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But I can't conceive how, in this very cold wea- So, get me a Russian-till death I'm your

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debtor

If he brings the whole alphabet, so much the better

And-Lord! if he would but, in character, sup Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

Au revoir, my sweet girl-I must leave you in haste

Little GUNTER has brought me the Liqueurs to

taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the bye, have you found any friend that can
construe,

That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster ?*
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.

LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH, IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN,
IN ISPAHAN.

Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
WHILST thou, MоHASSAN (happy thou!)
Nutmeg of Comfort! Rose of Pleasure!—
Before our King-our Asia's treasure!
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;—
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises,
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,

And but left on till further orders!
And caftan floating to the air
Through London streets, with turban fair,

I saunter on the admiration

Of this short-coated population

Who while they boast their laws so free,
This sew'd-up race-this button'd nation-
Leave not one limb at liberty.

But live, with all their lordly speeches,
Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter,
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.
In some things they're a thinking nation-
(They're Christians, and they know no better)
And, on Religious Toleration,
I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right!
You know our SUNNITES,$ hateful dogs!
Whom every pious SHITE flogs

* Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of

a Lusus Naturæ in the Newspapers lately.

+ I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is.

Or, whether Lord G-RGE (the young man about From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I contown)

clude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he

Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down-has arrived just in time to assist the PE and Mr.
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage,
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think how the fit cools)
As old Mrs. V-N's or Lord L-v-RP-L's!

But, in short, my dear, names like WINTZ

TSCHITSTOPSCHINZOUDHOFF

L-CK-E in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.-See the second of these Letters.-How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

"C'est un honnête homme," said a Turkish governor of de Ruyter; "c'est grand dommage qu'il soit Chrétien."

Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have

Are the only things now make an evening go gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without

smooth off

any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The

Or longs to flog*-'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
Stuck in their right, canonic places!†
'Tis true they worship ALI's name-t
Their heaven and ours are just the same-
(A Persian's heaven is easily made,
'Tis but-black eyes and lemonade.)
Yet-though we've tried for centuries back-
We can't persuade the stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,

To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers!§
Then-only think-the libertines!
They wash their toes-they comb their chins,||
With many more such deadly sins!

And (what's the worst, though last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious
(Which must at bottom be seditious;
As no man living would refuse

Green slippers, but from treasonous views;
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the government!)
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a day
(According to a form that's set,)
And, far from torturing, only let
All orthodox believers beat 'em,

Take it, when night begins to fall, And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past?
That hour, the happiest and the last!-
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees at break of morn,
Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one
precious hour to me!

How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather heart to heart,
United live and die ?-
Like those sweet birds that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye!*

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PER POST, Sir, we send your MS.-look'd it thro'

And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em. Very sorry-but can't undertake-'twouldn't do.

As to the rest, they're free to do Whate'er their fancy prompts them to, Provided they make nothing of it Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit; Which things, we naturally expect, Belong to us, the Establish'd sect, Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!) Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket. The same mild views of Toleration, Inspire, I find, this button'd nation, Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, And only Sunnites with a brogue) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I inclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose-

Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the difference between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, in the true spirit of Shiite Ascendancy, reprobates in this Letter.

*"Les Sunnites, qui étaient comme les catholiques de Musulmanisme."-D' Herbelot.

"In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breast, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc. etc.-Foster's Voyage.

Clever work, Sir!-would get up prodigiously well

Its only defect is-it never would sell!

And though Statesmen may glory in being un

bought,

In an Author, we think, Sir, that's rather a fault.

Hard times, Sir-most books are too dear to be

read

Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit's smallchange are fled,

Yet the paper we publishers pass, in their stead, Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it) Not even such names as F-TZG-R-D's can

sink it!

However, Sir-if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible-we are your

men.

Since the Chevalier C-RR took to marrying lately,

The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatlyNo job, Sir, more easy-your Country once plann'd,

A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land Puts your Quarto of Travels clean out of hand.

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tellAnd a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.

*This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson." A sort of bird that is said to have but one wing, on the opposite

"Les Turcs ne détestent pas Ali réciproquement; au contraire ils le reconnaissent," etc. etc.-Chardin. "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sun-side to which the male has a hook and the female a nites consider as a great abomination.”—Mariti.

For these points of difference, as well as for the Chapter of the Blanket, I must refer the reader (not Daving the book by me) to Picart's Account of the Manometan Sects.

ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together."

+From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellowfeeling, I suppress the name of the Author, whose rejected manuscript was inclosed in this letter.

Or-supposing you have nothing original in you— Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,

You'll get to the Blue-stocking routs of ALB-N-A.* (Mind-not to her dinners-a second-hand Muse Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.) Or-in case nothing else in this world you can do

The deuce is in't, Sir, if you cannot review!

Should you feel any touch of poetical glow, We've a scheme to suggest-Mr. Sc-TT, you must know

(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the
Row,)†

Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,
Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town;
And beginning with ROKEBY (the job's sure to
pay)

Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now the Scheme is (though none of our hackneys
can beat him)

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander!
(That lace, like H--RRY AL-X-ND--K,
Too precious to be wash'd)--thy rings,
Thy seals--in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield. in frogs and fringe, to none
But the great R--G-T's self alone!
Who, by particular desire-

For that night only, means to hire
A dress from ROMEO C-TES, Esquire-
Something between ('twere sin to hack it)
The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket!
Hail, first of actors!* best of R-G-TS!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!
Both gay Lotharios-both good dressers-
Of Serious Farce both learned Professors-
Both circled round, for use or show,
With cocks'-combs, wheresoe'er they go.

Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore'
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor-
Thou know'st the time, too, well-a-day!

To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet It takes to dance that chalk away.t
him;
Who, by means of quick proofs-no revises-long Comets and suns beneath us lie;

coaches

The Ball-room opens-far and nigh

O'er snowy moons and stars we walk,

May do a few Villas before Sc-TT approaches-And the floor seems a sky of chalk!
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without found'ring, at least WOBURN-
ABBEY.

Such, Sir, is our plan-if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training, next
week-

At present, no more-in reply to this Letter,
Line will oblige very much

Temple of the Muses.

Your's et cetera.

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL TH-M-S TO

COME to our Fête, and bring with thee

a

But soon shall fade the bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the Lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way!
At every step a star is fled,

And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life-(thus SC-TT would write,
And spinsters read him with delight)—
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!!

But, hang this long digressive flight!

I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the P-E neglects the arts-
ESQ. Neglects the arts!--no, ST-G! no;
Thy Cupids answer
"tis not so,"

Thy newest, best embroidery!
Come to our Fête, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men!
Which charm'd all eyes that last survey'd it,
When B -L's self inquired "who made it ?"
When Cits came wondering from the East,
And thought thee Poet PYE, at least!

Oh! come-(if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale)-with paly cheek;
Though more we love thy roseate days
When the rich rouge pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red-
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay!

* This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between ALB-N-A, Countess of B-CK-GH-MS-E, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

+ Paternoster Row.

And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well!
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion,
Thou'rt best-beneath a French cotillion;

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Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent. Hearts are not steel, but steel is bent. After all, however, Mr. Sc-tt may well say to the This Letter inclosed a Card for the Grand Fête on Colonel (and, indeed, to much better wags than the the 5th of February. | Colonel, ραον μωμείσθαι η μιμείσθαι.

And still comest off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a Waltz;

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by Fate-
While some chefs-d'œuvre live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With "Molly put the kettle on!"
But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left-so, must be brief.

This festive Fête, in fact, will be
The former Fête's fac-simile;*

The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes,
(These, P-RT-R, are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubb'd to raise a Pic- Nic Palace;
And each, to make the oglio pleasant,
Had sent a State-Room as a present;
The same fauteuils and girondoles--
The same gold Asses,† pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home;

The same bright river 'mongst the dishes,
But not-ah! not the same dear fishes-
Late hours and claret killed the old ones!
So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones
(It being rather hard to raise

Fish of that specie now-a-days,)

Some sprats have been, by Y-RM-TH'S wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,

And Gudgeons (so V-NS-TT-T told
The R-G-T) are as good as Gold!

So, pr'ythee, come-our Fête will be But half a Fête, if wanting thee!

IRISH MELODIES.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

AIR-Maid of the Valley.

Go where glory waits thee,
But, while fame elates thee,

Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me.

"C-rl-t-n II-e will exhibit a complete facsimile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid draperies," etc. etc.-Morning Post.

The salt-cellars on the P-E's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning
Bright we've seen it burning--

Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes,
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee-
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them--

Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee

Oh! then remember me.

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. AIR-The Brown Maid.

OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,

Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

AIR-Gramachree.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives!

FLY NOT YET.

AIR-Planxty Kelly.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon!
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay-Oh! stay-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade,*
Through icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near:
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay-Oh! stay-

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!

"Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm-
For though they love women and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!'

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle,
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride!

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.* AIR-The Old Head of Denis.

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters

meet;

Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart,t Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill-
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature im

prove,

When we see them reflected from looks that we

love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS Where the storms that we feel in this cold world

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* Solis Fons, near the temple of Ammon.

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book 10.

should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in

peace.

THE LEGACY.

AIR-Unknown.

WHEN in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear,
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue while it linger'd here:
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall;

"The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of 1807.

The rivers of Avon and Avoca

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