« НазадПродовжити »
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through; Of this short-coated population-
Who, while they boast their laws so free,
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches!
You know our Sunnites, hateful dogs!
Whom every pious Shiite flogs
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
'Tis true, they worship Ali's name-
Their Heav'n and ours are just the same-
(town) '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,
They wash their toes--they comb their chins, stopschinzoudhoff
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
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
(According to a Form that's set)
All orthodox believers beat 'em,
As to the rest, they're free to do
FROM ABDALLAH, IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN
The same mild views of Toleration
So, pr" But be
FROM COLONEL TAMS TO
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
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
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,
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!
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the P-e neglects the arts---
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;
And still com'st 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 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
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, 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!---
The same fauteuils and girandoles---
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
, 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)
And then people get fat,
And infirm, and---all that,
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
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
Than scribbling a letter,
(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!
Till his People, disdaining to worship such things, As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan!
[Kings." To crown us, Lord Warden!
In C-mb-rl-nd's garden
Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs;
While Otto of Roses,
Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.
What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau these are."
In that streamlet delicious,
That down midst the dishes,
Romantic doth flow ?---
And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?
Go--bid her haste hither,
And let her bring with her
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!
HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.
FREELY TRANSLATED BY G. R.
Come, Y-rm-th, my boy, never trouble your
Should there come famine,
THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.
alack! What tool is there job after job will not hack?
While, Withoc Each bi
The cr In the
Throug Sleepic la Ede
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;
And spicy rods, such as illume at night
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
High as th’ enamelld cupola, which towers
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through
The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery 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 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
In which it undulates, small fishes shine,
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,
And his floating eyes-oh! they resemble
Blue water-lilies, when the breeze
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,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
By the fair and brave,
Who blushing unite, In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly
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! 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,
And the pain to part!
By all that thou hast
To mortals given, Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as they
Which-oh; could it last,
This earth were heaven!
We call thee hither, entrancing Power!
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.
Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
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; 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!
And here Mohammed, born for love and guile.