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Makes a block that one's company cannot get through; Of this short-coated population-
And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so This sew'd-up race-this button'd nation-
small,

Who, while they boast their laws so free,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all: Leave not one limb at liberty,
(Apropos, though, of love-work-you've heard it, I But live, with all their lordly speeches,
hope,

The slaves of buttons and tight breeches!
That Napoleon's old Mother's to marry the Pope,-
What a comical pair!)—but to stick to my Rout, Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out. (They're Christians, and they know no better)
Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arriv'd? In some things they're a thinking nation-
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd ? And, on Religious Toleration,
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name I own I like their notions quite,
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame? They are so Persian and so right!

You know our Sunnites, hateful dogs!
I remember the time, three or four winters back,

Whom every pious Shiite flogs
When - provided their wigs were but decently Or longs to flog—'tis true, they pray
black-

To God, but in an ill-bred way;
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
That would people one's house for one, night after Stuck in their right, canonic places!
night.

'Tis true, they worship Ali's name-
But whether the Ministers paw'd them too much-

Their Heav'n and ours are just the same-
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they (A Persian's Heav'n is eas'ly made,
touch)

(town) 'Tis but-black eyes and lemonade)
Or, whether Lord G-rge (the young man about
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down-

Yet--though we've tried for centuries back
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage,

We can't persuade the stubborn pack,
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age

By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools) To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers !
As old Mrs. V---n's or Lord L-rp-l's! Then-only think-the libertines!
But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschit-

They wash their toes--they comb their chins, stopschinzoudhoff

[off

With many more such deadly sins !
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth

And (what's the worst, though last I rank it)
So, get me a Russian--till death I'm your debtor-

Believe the Chapter of the Blanket !
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And-Lord! if he would but, in character, sup

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious,
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

(Which must, at bottom, be seditious;

As no man living would refuse
Au revoir, my sweet girl I must leave you in haste Green slippers, but from treasonous views;
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the government!)

Such is our mild and tolerant way,
By the bye, have you found any friend that can We only curse them twice a day,

(According to a Form that's set)
That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster? And, far from torturing, only let
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin

All orthodox believers beat 'em,
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in. And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em.

T

POSTSCRIPT.

conster

LETTER VI.

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 nat'rally expect,
Belong to us, the Establish'd sect,
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked !)
Th’ aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.

FROM ABDALLAH, IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN

ISPAHAN
Whilst thou, Mohassan (happy thou!)
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King our Asia's treasure !
Nutmeg of Comfort! Rose of Pleasure! -
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses ;-
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,
And but left on till further orders!
Through London streets, with turban fair,
And caftan, floating to the air,
I saunter on--the admiration

The same mild views of Toleration
Inspire, I find, this button'd nation,
Whose Papists (full as giv'n to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us,

Promot
And G
The R-

So, pr" But be

TRIT

(At

Butc
An

fue

lo That

TI

And

Ti Crie

FROM COLONEL TAMS TO

, ESQ.

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The tender Gazel I inclose

Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore! Is for my love, my Syrian Rose

It takes to chalk a ball-room floor--Take it, when night begins to fall,

Thou know'st the time too, well-a-day! And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

It takes to dance that chalk away.

The Ball-room opens---far and nigh
GAZEL.

Comets and suns beneath us lie;
Rememberest thou the hour we past,

O'er snowy moons and stars we walk, That hour, the happiest and the last!

And the floor seems a sky of chalk! Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn

But soon shall fade the bright deceit, To summer bees, at break of morn,

When many a maid, with busy feet Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,

That sparkle in the Lustre's ray, To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,

O'er the white path shall bound and play As is the soothing memory

Like Nymphs along the Milky Way!--Of that one precious hour to me!

At every step a star is filed,

And suns grow dim beneath their tread! How can we live, so far apart?

So passeth life---(thus Sc—tt would write,
Oh! why not rather heart to heart,

And spinsters read him with delight)---
United live and die---

Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Like those sweet birds, that fly together,

Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!
With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye!

But, hang this long digressive flight!
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,

What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
LETTER VIII.

Who say the P-e neglects the arts---
Neglects the arts !---no, St-

-g! no;

Thy Cupids answer " 'tis not so;" Come to our Fête, and bring with thee

And every floor, that night, shall tell Thy newest, best embroidery!

How quick thou daubest, and how well! Come to our Fête, and show again

Shine as thou may'st in French vermillion,

Thou’rt best---beneath a French cotillion;
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men!

And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
Which charm’d all eyes, that last survey'd it;
When B-l's self inquir’d“ who made it?"

With flying colours in a Waltz!

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
When Cits came wond'ring, from the East,
And thought thee Poet Pye at least !

To thy best works assign'd by fate--

While some chef-d'euvres live to weary one, Oh! come-----(if haply 'tis thy week

Thine boast a short life and a merry one; For looking pale)---with paly cheek;

Their hour of glory past and gone
Though more we love thy roseate days,

With“ Molly, put the kettle on!"
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf

Of paper left---so, must be brief.
Tips ev’n thy whisker-tops with red---
Like the last tints of dying Day

This festive Fête, in fact will be
That o'er some darkling grove delay!

The former Fête's fac-simile ;

The same long Masquerade of Rooms, Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander!

Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes, (That lace, like Hrry Al-x-nd-r, Too precious to be wash'd)---thy rings,

(These, P—rt-r, are thy glorious works!) Thy seals-in short, thy prettiest things!

You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks, Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,

Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,

Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace; And yield, in frogs and fringe, to none

And each to make the oglio pleasant, But the great R--t's self alone!

Had sent a State-Room as a present!---
Who---by particular desire---

The same fauteuils and girandoles---
For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C-tes, Esquire---

The same gold Asses, pretty souls!

That, in this rich and classic dome,
Something between ('twere sin to hack it)
The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket!

Appear so perfectly at home!
Hail, first of Actors! best of R-g-ts!

The same bright river ’mongst the dishes

, Born for each other's fond allegiance !

But not---ah! not the same dear fishes--Both gay Lotharios---both good dressers

Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones! Of Serious Farce both learn'd Professors--

So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones, Both circled round, for use or show,

(It being rather hard to raise With cock’s-combs, wheresoe'er they go!

Fish of that specie now-a-days)
Some Sprats have been, by Y-rm-th's wish,

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[to grey.

And then people get fat,
Promoted into Silver Fish,

And infirm, and---all that,
And Gudgeons (so V-ns-tt-t told
The R-8-t) are as good as Gold!

And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,

That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits. So, pr’ythee, come---our Fête will be But half a Fête, if wanting thee!

Thy whiskers, too, Y-rm—th!---alas, even they, J. T.

Though so rosy they burn,

Too quickly must turn
KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS. (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!)
WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOCIATION FOR A Then why, my Lord Warden! oh! why should you
NEW M-N--STRY.

fidget King Crack was the best of all possible Kings

Your mind about matters you don't understand? (At least so bis Courtiers would swear to you

Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, gladly.)

Because “ you,forsooth, “ have the pen in your But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things,

hand!And, at last, took to worshipping Images sadly.

Think, think how much better
Some broken-down Idols, that long had been plac'd

Than scribbling a letter,
In his Father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much,

(Which both you and I

Should avoid, by the bye,) That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though---such was his taste!--

How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust

Of old Charley, my friend here, and drink like a They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch!

new one;
And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!--- While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just

Till his People, disdaining to worship such things, As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan!
Cried aloud, one and all, “ Come, your Godships
must pack---

[Kings." To crown us, Lord Warden!
“ You will not do for us, though you may do for

In C-mb-rl-nd's garden

Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs;
Then, trampling the gross Idols under their feet,

While Otto of Roses,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning “ Great Refreshing all noses,
Cæsar!

Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.
We are willing to worship; but only entreat
That you'll find us some decenter Godheads than

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau these are."

In that streamlet delicious,

That down midst the dishes,
“ I'll try,” says King Crack---then they furnish'd All full of good fishes
him models

Romantic doth flow ?---
Of better-shap'd Gods, but he sent them all back; Or who will repair
Some were chisellid too fine, some had heads 'stead Unto M

Sq-e
of noddles,

And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?
In short, they were all much too godlike for Crack!

Go--bid her haste hither,
So he took to his darling old Idols again,

And let her bring with her
And, just mending their legs and new bronzing The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going---
their faces,

Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, In open defiance of Gods and of men, [places! All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,

Set the monsters up grinning once more in their In the manner of ---Ackerınann's Dresses for May!

2

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY G. R.

Come, Y-rm-th, my boy, never trouble your
About what your

old

croney, [brains
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;
Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:

Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in

[naries!
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stan-
Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.
Instrumenta regni.-

Tacitus.
Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and

Ladies,
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;
(Except it be Cabinet-making---I doubt
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Though their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his

own will,
Would have bungled away witli them joyously still.)
You can see they've been pretty well hack'd---and

alack! What tool is there job after job will not hack?

4Q

While, Withoc Each bi

Gay, se

The cr In the

CHA
Ateret
Thicse
About

Whose

Build

Throug Sleepic la Ede

Scar

Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess’d, The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue, And their temper, like E-nbir-h's, none So bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem of the best,

(upon trying, Like tips of coral branches in the stream; But you'll find them good hard-working Tools And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye, Wer't but for their brass, they are well worth the To give that long, dark languish to the eye, (cull buying;

(screens, Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful! And they're, some of them, excellent turning ma All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls chines!

Are shining every where:-some younger girls

Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor)

To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads; Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller--

Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful 'tis to see Though made of pig iron, yet worthy of wote 'tis,

How each prefers a garland from that tree 'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.

Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day, Who bids ? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou And the dear fields and friendships far away. shapest--

The maid of India, blest again to hold 'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist; In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold, Or else a cramp-iron, to stick in the wall

Thinks of the time when, by the Ganges' flood, Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;

Her little play-mates scatter'd many a bud Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,)

Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem!

Just dripping from the consecrated stream; Will nobody bid ? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir...

While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Once, twice, going, going, thrice, gone !---it is

Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,your's, Sir.

The sweet Elcaya, and that courteous tree To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest.

Which bows to all who seek its canopyAs a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

Sees, call'd up round her by these magic scents, Come, where's the next Tool:---Oh! 'tis here in a

The well, the camels, and her father's tents; trice--

Sighs for the home she left with little pain, This implement, Ge’mmen! at first was a Vice;

And wishes ev’n its sorrows back again! (A tenacious and close sort of tool, that will let

Meanwhile, through vast illuminated balls, Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get,)

Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls But it since has received a new coating of Tin,

Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in!

From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on,

Young Azim roams bewilder’d,—nor can gues We'll the sooner get rid of it---going---quite gone!

What means this maze of light and loneliness. God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knock'd

Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors down,

[Crown! Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, Might at last cost their owner---how much? why, a Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns,

Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns;
The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had hansel or
Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor---

And spicy rods, such as illume at night
Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;

The bowers of Tibet, send forth odorous light, Yet, dull as it is, 'twould be found to shave close,

Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,

For some pure spirit to its blest abode This blade first began by a flourish on leather!

And here, at once, the glittering saloon You shall haveit for nothing---then, marvel with me

Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon; At the terrible tinkering work there must be, (it)

Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge

In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!

High as th’ enamelld cupola, which towers
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers:

And the mosaic floor beneath shines through
AZIM VISITS THE HARAM OF

The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew,
MOKANNA.

Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye,
Now,through the Haram chambers, moving lights

That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;
From room to room the ready handmaids hie,

Here too he traces the kind visitings
Some skill'd to wreath the turban tastefully,

Of woman's love in those fair, living things Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade,

Of land and wave, whose fate, -in bondage thrown O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid,

For their weak loveliness—is like her own! Who, if between the folds but one eye shone,

On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Like Seba's queen could vanquish with that one:

Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase
While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue

In which it undulates, small fishes shine,
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;-

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1

While, on the other, lattic'd lightly in

Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, With odoriferous woods of Comorin,

Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there ! Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ;-

His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between

And his floating eyes-oh! they resemble
The crimson blossoms of the coral tree
In the warm isles of India's sunny sea:

Blue water-lilies, when the breeze
Mecca’s blue sacred pigeon, and the thrush

Is making the stream around them tremble! Of Hindostan, whose holy warblings gush,

Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power! At evening, from the tall pagoda's top ;

Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! Those golden birds that, in the spice time, drop

Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food

And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood;
And those that under Araby's soft sun

By the fair and brave,
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ;-

Who blushing unite, In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly

Like the sun and wave,
Through the pure element, here calmly lie

When they meet at night!
Sleeping in light, like the green birds that dwell
In Eden's radiant fields of aspliodel!

By the tear that shows

When passion is nigh,
Scarce had this feeling pass’d, when sparkling

As the rain-drop flows
The gently open'd curtains of light blue [through

From the heat of the sky! That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes,

By the first love-beat Peeping like stars through the blue evening skies,

Of the youthful heart, Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair

By the bliss to meet,
That sat so still and melancholy there,

And the pain to part!
And now the curtains fly apart, and in
From the cool air, mid showers of jessamine

By all that thou hast
Which those without fling after them in play,

To mortals given, Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as they

Which-oh; could it last,
Who live in the air on odours, and around

This earth were heaven!
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground,
Chase one another, in a varying dance

We call thee hither, entrancing Power!
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance,

Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss ! Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:

Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,

And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
While she, who sang so gently to the lute
Her dream of home, steals timidly away,

Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole,
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,--

Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
But takes with her from Azim's heart that sigh And where,midst all that the young heart loves most,
We sometimes give to forms that pass us by

Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain,

The youth had started up, and turn'd away
Creatures of light we never see again!

From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay,
Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc'd

To muse upon the pictures that hung round,

Bright images, that spoke without a sound,
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er

And views, like vistas into fairy ground.

But here again new spells came o'er his sense; The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore ;

All that the pencil's mute omnipotence While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall

Could call up into life, of soft and fair, Of curls descending, bells as musical

Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; As those that, ou the golden-shafted trees

Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Of Eden, shake in the eternal breeze,

Which paints of pleasure but the purer part; Rang round their steps, at every bound more sweet,

Which knows ev’n beauty when half-veil'd is best, As 'twere th' extatic language of their feet!

Like her own radiant planet of the west, Atlength the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd

Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest ! Within each other's arms; while soft there breath'd

There hung the history of the Genii-king, Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs

Trac'd through each gay, voluptuous wandering Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise

With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;

He read that to be blest is to be wise ;And, as it swell'd again at each faint close,

Herc fond Zuleika woos with open arms The ear could track through all that maze of chords,

The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words:

Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone,

Wishes that Heav'n and she could both be won!
A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh

And here Mohammed, born for love and guile.
Is burning now through earth and air;

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