 | The Modern Orlando |  |
147
CANTO VI.
THE CLARET VINEYARDS—THE GIRONDE—THE COLONEL OF HULANS—NISMES—THE CAMISARDS—PUBLIC CHARACTERS—ABD-EL-KADER—THE MOORISH BANQUET.
I
One peep upon thy “flowery banks,” Garonne,Before I turn my ponies' heads from France.
“Thy flowery banks,”—ma foi—half marsh, half stone!
A few scrubbed trees, as leafless as a lance;
Deep gullies, where green, stagnant waters glance;
Brown sheets of sand, mud mounds, and heaps of gravel;
Hovels, where, all night long, mosquitoes dance;
Plains, where but thistles thrive, and donkeys travel;—
I now proceed, Garonne, thy glories to unravel.
148
II
What shall I choose, à boire? The world's first vintageSparkles before me, with its hundred names;
Nature's prime glass, for taste, bouquet, and tintage!
Pray, Nature, is it not a thousand shames,
That England, from the Ganges to the Thames,
Has never made a glass of wine, re verâ.
What tinsel sets this fighting world in flames?
I'll seize Bordeaux, or colonize Madeira—
War then would stamp some sense, on Britain's “glorious era.”
III
Medoc! thou charmer !—Not in outward show,(Unless a sand-bank landscape can be pretty,)
But, all thy names are spells—Château-Margaux!
(Enough, to wake a “Privilege Committee,”
Nay, make the College of Physicians witty,)
Latour, Lafitte, with old Sir Samuel's brands ;
(Man's sole excuse for dining in “the City.”)
Thou nectar-fount, amid the Desert sands;
Thou purple Bacchus-bath, Oasis of the Landes!
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IV
This was the charm, that made the Girondist—Gascon of Gascons,—folly turned sublime!
The will-o'-wisp of France's sanguine mist;
The noblest madman of a maddened time,
Embodied essence of his vinous clime!
Young Vergniaud's fiery tongue, bold Gensonnè,
The Harlequins of France's Pantomime,
Brilliant, though rather fierce, (like snakes at play.)
All guillotined, at last; but then—they had their day.
V
They had their day—and what can man have more?Theirs were not souls to dwindle into age.
They had their triumph, in the rabble's roar;
They showed their buskins on the rabble stage;
They had the Frenchman's wish—they were the “rage!”
They ran their season—like a cap or gown;
They fill, at least, a note, in history's page;
Like Punch's trumpet, they awoke “the Town.”
They climbed their slippery pole—well, what is all renown?
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VI
Thus, young Achilles, bright and beautiful,Sheathed in new armour, battling with the gods,
(Nay, to his king not much more dutiful,)
Disdained to linger down our life of clods,
Left, to his brother-monarchs their “white rods!”
Their “maids of honour,” “stars,” and elbow-chairs;
Took Fortune's gallant game, “against the odds;”
To Glory's topmost turret sprang up-stairs,
And left the World below, to night-caps and grey hairs!
VII
And yet, amid thy plains of sand, Medoc,My ramblings found a little, shadowy vale,
Where many a blossom draperied the rock,
And rich exotics still perfumed the gale;
And, tissued with the woodbine's blushing trail,
A Tuscan portal stood, by Time deep-dyed:—
I still remember its old owner's tale,
Told me, one evening, by my peasant guide;
Its moral—“Don't provoke your man—until he 's tried.”
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THE COLONEL OF HULANS.
But, to my tale.—Prince Wolfgang, Slachter-Sclavo,A famous name in old Croatia's clans,
Much of the prince, (and something of the bravo;)
A native monarch, in his mountain Schanze ;
Was Austria's first-rate Colonel of Hulans;
Whiskered like twenty tigers, six feet four—
Woe to the man who cut across his plans,
Sabres were out, the business soon was o'er.
Young, handsome,—he was all, that all court dames adore.
IX
One evening, as he strode along the Prater ,All lace and diamonds, for a palace ball;
He saw an old Italian and his daughter,
Watching the sunset by the Rosenthal .
The girl was lovely, bright-eyed; once for all,
Around her neck our hero threw his arms.
The startled beauty gave an ultra-squall,
Flew like a frightened bird, and shawl'd her charms.
Her father grasped him fast, and up came the gendarmes.
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X
“Fool,” cried the Prince, “I have no time to waste,Here, take this purse, and wipe the jungfrau's eyes,
I wish her but less tongue, and better taste.”
The father, with a burning cheek, replies,
“I pardon insult, when the insulter dies.”
His Highness stared—“What! you want satisfaction?
Well, if you will be pinked, come on—time flies!”
The daughter rushed between them in distraction,
She fainted, and the pair were instantly in action.
XI
The Prince had fought a score of dashing duels;A hair-splitter with pistol, lance and sabre;
But, if you now had given him the crown-jewels,
He could not touch the coat-skirts of his neighbour.
In vain he shifted, lunged—he lost his labour.
He felt a twinge,—his court costume was gored!
Wild as a dancing Dervish to his tabor,
He bounded; lunge on lunge in vain were poured;
He felt another twinge—grew faint, and dropped his sword!
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XII
That night, the Prince was missing at the ball.His pair of twinges housed him six long weeks!
Court sorrow, ev'n for “Highnesses,” is small:
The ladies thought him “shot among the Greeks.”
The nobles thought him gone to stop the leaks,
That Faro makes in many a noble purse;
But when they saw him come, with hollow cheeks,
And all his staff, a doctor and a nurse,
They laughed and wished him joy.—“'Twas well it was no worse.”
XIII
Six months rolled on; he was himself again,Was General, and Imperial Aide-de-camp,
When started up at Shonbrunn , of all men,
The old Italian, in the birthday-throng!
“Prince,” whispered he, “when one has done me wrong,
I punish him, until he does me right—
You are a clever swordsman, come along!”
“Friend,” said the startled Prince, “'Tis gala-night.”
“March,” was the sole reply; “while they dance on, we 'll fight.”
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XIV
His Highness wished him at th' Antipodes,But, when one has no help for't, one must go.
'Twas a sweet evening, fragrance all the breeze,
The stars began deliciously to glow,
Through the tall casements gleamed th' Imperial show.
His Highness would much rather have been dancing;
But there they stood, with swords out, toe to toe.
(I spare the ladies all the sabre-glancing)
The Prince soon got a hit, which spoiled that night's romancing.
XV
The old Italian brought him some pond water;(Tastes in such circumstances are not nice.)
And parting said—“That touch was from my daughter,
Who bade me give your Highness this advice;
‘No more to think all virtue has its price.’”
So, gently laying him upon his back,
He made his bow, and vanished in a trice.
There lay his Highness, filled with musings black,
Of muffled drum, plumed hearse, led horse, and crape shabracque.
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XVI
It cost him just a twelvemonth, to recover.At length, he dropped the luxury of crutches;
Flew to St. Petersburg, to get all over;
Thought he had 'scaped, at last, his torturer's clutches,
And flirted with a millionnaire, a Duchess.
His suit was on the instant of succeeding,
When, presto! by him passed the man of touches,
Who coolly whispered, on his boot-toe treading,
“Five minutes with you, Prince, before your noble wedding.”
XVII
He shuddered at the sound; soup-maigre, flannel,Rushed on his soul, he sickened of ptisan;
He wished himself in Neva's deepest channel,
You might have brained the warrior with a fan:
Down his bold forehead drops of anguish ran.
A twelvemonth more between his bed and chair!
Was quite enough a General to unman.
The old Italian, with his calm, cool air,
Led on from street to street—he followed in despair.
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XVIII
Earth has few places, where one's final gazeCould bid the world a more superb good night:
Palace on Palace, in the sunset blaze;
Peter's bronze statue, glittering on its height,
The Monolithe , a shaft of sculptured light,
The Neva's sheet of lapis-lazuli,
The Taurida , like frosted silver, bright—
Domes, flags, costumes of every rainbow dye;
And, vaulting all earth's pomp, the North's most sapphire sky.
XIX
Their way was by the Admiralty-Strasse,They left it filled with man and woman-kind;
The Prince glanced back upon the glittering mass,
And wished his old tormentor dead or blind.
They stopped at last.—A scream was heard behind,
A female sprang between their sabres drawn,
Then on the old Italian's neck reclined,
Panting and trembling, like a frightened fawn;
His Highness gazed—and found new light upon him dawn.
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XX
Though no great sentimentalist, her bloomHad often, in his fancy, seemed to sail
Across the darkness of his lonely room.
He thought her lovelier still, though now so pale.
Ladies, pray, finish for yourselves the tale.
Woman is woman, whether young or old.
The rose, they say, best blossoms in the gale.
The maiden's blush, the sex's story told.
Some love the impudent, but all adore the bold!
XXI
When all was settled, swords on both sides sheathed,His hand a captive to the lady's eyes;
('Twas the first time that he had freely breathed,
For two full years or more) his Highness cries,
“Mon père, now tell me, where the secret lies,
That in our tiltings gave my sword no chance.”
“Prince,” said Mon père “let that be no surprise;
All Europe knows me—I'm The Count Vaillance,
First swordsman to the Guards, and Grande Epée de France!”
158
NISMES .
Nismes, it was not thy Amphitheatre,Though, model of the lovely and the vast;
Nor Parian temple, in its thousandth year,
(Rome's legacy, her noblest and her last,)
Standing, the bright memorial of the past,
That almost won the homage of my knee.
My glance upon a rugged scene was cast,
The lowly haunt of pain and poverty—
The place of martyrdom, the mouldering Boucarie .
XXIII
On that stern spot once stood the Camisard!The axe before him, on his neck the chain;
Bleeding and bound, amid the scoffing guard,
With all their dark machinery of pain;
All that could rend the heart, or fire the brain;—
Yet, not a sigh escaped, or murmur fell—
Who can believe such blood was shed in vain?
Let dotards talk of monk's or hermit's cell;
Heroes of living faith, ye served your Master well!
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XXIV
Ye proved, what Faith and Nature have in store;The slumbering majesty, the viewless might.
What knew those gallant hearts, of classic lore?
They had no lesson from the Stagyrite,
No shade of Brutus flashed upon their sight,
No Cato taught the goatherd how to die—
But, in their bosoms blazed a quenchless light,
As high o'er Greece and Rome, as Heaven is high.
Blest be the humble spot, where still their reliques lie!
XXV
And still, their names are living through the hills;Their bold adventures fill the peasant's ear;
And many a tear from woman's eye distils,
While round her knee her children throng to hear,
Of Ravenel, Jonquet, and Cavalier
Leaders of the Camisards, Protestant peasants of the Cevennes, forced into resistance by the determination of Louis XIV., in his old age, to extirpate protestantism, as an atonement for the profligacy of a life. The peasantry rose on the troops and the priesthood; and a bloody war followed, in which thirty thousand of the Camisards fell, and probably a still larger number of the soldiery. The Camisards were gradually rendered fierce and fanatical; but their persecution, like all religious persecutions, was an atrocious crime against common sense and common humanity. They defeated three French marshals, in succession, and were only cheated into submission by the fourth.
And still the rhymes of many a rustic bard,
The wandering minstrel of the mountaineer,
Record the days of glory, though ill-starred,
When France's marshals fled before the Camisard.
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XXVI
Forward—I feel new life in every gale,Joy in the skies, and sweets in every brake;
Beneath me, from this height, lie hill and dale.
I catch the flash of sunlight from the lake,
I see the river, like a silver snake,
Winding round many a Baron's ancient hold—
Proud seats of power, that only Time could shake;
Some, still in frowning grandeur, broad and bold,
Some, wrapt, (like creeping age) in ivy's thick-wove fold.
XXVII
What if the Royal Writ was, now and then,Answered by cannon-shot, and trumpet-calls?
“'Tis true, 'tis pity.”—But, men will be men:
Life is a lake, it stagnates without squalls.
Long tables were the style within those walls;
Of course, long dinings, dancings, maskings, songs;
Old, red-nosed Abbots, in their purple palls,
Embroidered matrons, and young “loves,” in throngs.
If “rights” make mankind dull, give me the age of “wrongs!”
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XXVIII
But then, their scaffolds, dungeons, chains for life!(Must I apologize for things like these?)
And yet—suppose the Baron had a wife,
Sharp-nailed, long-tongued, a sort of home disease,
A sweetmeat soured, champagne upon the lees!
Might not his “Lordship” take, or make, the law?—
(Men, in this world, may like themselves to please,)
Settling domestic points, without eclat;
Before the chancellor's curls kept all the world in awe.
XXIX
I say no more—But those were merry times;With all their fancies, frolics, and costumi,
Italian festivals, Provençal rhymes—
“Death,” the least sentence passed upon the gloomy,
Blue-devils, all banished to their native Numi.
Then Character was stamped, strong, full, and clear,
But now, John Bull—ah! “Bos procumbit humi,”
Our stars of wit, the clever and the queer,
Drop out of Fashion's skies, and leave us darkling here.
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XXX
Where shall we find thy rival, sportive Sydney?Tory in heart, and Whig alone in name,
(Their solemn spleen was never of thy kidney)
Yet making of them both thy lawful game.
Swift's living portrait, in a Canon's frame!
Now kicking Peachum, and now trouncing Lockit;
Time only giving brightness to thy fame,
Thy humour burning broadest, in its socket.
Thou 'rt gone, with all thy blaze, thou reverend Congreve-rocket.
XXXI
At some huge dinner of some huge Lord Mayor,An Actor, placed by chance, beside the Wit,
Listening with very patronizing air;
Next day, in his munificence, thought fit,
To send a “free admission” for his Pit.
The answer came—“Good sir, within your walls,
Gout and old age prohibit me to sit;
But, as we too have galleries and stalls,
I send you here, a ‘free admission’ to St. Paul's.”
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XXXII
Earth has not tact enough, to “double” Brummell !Our pantomime has lost its Pantaloon.
No living leg can cross his hobby's pummel,
Buffoon, but still earth's cleverest buffoon.
Do I not see his visage in the Moon,
Making its mouths at this dull globe of earth?
None in our Grand Goose-pie now dips the spoon;
Wit is a foundling, strangled in its birth;
Pounds, shillings, pence, are now our wisdom, wit, and mirth.
XXXIII
King of the Dandies! now, thy reign is done,(I speak with reverence of all kings—and queens;)
Forgotten, like the Whigs, or Babylon!
Once lawgiver in snuff-boxes and screens;
Whispering cool truths to beauties past their teens;
Making old Princes laugh, while wigs were curled;
Limning the May-Fair hatreds, loves, and “scenes:”
(Too soon, like Phaeton, from high-life hurled.)
We miss thee terribly, in this old, tiresome World.
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XXXIV
Well, thou art gone—So go all earthly things:Cæsar is clay, and madcap Alexander,
(With others, like Scotch herrings, hung in strings,)
Or Homer's heroes, drowned in the Scamander,
Or that Albanian merveilleux, Iskander;
If ev'n Lord Mayors and Aldermen are “vanity,”
Why should'st thou see all sink?—the sole bystander.
Yet, what a puff of air is poor humanity!
I wish thou hadst not sunk, in sad and chill inanity.
XXXV
Ah D---y, name of pleasant memory,Of fire and frost, of folly and of reason!
Which shall thy tribute be, a smile or sigh?
Thou laugh, and terror, of the “London season,”
Telling to ladies, of their looks high-treason;
In love a prude, in politics a rake,
Making with Gr---y, and C---nn---ng, a liaison,
Dying a bachelor, for beauty's sake;
Clever and kind, and yet—thy life a long mistake.
165
XXXVI
How oft I 've seen thee glancing down the tables,Thinking aloud, reviewing all their belles.
—“That widow 's pretty, clearly sick of sables,
“Wasting upon that clownish boy her spells.
“I wonder, for how much his title sells:
“'Tis true, all mothers think him a trump-card!
—“Her neighbour's eye upon the ceiling tells,
“She walks by moonlight, and performs the Bard.
“I 'll ask her to take wine—An epic poem 's marred!
XXXVII
—“‘To wed or not to wed?’—That is the question.“I 'll wed.—That showy girl is one of us:
“High born, high bred—I 'll venture the suggestion.
“Yet—English marriages make such a ‘fuss;’
“Relations chatter, newspapers ‘discuss;’
“Bad poets on one's name bad verses jingle.
“I 'd rather marry Dutch, or Swiss, or Russ:
“But then, their jargon makes one's fibres tingle.
“The sex are charming, but—I 'm charm-proof—I 'll live single.”
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XXXVIII
Then, when the fair had vanished from the room,And Commonplace sailed round on downy wings,
His brow would darken into sudden gloom,
Till the pent thought shot out its wayward stings:
—“I hate all characters in leading-strings;
“I like Br---gh---m's vigour, terseness, vehemence,
“When his fierce jests around the House he flings;
“(Provided always—not at my expense,)
“His hurricane of words, shrewd wit, and bile intense.
XXXIX
“Jack R---ss---ll charms me, with his quiet air,“His simple phrase, and purpose undesign'd;
“Smooth without languor, polished without glare;
“Feeling his way, until his coil is twined;
“Then, darting all his meaning on the mind!
“L---ndh---rst's is peerage-language—proud and bold;
“Yet proud howe'er the tongue, the heart is kind;
“(I know it, and the tale shall yet be told,)
“A heart unstain'd by power—a tongue unsway'd by gold.
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XL
“Ah, M---lb---rne! pleasantest of pleasant men!“Without an enemy, though born a wit.
“What caged thy pinion in the treasury den,
“In Fashion's gayest sunshine formed to flit?
“Apollo saved thee from the fate of Pitt.
“In six months more, thou would'st have spoil'd thy style,
“Grown statesmanish, and never made a hit;
“Nay, parted with (if possible) thy smile,
“And slept in state, and stone, in Westminster's old pile.
XLI
“Dear M******, in thy world of ormolu,“Sleeping on rose-leaves, fed on turtle-soup;
“The beau-ideal of Life's ‘chosen few!’
“What demon toss'd thee upon C---bd---n's croupe?
“Thou Cavalier amid that Roundhead troop!
“Take my advice, and sleep on rose-leaves still;
“Play Cleopatra on thy gilded poop;
“Breathe odours, toy with pencil, string, and quill,
“But cut (without delay) the Cyclops of the Mill!”
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XLII
Then a grim pause; then follows—“St---nl---y 's clever;“Solid, yet bright—a diamond-facet mind.
“R---chm---nd talks gallantly. Young Gr---y for ever!
“Forgetting (always) that we have not dined.
“The Duke! not Time itself that glance can blind;
“Far-sighted in debate as in the field;
“Still, ‘en avant;’ he scorns to look behind:
“By Genius, Fame, and Fortune, triple-steel'd,
“Ev'n when repulsed at last, unknowing how to yield.”
XLIII
Then, through the alphabet he murmurs on;“A.'s full-dress piety begins to flag;
“B.'s back-bench pungency is dead and gone,
“A wag at best, and now a worn-out wag;
“C.'s brains are empty as his briefless bag;
“D.'s but a bubble, water half, half air;
“E.'s eloquence is but a broidered rag;
“F.'s conscience is not worth a railroad share.”—
The Oracle is dumb—some tremble, and all stare.
169
THE JOURNEY.
The landscape opens—One broad sheet of heath,Spread, like a sea, in sunny-coloured swells;
Yielding beneath my wheels its fragrant breath.
Blue, in the distance, rise the peaked Estrelles ,
The mountain rampart of the fairy dells,
Where Hyères nestles on its flowery shore;
And sweet, in snatches, comes the chime of bells,
From the brown convents on thy cliffs, Le Maure,
Mingling with forest sounds, and surges' mellowed roar.
XLV
And now I climb the mountain defilè,Seen like a thread of silver from below,
Winding by stunted shrub, and dwarfish tree,
And shattered rock, the work of storm and snow.
The ridge is gained—I feel the breezes blow,
Loaded with sudden scents of fruit and flower.
Far as the eye can glance, the billows glow,
In the full splendour of the sunset hour:
Earth, sea, and skies, one scene of beauty, peace and power.
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XLVI
I gaze a moment from the marble slope,Then plunge down paths with thousand blossoms strown,
A labyrinth of rose and heliotrope;
A Paradise, by lavish Nature sown.
But, whence that shout? that trumpet's startling tone?
And hark! the thunder of the batteries,
Where Toulon sits upon her sea-girt throne:
The tri-colour on every steeple flies;
Till deepening twilight veils shore, sea, and crimson skies.
XLVII
France is all extacy.—Her dogs bark louder;The way-side hovel joins the general cheer;
The pedlar, by his donkey, marches prouder;
The beggar toasts the “triumph!” in his beer.
—“The Prince has riddled thy mud-walls, Tangier.”
“Morocco 's ours,” exclaims my lank postilion,
Casting behind a genuine Gallic sneer.
The hen-wife, jogging by, upon her pillion,
Cries out “Morocco 's ours.” (I differ from the Million.)
171
XLVIII
Those are tough subjects, those same Algerines;Ill-horsed, ill-pursed, ill-armed, and black-japanned;
Not clever at composing Bulletins,
But, stubborn fighters for their rock and sand,
Long shots, and quick at sword-play, hand to hand;
Razzia for razzia—blood for blood, their barter;
Sowing with Gallic bones their sultry strand:
Not puzzling much their brains with Code, or Charter;
But teaching showy France, that she has “caught a Tartar.”
XLIX
But, let me give the portrait of their leader:—Form, slight as woman's, delicate and low;
Who sees in this the fiery Abd-el-Keder?
A languid, hollow eye, voice soft, speech slow,
A holy Hadgi, scorning outward show;
Wearing no broidered robe, no jewelled crown—
But—rushing like a whirlwind on the foe.
The desert's burning sand, his bed of down;
One of those beings stamped by nature for renown.
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L
His simple dress, a black bernouse most holy,Dipt in thy well of sanctity, Zem-zem :
From Mecca sent to hero-saintship solely,
Unsullied warriors, of the Prophet's stem;
Upon his hand a single signet-gem;
A country mantle, loosely round him drawn;
A lion's yellow fur his garment's hem:
Trotting beside his steed, a hound, or fawn.
Thus, to the life, you have the Desert's great Sultaun!
LI
One tires of Europe—florid all, and fade;Ev'n Turkey is, for me, too European.
Some of the prettiest feasts I 've ever had,
Were neither in Propontis nor Ægean;
But, where the lion roared the evening pæan,
And men, with faces black as English coals,
Sang songs that might have cheered the jovial Teian;
Though brandy never bathed their glowing souls.
(For brilliant fêtes like those, we live too near the Poles.)
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LII
I've tried them.—If you love true luxury,You once might have enjoyed it in Algiers:
Alas! the Bey's old banquets are gone by—
Unrivalled treats for palate, eyes, and ears.
A plague upon you both, Guizot and Thiers!
Still, the world 's wide, Morocco has Sherbet,
And, when you both have slumbered into Peers,
Or gone, where ministers no longer fret;
Long may her Turban wear its emerald-wreathed Aigrette.
THE BANQUET.
I think, that I have seen the “Grand receptions,”And shown my star at all the courts on earth,
(In Europe, half the Orders are deceptions)
Seen all the ugly, eminent for birth,
Known all the leading belles, in love, or mirth;
But this I will say, that the “savage” Moors,
Though of our novels they may have some dearth,
And know not much of claret, or chalked floors,
To Europe's best cuisine, are—“elegants,” to boors!
174
LIV
You enter a low door, and reach a court,All marble, rich with texts from the Korán,
(The lordly Moor loves wisdom, in his sport);
Upsprings a central fountain, like a fan,
Scattering its rose-dews on your outward man;
All round it, right and left, expand saloons,
Shaded with curtains, making noontide wan;
Black Venuses, all glittering with doubloons,
There meet you with a dance—(to most ferocious tunes.)
LV
The master waits you in his presence-chamber,A train of negroes lead you up the stair;
You see a hall of ivory and amber,
Hung round with gold-wrought pistols, pair by pair,
Greek musquetoons, and daggers rich and rare,
You tread on Persian carpets, sit on sables,
(The Moorman's limbs disdain our stiff-backed chair);
You lounge on silk divans, by crystal tables—
All looks a living scene of Araby's bright fables.
175
LVI
But, the banquet-room.—There smokes the mess,That steals the heart of Christian, Turk, and Jew,
The exquisite pillau!—I must confess
That Europe never made a better stew—
(I leave the subject to the learned few.)
In this the Turk will always beat the Russians.
And, just as Sol is bidding Earth adieu,
We perch delightfully on velvet cushions—
Thus, with the marble floor avoiding all percussions.
LVII
Now, (simply, for a lesson to our pride,)Let me glance round, a moment, on the dishes,
That on and off the silver table glide,
As if a necromancer heard our wishes;
Ten kinds of soups, and twenty kinds of fishes;
Omelettes, purées and pâtés, without number,
(France, I 'm prepared, for all your “pshaws” and “pishes,”
Your Almanach, to this, is mere book-lumber),
Then comes the huge Meerschaum, half melting you to slumber.
176
LVIII
The table 's cleared—Cuscussu, mild as milk ,(The perfect work of sugar, rice and cream,)
Lines all your feelings, like a suit of silk.
Rich scents of burning gums around you stream,
Then follow, songs, (the minstrels sometimes scream,)
Then, dances to their drums, (which sometimes stun,)
Making their dark eyes flash, their white teeth gleam,
(Tastes are still native, in this Land of Sun.)
Then follow fruits, kabobs,—the feast is but half done!
LIX
But, all things end at last. At last, rose-waterIs poured by kneeling slaves upon your hands;
As if you were his Beyship's favourite daughter,
With fifty suitors waiting your commands.
Then come the coffee-cups, on pearl-wrought stands;
Exquisite Mocha! followed by the Pipe,
(Well worth the sceptre, in all Moslem lands.)
Last, gold-embroidered silks your forehead wipe;
Thus finishing a feast, Elysium's Moorish type!
177
LX
Farewell, thou fiery soil of lion-fighters,To softer scenes my rambling way I wend,
Exchanging turbans for Red-hats and Mitres;
Long beards, for “Toes,” to which all spines must bend;
The land of monks, and souls for monks to mend;
Of purple lake, proud spire, and palace dome;
Of scenes by Titian painted, Dantè penn'd.
Ye “gentlemen, who live at ease at home,”
Accept for “London life,” a sketch of “Life in Rome.”
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