've known,
Till all the pictur'd grief becomes our own—
If this be deem'd the victory of Art—
If thus, by pen or pencil, to lay bare
The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart
Before all eyes, be Genius—it is there!
 

It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Camuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.


292

EXTRACT V.

Padua.

Fancy and Reality.—Rain-drops and Lakes.—Plan of a Story. —Where to place the Scene of it.—In some unknown Region. Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.

The more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,
That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single hue unborrow'd from the sun—
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotomy of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on Peris' wings!

293

And such, I deem, the diff'rence between real,
Existing Beauty and that form ideal,
Which she assumes, when seen by poets' eyes,
Like sunshine in the drop—with all those dyes,
Which Fancy's variegating prism supplies.
I have a story of two lovers, fill'd
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,
And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.
But where to choose the region of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world—what real spot
Can be found out sufficiently Elysian
For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Oh for some fair Formosa, such as he,
The young Jew fabled of, in the' Indian Sea,
By nothing, but its name of Beauty, known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom—take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make, at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!

294

EXTRACT VI.

Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented.—Former Glory.—Expedition against Constantinople.—Giustinianis.—Republic. —Characteristics of the old Government.—Golden Book.— Brazen Mouths.—Spies.—Dungeons.—Present Desolation.

Mourn not for Venice—let her rest
In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No—let us keep our tears for them,
Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem,
Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause
Of human Rights—the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His mighty sword on land or flood.
Mourn not for Venice; though her fall
Be awful, as if Ocean's wave

295

Swept o'er her, she deserves it all,
And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish ev'ry King and State,
That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill, and only great
By outrage against God and man!
True, her high spirit is at rest,
And all those days of glory gone,
When the world's waters, east and west,
Beneath her white-wing'd commerce shone;
When, with her countless barks she went
To meet the Orient Empire's might ,
And her Giustinianis sent
Their hundred heroes to that fight.
Vanish'd are all her pomps, 'tis true,
But mourn them not—for vanish'd, too,

296

(Thanks to that Power, who, soon or late,
Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)
Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,
The chains, the rapine, and the blood,
That fill'd each spot, at home, abroad,
Where the Republic's standard stood.
Desolate Venice! when I track
Thy haughty course through centuries back;
Thy ruthless power, obey'd but curst—
The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
Had stronger fear not chill'd ev'n hate;—
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing Sarpi taught;—

297

Thy friendship, which, o'er all beneath
Its shadow, rain'd down dews of death ;—
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,
Clos'd against humble Virtue's name ,
But open'd wide for slaves who sold
Their native land to thee and shame ;—
Thy all-pervading host of spies,
Watching o'er every glance and breath,

298

Till men look'd in each others' eyes,
To read their chance of life or death;—
Thy laws, that made a mart of blood,
And legaliz'd the assassin's knife ;—

299

Thy sunless cells beneath the flood,
And racks, and Leads , that burnt out life;—
When I review all this, and see
The doom that now hath fall'n on thee;

300

Thy nobles, towering once so proud,
Themselves beneath the yoke now bow'd,—
A yoke, by no one grace redeem'd,
Such as, of old, around thee beam'd,
But mean and base as e'er yet gall'd
Earth's tyrants, when, themselves, enthrall'd,—
I feel the moral vengeance sweet,
And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeat
“Thus perish every King and State,
“That tread the steps which Venice trod,
“Strong but in ill, and only great,
“By outrage against man and God!”
 

Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.

“La famille entière des Justiniani, l'une des plus illustres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entière dans cette expédition; elle fournit cent combattans; c'était renouveler l'exemple d'une illustre famille de Rome; le même malheur les attendait.’ —Histoire de Venise, par Daru.

The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collection of Maxims which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued.

The spirit, in which these maxims of Father Paul are conceived, may be judged from the instructions which he gives for the management of the Venetian colonies and provinces. Of the former he says:—“Il faut les traiter comme des animaux féroces, les rogner les dents, et les griffes, les humilier souvent, surtout leur ôter les occasions de s'aguerrir. Du pain et le bâton, voilà ce qu'il leur faut; gardons l'humanité pour une meilleure occasion.”

For the treatment of the provinces he advises thus:— “Tendre à dépouiller les villes de leurs privilèges, faire que les habitans s'appauvrissent, et que leurs biens soient achetés par les Vénitiens. Ceux qui, dans les conseils municipaux, se montreront ou plus audacieux ou plus dévoués aux intérêts de la population, il faut les perdre ou les gagner à quelque prix que ce soit: enfin, s'il se trouve dans les provinces quelques chefs de parti, il faut les exterminer sous un prétexte quelconque, mais en évitant de recourir à la justice ordinaire. Que le poison fasse l'office de bourreau, cela est moins odieux et beaucoup plus profitable.”

Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.—Fate of Francesco Carrara, for which see Daru, vol. ii. p. 141.

“À l'exception des trente citadins admis au grand conseil pendant la guerre de Chiozzi, il n'est pas arrivé une seule fois que les talens ou les services aient paru à cette noblesse orgueilleuse des titres suffisans pour s'asseoir avec elle.” —Daru.

Among those admitted to the honour of being inscribed in the Libro d'oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.

By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition , not only was assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.

M. Daru has given an abstract of these Statutes, from a manuscript in the Bibliothêque du Roi, and it is hardly credible that such a system of treachery and cruelty should ever have been established by any government, or submitted to, for an instant, by any people. Among various precautions against the intrigues of their own Nobles, we find the following:— “Pour persuader aux étrangers qu'il était difficile et dangereux d'entretenir quelqu' intrigue secrète avec les nobles Vénitiens, on imagina de faire avertir mystérieusement le Nonce du Pape (afin que les autres ministres en fussent informés) que l'Inquisition avait autorisé les patriciens à poignarder quiconque essaierait de tenter leur fidélité. Mais craignant que les ambassadeurs ne prêtassent foi difficilement à une délibération, qui en effet n'existait pas, l'Inquisition voulait prouver qu'elle en était capable. Elle ordonna des recherches pour découvrir s'il n'y avait pas dans Venise quelque exilé au-dessus du commun, qui eût rompu son ban; ensuite un des patriciens qui étaient aux gages du tribunal, reçut la mission d'assassiner ce malheureux, et l'ordre de s'en vanter, en disant qu'il s'était porté à cet acte, parce que ce banni était l'agent d'un ministre étranger, et avait cherché à le corrompre.”—“Remarquons,” adds M. Daru, “que ceci n'est pas une simple anecdote; c'est une mission projetée, délibérée, écrite d'avance; une règle de conduite tracée par des hommes graves à leurs successeurs, et consignée dans des statuts.”

The cases, in which assassination is ordered by these Statutes, are as follow:—

“Un ouvrier de l'arsenal, un chef de ce qu'on appelle parmi les marins le menstrance, passait-il au service d'une puissance étrangère: il fallait le faire assassiner, surtout si c'était un homme réputé brave et habile dans sa profession.” (Art. 3. des Statuts.)

“Avait-il commis quelque action qu'on ne jugeait pas à propos de punir juridiquement, on devait le faire empoisonner,” (Art. 14.)

“Un artisan passait-il à l'étranger en y exportant quelque procédé de l'industrie nationale: c'était encore un crime capital, que la loi inconnue ordonnait de punir par un assassinat.” (Art. 26.)

The facility with which they got rid of their Duke of Bedfords, Lord Fitzwilliams, &c. was admirable: it was thus:—

“Le patricien qui se permettait le moindre propos contre le gouvernement, était admonété deux fois, et à la troisième noyé comme incorrigible.” (Art. 39.)

“Les prisons des plombs; c'est-à-dire ces fournaises ardentes qu'on avait distribuées en petites cellule sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais.”


301

EXTRACT VII.

Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.—Reflections, when about to read them.

Let me, a moment,—ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope—
As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key
Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,
If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven—
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know—and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like Psaphon's birds , speaking their master's name,
In ev'ry language, syllabled by Fame?—

302

How all, who've felt the various spells combin'd
Within the circle of that master-mind,—
Like spells, deriv'd from many a star, and met
Together in some wond'rous amulet,—
Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, rais'd
Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blaz'd;
Would love to trace th' unfolding of that power,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel, in watching o'er his first advance,
As did th' Egyptian traveller , when he stood
By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance
The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
They, too, who, mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,—
As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell
On earth of old , had touch'd them with its beams,—
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;

303

And which, ev'n now, struck as it is with blight,
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light;—
How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;
Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts!
Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change
Of scene and clime—th' adventures, bold and strange—
The griefs—the frailties, but too frankly told—
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings, we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,
And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd;
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,
In those who serv'd him, young, and serve him still;

304

Of generous aid, giv'n with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart;
Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.
While they, who court the world, like Milton's cloud ,
“Turn forth their silver lining” on the crowd,
This gifted Being wraps himself in night;
And, keeping all that softens, and adorns,
And gilds his social nature hid from sight,
Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.
 

Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions: whence the proverb, “Psaphonis aves.”

Bruce.

“And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood.” —Rev. viii.

“Did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?”

Comus.


305

EXTRACT VIII.

Venice.

Female Beauty at Venice.—No longer what it was in the Time of Titian.—His Mistress.—Various Forms in which he has painted her.—Venus.—Divine and profane Love.—La Fragilità d' Amore.—Paul Veronese.—His Women.—Marriage of Cana.—Character of Italian Beauty.—Raphael Fornarina. Modesty.

Thy brave, thy learn'd, have past away:
Thy beautiful!—ah, where are they?
The forms, the faces, that once shone,
Models of grace, in Titian's eye,
Where are they now? while flowers live on
In ruin'd places, why, oh why
Must Beauty thus with Glory die?
That maid, whose lips would still have mov'd,
Could art have breath'd a spirit through them;
Whose varying charms her artist lov'd
More fondly every time he drew them,
(So oft beneath his touch they pass'd,
Each semblance fairer than the last);

306

Wearing each shape that Fancy's range
Offers to Love—yet still the one
Fair idol, seen through every change,
Like facets of some orient stone,—
In each the same bright image shown.
Sometimes a Venus, unarray'd
But in her beauty —sometimes deck'd
In costly raiment, as a maid
That kings might for a throne select.
Now high and proud, like one who thought
The world should at her feet be brought;
Now, with a look reproachful, sad ,—
Unwonted look from brow so glad;—
And telling of a pain too deep
For tongue to speak or eyes to weep.
Sometimes, through allegory's veil,
In double semblance seen to shine,
Telling a strange and mystic tale
Of Love Profane and Love Divine —

307

Akin in features, but in heart
As far as earth and heav'n apart.
Or else (by quaint device to prove
The frailty of all worldly love)
Holding a globe of glass, as thin
As air-blown bubbles, in her hand,
With a young Love confin'd therein,
Whose wings seem waiting to expand—
And telling, by her anxious eyes,
That, if that frail orb breaks, he flies!
Thou, too, with touch magnificent,
Paul of Verona!—where are they,
The oriental forms , that lent
Thy canvass such a bright array?
Noble and gorgeous dames, whose dress
Seems part of their own loveliness;

308

Like the sun's drapery, which, at eve,
The floating clouds around him weave
Of light they from himself receive!
Where is there now the living face
Like those that, in thy nuptial throng ,
By their superb, voluptuous grace,
Make us forget the time, the place,
The holy guests they smile among,—
Till, in that feast of heaven-sent wine,
We see no miracles but thine.
If e'er, except in Painting's dream,
There bloom'd such beauty here, 'tis gone,—
Gone, like the face that in the stream
Of Ocean for an instant shone,
When Venus at that mirror gave
A last look, ere she left the wave.
And though, among the crowded ways,
We oft are startled by the blaze
Of eyes that pass, with fitful light,
Like fire-flies on the wing at night ,

309

'Tis not that nobler beauty, given
To show how angels look in heaven.
Ev'n in its shape most pure and fair,
'Tis Beauty, with but half her zone,—
All that can warm the Sense is there,
But the Soul's deeper charm is flown:—
'Tis Raphael's Fornarina,—warm,
Luxuriant, arch, but unrefin'd;
A flower, round which the noontide swarm
Of young Desires may buzz and wind,
But where true Love no treasure meets,
Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.
Ah no,—for this, and for the hue
Upon the rounded cheek, which tells
How fresh, within the heart, this dew
Of Love's unrifled sweetness dwells,
We must go back to our own Isles,
Where Modesty, which here but gives
A rare and transient grace to smiles,
In the heart's holy centre lives;
And thence, as from her throne diffuses
O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign,
That not a thought or feeling loses
Its freshness in that gentle chain.
 

In the Tribune at Florence.

In the Palazzo Pitti.

Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.

The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) “Sacred and Profane Love,” in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.

This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.

As Paul Veronese gave but little into the beau ideal, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

The Marriage of Cana.

“Certain it is (as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says) one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy.”


310

EXTRACT IX.

Venice.

The English to be met with every where.—Alps and Threadneedle Street.—The Simplon and the Stocks.—Rage for travelling.— Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.—Parasols and Pyramids.—Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China.

And is there then no earthly place,
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some curst, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision?
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Apennines
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!
If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As—“Baddish news from 'Change, my dear—
“The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill)—
“Are lowering fast—(what, higher still?)—

311

“And—(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)—
“Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Go where we may—rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch—
And scarce a pin's head difference which
Mixes, though ev'n to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And, if this rage for travelling lasts,
If Cockneys, of all sects and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands,
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees;
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids —

312

Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot, that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue “at home
Among the Blacks of Carolina—
Or, flying to the Eastward, see
Some Mrs. Hopkins, taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China!
 

It was pink spencers, I believe, that the imagination of the French traveller conjured up.


313

EXTRACT X. Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.

Mantua.
They tell me thou'rt the favour'd guest
Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit, like thine, to wake the jest,
No voice like thine, to breathe the song.

314

And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas, how different flows,
With thee and me the time away.
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows—
Still, if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.
Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,
And all th' assembled world to see,—
All but the one, the absent one,
Worth more than present worlds to me!
No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart—
My only joy, from thee apart,
From thee thyself, is sitting hours
And days, before thy pictur'd form—
That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers
Have made with all but life-breath warm!

315

And as I smile to it, and say
The words I speak to thee in play,
I fancy from their silent frame,
Those eyes and lips give back the same;
And still I gaze, and still they keep
Smiling thus on me—till I weep!
Our little boy, too, knows it well,
For there I lead him every day,
And teach his lisping lips to tell
The name of one that's far away.
Forgive me, love, but thus alone
My time is cheer'd, while thou art gone.
 
Utque ferunt lætus convivia læta
Et celebras lentis otia mista jocis;
Aut cithara æstivum attenuas cantuque calorem.
Hei mihi, quam dispar nunc mea vita tuæ!
Nec mihi displiceant quæ sunt tibi grata; sed ipsa est,
Te sine, lux oculis pene inimica meis.
Non auro aut gemmâ caput exornare nitenti
Me juvat, aut Arabo spargere odore comas:
Non celebres ludos fastis spectare diebus.
[OMITTED] Sola tuos vultus referens Raphaelis imago
Picta manu, curas allevat usque meas.
Huic ego delicias facio, arrideoque jocorque,
Alloquor et tanquam reddere verba queat.
Assensu nutuque mihi sæpe illa videtur
Dicere velle aliquid et tua verba loqui.
Agnoscit balboque patrem puer ore salutat.
Hoc solor longas decipioque dies.

316

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.
No—'tis not the region where Love's to be found—
They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
When she warbled her best—but they've nothing like Love.
Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,
Which Heav'n for the mild and the tranquil hath made—
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant,
Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade;
That feeling, which, after long years have gone by,
Remains, like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, ev'n though the flush of the colours may fly,
The features still live, in their first smiling truth;

317

That union, where all that in Woman is kind,
With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreath'd into one—like the column, combin'd
Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers.
Of this—bear ye witness, ye wives, every where,
By the Arno, the Po, by all Italy's streams—
Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share,
Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.
But it is not this, only;—born full of the light
Of a sun, from whose fount the luxuriant festoons
Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright,
That, beside him, our suns of the north are but moons,—
We might fancy, at least, like their climate they burn'd;
And that Love, though unus'd, in this region of spring,
To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd,
Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing.

318

And there may be, there are those explosions of heart,
Which burst, when the senses have first caught the flame;
Such fits of the blood as those climates impart,
Where Love is a sun-stroke, that maddens the frame.
But that Passion, which springs in the depth of the soul;
Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source
Of some small mountain rivulet, destin'd to roll
As a torrent, ere long, losing peace in its course—
A course, to which Modesty's struggle but lends
A more headlong descent, without chance of recall;
But which Modesty ev'n to the last edge attends,
And, then, throws a halo of tears round its fall!
This exquisite Passion—ay, exquisite, even
Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made,
As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven,
That heaven of Virtue from which it has stray'd—

319

This entireness of love, which can only be found,
Where Woman, like something that's holy, watch'd over,
And fenc'd, from her childhood, with purity round,
Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover!
Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses,
Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move;
And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses,
Can only be reach'd through the temple of Love!—
This perfection of Passion—how can it be found,
Where the mystery nature hath hung round the tie
By which souls are together attracted and bound,
Is laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye;—
Where nought of that innocent doubt can exist,
That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright,
Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist,
And curtains them round in their own native light;—
Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal,
Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought;

320

But the truths which, alone, we would die to conceal
From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones taught.
No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh,
Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray,
Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's sky,
Here is not the region, to fix or to stray.
For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross,
Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain,
What have they, a husband can mourn as a loss?
What have they, a lover can prize as a gain?

321

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

Music in Italy.—Disappointed by it.—Recollections of other Times and Friends.—Dalton.—Sir John Stevenson.—His Daughter.—Musical Evenings together.

[OMITTED]
If it be true that Music reigns,
Supreme, in Italy's soft shades,
'Tis like that Harmony, so famous,
Among the spheres, which, He of Samos
Declar'd, had such transcendent merit,
That not a soul on earth could hear it;
For, far as I have come—from Lakes,
Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,
Through Milan, and that land, which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest —
By Mincio's banks, and by that wave ,
Which made Verona's bard so blest—
Places, that (like the Attic shore,
Which rung back music, when the sea

322

Struck on its marge) should be, all o'er,
Thrilling alive with melody—
I've heard no music—not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float,
In my own land, among the throng,
And speak our nation's soul for song.
Nay, ev'n in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer, if not sweeter, makes
The flow'rs she from the wild-hedge takes—
Ev'n there, no voice hath charm'd my ear,
No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend —long, truly dear—
Thine, and thy lov'd Olivia's lays.
She, always beautiful, and growing
Still more so every note she sings—
Like an inspir'd young Sibyl , glowing
With her own bright imaginings!
And thou, most worthy to be tied
In music to her, as in love,

323

Breathing that language by her side,
All other language far above,
Eloquent Song—whose tones and words
In every heart find answering chords!
How happy once the hours we past,
Singing or listening all day long,
Till Time itself seem'd chang'd, at last,
To music, and we liv'd in song!
Turning the leaves of Haydn o'er,
As quick, beneath her master hand,
They open'd all their brilliant store,
Like chambers, touch'd by fairy wand;
Or o'er the page of Mozart bending,
Now by his airy warblings cheer'd,
Now in his mournful Requiem blending
Voices, through which the heart was heard.
And still, to lead our evening choir,
Was He invok'd, thy lov'd-one's Sire —
He, who, if aught of grace there be
In the wild notes I write or sing,

324

First smooth'd their links of harmony,
And lent them charms they did not bring;—
He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,
With whom, employ'd in his sweet art,
(That art, which gives this world of ours
A notion how they speak in heaven,)
I've pass'd more bright and charmed hours
Than all earth's wisdom could have given.
Oh happy days, oh early friends,
How Life, since then, hath lost its flowers!
But yet—though Time some foliage rends,
The stem, the Friendship, still is ours;
And long may it endure, as green,
And fresh as it hath always been!
How I have wander'd from my theme!
But where is he, that could return
To such cold subjects from a dream,
Through which these best of feelings burn?—
Not all the works of Science, Art,
Or Genius in this world are worth
One genuine sigh, that from the heart
Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.
 

Bergamo—the birth-place, it is said, of Harlequin.

The Lago di Garda.

Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazzo Borghese at the Capitol, &c.

Sir John Stevenson.


325

EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

Reflections on reading De Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347. —The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.—Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.—Rienzi's Speech.

'Twas a proud moment—ev'n to hear the words
Of Truth and Freedom 'mid these temples breath'd,
And see, once more, the Forum shine with swords,
In the Republic's sacred name unsheath'd—
That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day
For his dear Rome, must to a Roman be,
Short as it was, worth ages past away
In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.
'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon,
Which had, through many an age, seen Time untune

326

The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell
From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell—
The sound of the church clock , near Adrian's Tomb,
Summon'd the warriors, who had risen for Rome,
To meet unarm'd,—with none to watch them there,
But God's own eye,—and pass the night in prayer.
Holy beginning of a holy cause,
When heroes, girt for Freedom's combat, pause
Before high Heav'n, and, humble in their might,
Call down its blessing on that coming fight.
At dawn, in arms, went forth the patriot band;
And, as the breeze, fresh from the Tiber, fann'd
Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see
The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven —

327

Types of the justice, peace, and liberty,
That were to bless them, when their chains were riven.
On to the Capitol the pageant mov'd,
While many a Shade of other times, that still
Around that grave of grandeur sighing rov'd,
Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill,
And heard its mournful echoes, as the last
High-minded heirs of the Republic pass'd.
'Twas then that thou, their Tribune , (name, which brought
Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,)
Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek
To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:—

328

Romans, look round you—on this sacred place
“There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike men.
“What see you now? what solitary trace
“Is left of all, that made Rome's glory then?
“The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft
“Ev'n of its name—and nothing now remains
“But the deep memory of that glory, left
“To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains!
“But shall this be?—our sun and sky the same,—
“Treading the very soil our fathers trode,—
“What withering curse hath fall'n on soul and frame,
“What visitation hath there come from God,
“To blast our strength, and rot us into slaves,
Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves?
“It cannot be—rise up, ye Mighty Dead,—
“If we, the living, are too weak to crush
“These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread,
“Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush!
“Happy, Palmyra, in thy desert domes,
“Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss;
“And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes
“For the stork's brood, superb Persepolis!

329

“Thrice happy both, that your extinguish'd race
“Have left no embers—no half-living trace—
“No slaves, to crawl around the once proud spot,
“Till past renown in present shame's forgot.
“While Rome, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks,
“If lone and lifeless through a desert hurl'd,
“Would wear more true magnificence than decks
“The' assembled thrones of all the' existing world—
Rome, Rome alone, is haunted, stain'd and curst,
“Through every spot her princely Tiber laves,
“By living human things—the deadliest, worst,
“This earth engenders—tyrants and their slaves!
“And we—oh shame!—we, who have ponder'd o'er
“The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay ;

330

“Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore,
“Tracking our country's glories all the way—
“Ev'n we have tamely, basely kiss'd the ground
“Before that Papal Power,—that Ghost of Her,
“The World's Imperial Mistress—sitting, crown'd
“And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre!
“But this is past:—too long have lordly priests
“And priestly lords led us, with all our pride
“Withering about us—like devoted beasts,
“Dragg'd to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.
“'Tis o'er—the dawn of our deliverance breaks!
“Up from his sleep of centuries awakes
“The Genius of the Old Republic, free
“As first he stood, in chainless majesty,
“And sends his voice through ages yet to come,
“Proclaiming Rome, Rome, Rome, Eternal Rome!”
 

The “Conjuration de Nicolas Gabrini, dit de Rienzi,” by the Jesuit De Cerceau, is chiefly taken from the much more authentic work of Fortifiocca on the same subject. Rienzi was the son of a laundress.

It is not easy to discover what church is meant by Du Cerceau here:—“Il fit crier dans les rues de Rome, à son de trompe, que chacun eût à se trouver, sans armes, la nuit du lendemain, dix neuvième, dans l'église du château de Saint-Ange, au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon E'tat.”

“Les gentilshommes conjurés portaient devant lui trois étendarts. Nicolas Guallato, surnommé le bon diseur, portait le premier; qui était de couleur rouge, et plus grand que les autres. On y voyait des caractères d'or avec une femme assise sur deux lions, tenant d'une main le globe du monde, et de l'autre une Palme pour représenter la ville de Rome. C'était le Gonfalon de la Liberté. Le second, à fonds blanc, avec un St. Paul tenant de la droite une Epée nue et de la gauche la couronne de Justice, était porté par Etienne Magnacuccia, notaire apostolique. Dans le troisième, St. Pierre avait en main les clefs de la Concorde et de la Paix. Tout cela insinuait le dessein de Rienzi, qui était de rétablir la liberté la justice et la paix.” —Du Cerceau, liv. ii.

Rienzi.

The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning “Spirto gentil,” is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome. That Petrarch, however, was filled with high and patriotic hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, appears from one of his letters, quoted by Du Cerceau, where he says,—“Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme lecteur, mais comme témoin oculaire, qu'il nous a ramené le justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la sécurité, et tous les autres vestiges de l'âge d'or.”

This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:—“For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?”


331

EXTRACT XIV.

Rome.

Fragment of a Dream.—The great Painters supposed to be Magicians. —The Beginnings of the Art.—Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.—Improvements under Giotto, &c.— The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.—Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.—Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.—His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.—His female Heads all like each other.—Triangular Faces.—Portraits of Mona Lisa, &c. —Picture of Vanity and Modesty.—His chef-d'œuvre, the Last Supper.—Faded and almost effaced.

Fill'd with the wonders I had seen,
In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,
I felt the veil of sleep, serene,
Come o'er the memory of each scene,
As twilight o'er the landscape falls.
Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,
But such as suits a poet's rest—
That sort of thin, transparent sleep,
Through which his day-dreams shine the best.

332

Methought upon a plain I stood,
Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said,
With strange, miraculous power endu'd,
Were coming, each in turn, to shed
His arts' illusions o'er the sight,
And call up miracles of light.
The sky above this lonely place,
Was of that cold, uncertain hue,
The canvass wears, ere, warm'd apace,
Its bright creation dawns to view.
But soon a glimmer from the east
Proclaim'd the first enchantments nigh ;
And as the feeble light increas'd,
Strange figures mov'd across the sky,
With golden glories deck'd, and streaks
Of gold among their garments' dyes ;

333

And life's resemblance ting'd their cheeks,
But nought of life was in their eyes;—
Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets,
Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.
But soon these figures pass'd away;
And forms succeeded to their place,
With less of gold, in their array,
But shining with more natural grace,
And all could see the charming wands
Had pass'd into more gifted hands.
Among these visions there was one ,
Surpassing fair, on which the sun,
That instant risen, a beam let fall,
Which through the dusky twilight trembled,
And reach'd at length, the spot where all
Those great magicians stood assembled.
And as they turn'd their heads, to view
The shining lustre, I could trace

334

The bright varieties it threw
On each uplifted studying face ;
While many a voice with loud acclaim,
Call'd forth, “Masaccio” as the name
Of him, the' Enchanter, who had rais'd
This miracle, on which all gaz'd.
'Twas daylight now—the sun had risen,
From out the dungeon of old Night,—
Like the Apostle, from his prison
Led by the Angel's hand of light;
And—as the fetters, when that ray
Of glory reach'd them, dropp'd away ,
So fled the clouds at touch of day!
Just then, a bearded sage came forth,
Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand,
To trace upon the dusky earth
Strange learned figures with his wand ;

335

And oft he took the silver lute
His little page behind him bore,
And wak'd such music as, when mute,
Left in the soul a thirst for more!
Meanwhile, his potent spells went on,
And forms and faces, that from out
A depth of shadow mildly shone,
Were in the soft air seen about.
Though thick as midnight stars they beam'd,
Yet all like living sisters seem'd,
So close, in every point, resembling
Each other's beauties—from the eyes
Lucid as if through crystal trembling,
Yet soft as if suffused with sighs,
To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin,
Lovelily tapering, less and less,
Till, by this very charm's excess,
Like virtue on the verge of sin,
It touch'd the bounds of ugliness.

336

Here look'd as when they liv'd the shades
Of some of Arno's dark-ey'd maids—
Such maids as should alone live on,
In dreams thus, when their charms are gone:
Some Mona Lisa, on whose eyes
A painter for whole years might gaze ,
Nor find in all his pallet's dyes,
One that could even approach their blaze!
Here float two spirit shapes , the one,
With her white fingers to the sun
Outspread, as if to ask his ray
Whether it e'er had chanc'd to play
On lilies half so fair as they!
This self-pleas'd nymph, was Vanity—
And by her side another smil'd,
In form as beautiful as she,

337

But with that air, subdu'd and mild,
That still reserve of purity,
Which is to beauty like the haze
Of evening to some sunny view,
Softening such charms as it displays,
And veiling others in that hue,
Which fancy only can see through!
This phantom nymph, who could she be,
But the bright Spirit, Modesty?
Long did the learn'd enchanter stay
To weave his spells, and still there pass'd,
As in the lantern's shifting play,
Group after group in close array,
Each fairer, grander, than the last.
But the great triumph of his power
Was yet to come:—gradual and slow,
(As all that is ordain'd to tower
Among the works of man must grow,)
The sacred vision stole to view,
In that half light, half shadow shown,
Which gives to ev'n the gayest hue,
A sober'd, melancholy tone.

338

It was a vision of that last ,
Sorrowful night which Jesus pass'd
With his disciples when he said
Mournfully to them—“I shall be
“Betray'd by one, who here hath fed
“This night at the same board with me.”
And though the Saviour, in the dream
Spoke not these words, we saw them beam
Legibly in his eyes (so well
The great magician work'd his spell),
And read in every thoughtful line
Imprinted on that brow divine,
The meek, the tender nature, griev'd,
Not anger'd, to be thus deceiv'd—
Celestial love requited ill
For all its care, yet loving still—
Deep, deep regret that there should fall
From man's deceit so foul a blight

339

Upon that parting hour—and all
His Spirit must have felt that night,
Who, soon to die for human-kind,
Thought only, 'mid his mortal pain,
How many a soul was left behind
For whom he died that death in vain!
Such was the heavenly scene—alas
That scene so bright so soon should pass!
But pictur'd on the humid air,
Its tints, ere long, grew languid there ;
And storms came on, that, cold and rough,
Scatter'd its gentlest glories all—
As when the baffling winds blow off
The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,—
Till, one by one, the vision's beams
Faded away, and soon it fled,
To join those other vanish'd dreams
That now flit palely 'mong the dead,—
The shadows of those shades, that go,
Around Oblivion's lake, below!
 

The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

Cimabue, Giotto, &c.

The works of Masaccio.—For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescos are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

All the great artists studied, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescos.

“And a light shined in the prison ------ and his chains fell off from his hands.” Acts.

Leonardo da Vinci.

His treatise on Mechanics, Optics, &c. preserved in the Ambrosian library at Milan.

On dit que Léonard parut pour la première fois à la cour de Milan, dans un espèce de concours ouvert entre les meilleurs joueurs de lyre d'Italie. Il se présenta avec une lyre de sa facon, construit en argent. —Histoire de la Peinture en Italie.

He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan. See L'Histoire de la Peinture in Italie, liv. iii. chap. 45. The writer of that interesting work (to whom I take this opportunity of offering my acknowledgments, for the copy he sent me a year since from Rome,) will see I have profited by some of his observations on this celebrated picture.

Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.


340

EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.— Correggio.—Guido.—Raphael, &c.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen.—Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.

No wonder, Mary, that thy story
Touches all hearts—for there we see
The soul's corruption, and its glory,
Its death and life combin'd in thee.
From the first moment, when we find
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,—like demons shrin'd
Unholily in that fair form,—
Till when, by touch of Heav'n set free,
Thou cam'st, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of Bethany),
And, covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—
Thence on, through all thy course of love
To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him,

341

Whose bitter death-cup from above
Had yet this cordial round the brim,
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by Him to the last:—
Till, oh, blest boon for truth like thine!
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone;
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,
Had pass'd away its mortal shroud,
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts, less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever given,
Ev'n under God's own kindly hand,
Of what Repentance wins from Heaven!
No wonder, Mary, that thy face,
In all its touching light of tears,
Should meet us in each holy place,
Where Man before his God appears,
Hopeless—were he not taught to see
All hope in Him, who pardon'd thee!

342

No wonder that the painter's skill
Should oft have triumph'd in the power
Of keeping thee all lovely still
Ev'n in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;
That soft Correggio should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form;
That Guido's pale, unearthly hues
Should, in pourtraying thee, grow warm;
That all—from the ideal, grand,
Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enamelling touch
Of smooth Carlino—should delight
In picturing her, who “lov'd so much,”
And was, in spite of sin, so bright!
But, Mary, 'mong these bold essays
Of Genius and of Art to raise
A semblance of those weeping eyes—
A vision, worthy of the sphere
Thy faith has earn'd thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,—
None e'er hath match'd, in grief or grace,
Canova's day-dream of thy face,

343

In those bright sculptur'd forms, more bright
With true expression's breathing light,
Than ever yet, beneath the stroke
Of chisel, into life awoke.
The one , pourtraying what thou wert
In thy first grief,—while yet the flower
Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow, consuming power;
And mingling earth's seductive grace
With heav'n's subliming thoughts so well,
We doubt, while gazing, in which place
Such beauty was most form'd to dwell!—
The other, as thou look'dst, when years
Of fasting, penitence, and tears
Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art
With half such speaking power express
The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness.

344

Those wasting arms, that keep the trace,
Ev'n still, of all their youthful grace,
That loosen'd hair, of which thy brow
Was once so proud,—neglected now!—
Those features, ev'n in fading worth
The freshest bloom to others given,
And those sunk eyes, now lost to earth,
But, to the last, still full of heaven!
Wonderful artist! praise, like mine—
Though springing from a soul, that feels
Deep worship of those works divine,
Where Genius all his light reveals—
How weak 'tis to the words that came
From him, thy peer in art and fame ,
Whom I have known, by day, by night,
Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And, while his lingering hand would steal
O'er every grace the taper's rays ,
Give thee, with all the generous zeal
Such master spirits only feel,
That best of fame, a rival's praise!
 

This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression, of the intensest kind, is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva, at Paris.

Chantrey.

Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice by the light of a small candle.


345

EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens. —Their Ménage.—Its Grossness.—Claude Anet.— Reverence with which the Spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.—Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene.—Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.—Impostures of Men of Genius.— Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, &c.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw
Round all that's vicious, weak, and low,
Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes
As dazzle ev'n the steadiest eyes.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
'Tis worse than weak—'tis wrong, 'tis shame,
This mean prostration before Fame;
This casting down, beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be career'd o'er, as they please.

346

No—give triumphant Genius all
For which his loftiest wish can call:
If he be worshipp'd, let it be
For attributes, his noblest, first;
Not with that base idolatry,
Which sanctifies his last and worst.
I may be cold;—may want that glow
Of high romance, which bards should know;
That holy homage, which is felt
In treading where the great have dwelt;
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,
I fear, I feel, I have it not:—
For here, at this still hour, to me
The charms of this delightful spot;
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget;
This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet;
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,
Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words
Of Man disturb'd their orisons;

347

Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill-side, with fruit-trees lin'd,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope
Through weeping willows, like the snatches
Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope
Ev'n through the shade of sadness catches!—
All this, which—could I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues
Of Genius can no more disguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play—
This scene, which would have fill'd my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is;—
Of Love, where self hath only part,
As echoing back another's bliss;
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills
Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequester'd rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow;

348

Of happy days, that share their beams
'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ;
Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,
The moonlight of the morning's joy!—
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those gross mementos near;
Those sullying truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,
And vanities of that man's life,
Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd
With Fancy's flame (and it was his,
In fullest warmth and radiance) show'd
What an impostor Genius is;
How, with that strong, mimetic art,
Which forms its life and soul, it takes
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,
Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes;
How like a gem its light may smile
O'er the dark path, by mortals trod,
Itself as mean a worm, the while,
As crawls at midnight o'er the sod;
What gentle words and thoughts may fall
From its false lip, what zeal to bless,

349

While home, friends, kindred, country, all,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness;
How, with the pencil hardly dry
From colouring up such scenes of love
And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,
And dream, and think through heav'n they rove,
They, who can thus describe and move,
The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor know a joy, above
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!
How all, in short, that makes the boast
Of their false tongues, they want the most;
And, while with freedom on their lips,
Sounding their timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in the' eclipse
Of priestcraft, and of slavery,—
They may, themselves, be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made
To blossom in his smile, or grow,
Like stunted brushwood, in his shade.
Out on the craft!—I'd rather be
One of those hinds, that round me tread,

350

With just enough of sense to see
The noonday sun that's o'er his head,
Than thus, with high-built genius curst,
That hath no heart for its foundation,
Be all, at once, that's brightest, worst,
Sublimest, meanest in creation!

351

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.


353

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. CORRY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)
Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,
For the ninth time—oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns his Comedy!
When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,
And sees his play-bill circulate—alas,
The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Through box and gallery waft your well-known name,

354

While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.
'Tis said our worthy Manager intends
To help my night, and he, you know, has friends.
Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,
There's nothing like him! wits, at his request,
Are turn'd to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;
Soldiers, for him, good “trembling cowards” make,
And beaus, turn'd clowns, look ugly for his sake;
For him ev'n lawyers talk without a fee,
For him (oh friendship!) I act tragedy!
In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks
Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.
With such a manager we can't but please,
Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s ,
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Arm'd with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;

355

You, on our side, R. P. upon our banners,
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt—
In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.
Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,
At Shakspeare's altar , shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-lov'd dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!
 

The late Mr. Richard Power.

The brief appellation by which those persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Covent Garden, clamoured for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

The initials of our manager's name.

This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.


356

EXTRACT FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

[OMITTED]
Yet, even here, though Fiction rules the hour,
There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds
Ev'n o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest ,
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.
Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;

357

Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails—
As glow-worms keep their splendour for their tails.
I know not why—but time, methinks, hath pass'd
More fleet than usual since we parted last.
It seems but like a dream of yester-night,
Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;
And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue
Of former joy, we come to kindle new.
Thus ever may the flying moments haste
With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,
But deeply print and lingeringly move,
When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.
Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,
Let this be still the solstice of the year,
Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,
And slowly sink to level life again.
 

The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.


358

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A Sylph, as bright as ever sported
Her figure through the fields of air,
By an old swathy Gnome was couted,
And, strange to say, he won the fair.
The annals of the oldest witch
A pair so sorted could not show,
But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,
The Rothschild of the world below;
And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
Who knocks them down to the best bidder.
Home she was taken to his Mine—
A Palace, paved with diamonds all—
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,
Sent out her tickets for a Ball.

359

The lower world, of course, was there,
And all the best; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare,—
A few old Sylphids, who lov'd supper.
As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp
Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin,
And the Gnome's Halls exhal'd a damp,
Which accidents from fire were bad in;
The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—
Musical flint-mills—swiftly play'd
By elfin hands—that, flashing round,
Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,
Gave out, at once, both light and sound.
Bologna stones, that drink the sun;
And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wild-fire run—
Cork'd up in crystal carefully.

360

Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes,
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes,
That by their own gay light were eat up.
'Mong the few guests from Ether, came
That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call—
My Lady knew him but by name,
My Lord, her husband not at all.
Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, appriz'd
That he was coming, and, no doubt,
Alarm'd about his torch, advis'd
He should, by all means, be kept out.
But others disapprov'd this plan,
And, by his flame though somewhat frighted,
Thought Love too much a gentleman,
In such a dangerous place to light it.
However, there he was—and dancing
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They look'd like two fresh sunbeams, glancing,
At daybreak, down to earth together.

361

And all had gone off safe and well,
But for that plaguy torch, whose light,
Though not yet kindled—who could tell
How soon, how devilishly, it might?
And so it chanced—which, in those dark
And fireless halls was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.
Whether it came (when close entangled
In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,
Or from the lucciole, that spangled
Her locks of jet—is all surmise;
But certain 'tis the' ethereal girl
Did drop a spark, at some odd turning,
Which, by the waltz's windy whirl
Was fann'd up into actual burning.
Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze,
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

362

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that, which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,)
Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other, but not kiss.
At first the torch look'd rather bluely,—
A sign, they say, that no good boded—
Then quick the gas became unruly,
And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.
Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mix'd together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!
While, 'mid these victims of the torch,
The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part—
Found lying, with a livid scorch
As if from lightning, o'er her heart!

363

[OMITTED]
“Well done”—a laughing Goblin said—
Escaping from this gaseous strife—
“'Tis not the first time Love has made
“A blow-up in connubial life!”
 
------ Partique dedêre
Oscula quisque suæ, non pervenientia contrà.

Ovid.


364

REMONSTRANCE.

[_]

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.

What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name—
Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to run
The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!
Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal,
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race, offer'd up for the weal
Of a nation, that swears by that martyrdom yet!
Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
From the mighty arena, where all that is grand,
And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life,
'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

365

Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare
Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.
With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those
Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose
To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;
With an ardour for liberty, fresh as, in youth,
It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellow'd, ev'n now, by that mildness of truth,
Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;
With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er;
But a current, that works out its way into light
Through the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

366

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledg'd by thy Name.
Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches, that spring from the old Russell tree,
Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her Shrine.

367

MY BIRTH-DAY.

My birth-day”—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said —“were he ordain'd to run
“His long career of life again,
“He would do all that he had done.”—
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;

368

Far otherwise—of time it tells,
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mock'd; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,
That cross'd my pathway, for his star.—
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The' imperfect picture o'er again,
With pow'r to add, retouch, efface
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away—
All—but that Freedom of the Mind,
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!
 

Fontenelle.—“Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait.”


369

FANCY.

The more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,
That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,—
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!

370

FANNY, DEAREST!

SONG.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.

371

They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

372

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

Carm. 70.

TO LESBIA.

Dicebas quondam, &c.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love,
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, ev'n to share the couch of Jove,
Thou would'st not, Lesbia, part from mine.
How purely wert thou worshipp'd then!
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,—
But lov'd, as children by their sires.
That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;—
I know thee now—and though these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.

373

Yes, sorceress—mad as it may seem—
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem,
And I, at once, adore—and scorn thee.

Carm. 11.

Pauca nunciate meæ puellæ.

[OMITTED]
Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
The fates have will'd through life I've rov'd,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I've lov'd.
Tell her from fool to fool to run,
Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.
Bid her forget—what now is past—
Our once dear love, whose ruin lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last,
Which feels the ploughshare's edge, and dies!

374

Carm. 29.

Peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque
Ocelle.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep, enwreath'd by Neptune's smiles—
How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking—can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?
Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last:
When, tired with toil o'er land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor

375

Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more.
This, this it is, that pays alone
The ills of all life's former track.—
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.
And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heav'n like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!
 
Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto.

376

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

Nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, &c. &c. Lib. iv. Carm. 13.

Never shall woman's smile have power
“To win me from those gentle charms!”—
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
When Love first gave thee to my arms.
And still alone thou charm'st my sight—
Still, though our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.
Would thou wert fair for only me,
And could'st no heart but mine allure!—
To all men else unpleasing be,
So shall I feel my prize secure.

377

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.
Charm of my life! by whose sweet power
All cares are hush'd, all ills subdued—
My light, in even the darkest hour,
My crowd, in deepest solitude!
No, not though heaven itself sent down
Some maid, of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,
Would he for her forsake those arms!
 
Displiceas aliis, sic ego tutus ero.
Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atrâ
Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis.

378

IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam
Made mischief enough in their day:—
God be prais'd that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,
Depends not on us, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,
The world would have doubly to rue thee;
Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it to thee.

379

INVITATION TO DINNER,

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.
Some think we bards have nothing real;
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,—
(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops, and stews, and hashes,
First course—a Phœnix, at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;

380

And nightingales, berhymed to death—
Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.
Such fare may suit those bards, who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple—
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!
 

A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated but by a small verdant valley.


381

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.

WRITTEN MAY, 1832.

All, as he left it!—even the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
Just fallen from his gifted hand.
Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
Around that relic breath'd their last.
Ah, powerless now—like talisman,
Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.

382

Yet though, alas! the gifts that shone
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;
Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
Rest on the enchanter's broken wand,
Each earth-born spell it work'd arise
Before him in succession grand?—
Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;
The unshrinking Truth, that lets her light
Through Life's low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:
Yet softening, as she frowns along,
O'er scenes which angels weep to see—
Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,
In pity of the Misery.
True bard!—and simple, as the race
Of true-born poets ever are,
When, stooping from their starry place,
They're children, near, though gods, afar.

383

How freshly doth my mind recall,
'Mong the few days I've known with thee,
One that, most buoyantly of all,
Floats in the wake of memory ;
When he, the poet, doubly graced,
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain;
Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius though it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,
Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:—
Friend of long years! of friendship tried
Through many a bright and dark event;
In doubts, my judge—in taste, my guide—
In all, my stay and ornament!

384

He, too, was of our feast that day,
And all were guests of one, whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray
Around the lyre of this great land;
In whose sea-odes—as in those shells
Where Ocean's voice of majesty
Seems still to sound—immortal dwells
Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.
Such was our host; and though, since then,
Slight clouds have ris'n twixt him and me,
Who would not grasp such hand again,
Stretch'd forth again in amity?
Who can, in this short life, afford
To let such mists a moment stay,
When thus one frank, atoning word,
Like sunshine, melts them all away?
Bright was our board that day—though one
Unworthy brother there had place;
As 'mong the horses of the Sun,
One was, they say, of earthly race.

385

Yet, next to Genius is the power
Of feeling where true Genius lies;
And there was light around that hour
Such as, in memory, never dies;
Light which comes o'er me, as I gaze,
Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,
Like all such dreams of vanish'd days,
Brightly, indeed—but mournfully!
 

Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honour of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, &c. which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.


386

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.
When I would paint thee, as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart—
The graceful child, in beauty's dawn,
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out—like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next, in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own lov'd Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown

387

Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;—
Or, in the world's resplendent throng,
As I have mark'd thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,
To which even Admiration's eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh;—
A creature, circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source,
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa through the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.
Now, too, another change of light!
As noble bride, still meekly bright,
Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman's love;
And show'st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose thus high-bred Beauty weaves.

388

Wonder not if, where all's so fair,
To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene
I've watch'd thee through so bright hath been,
The' enamour'd Muse should, in her quest
Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,
Hailing thee beautiful in all!

389

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

390

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

391

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever—ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heav'n knows,
The things he rav'd about while waking.
To let him pine so were a sin;—
One, to whom all the world's a debtor—
So Doctor Hymen was call'd in,
And Love that night slept rather better.
Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Though still some ugly fever latent;—
“Dose, as before”—a gentle opiate,
For which old Hymen has a patent.
After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

392

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

Carbone notati.

Ay—down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er—
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!
Let their fate be a mock-word—let men of all lands
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

393

When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forg'd into fetters to enter their souls.
And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driv'n,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think—as the Doom'd often think of that heav'n
They had once within reach—that they might have been free.
Oh shame! when there was not a bosom, whose heat
Ever rose 'bove the zero of C---h's heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;
When the world stood in hope—when a spirit, that breath'd
The fresh air of the olden time, whisper'd about;
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!
When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view,

394

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!
Oh shame! that, in such a proud moment of life,
Worth the hist'ry of ages, when, had you but hurl'd
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world—
That then—oh! disgrace upon manhood—ev'n then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cow'r down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.
It is strange, it is dreadful:—shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, “Freedom is o'er;”—
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

395

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully ev'n chains by a struggle like this!
END OF THE SEVENTH VOLUME.