There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

VI.

Then was the council call'd-by their advice
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,
And sought to shift it off from their own shoul-
ders),

Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai ;-1
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong,-
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm
wrong.

1 VII.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scymitar, Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war"The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath

Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death; Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,

But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit, More closely touch'd the point:-"Thy studious mood,"

Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood,

And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure; Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure, And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure; From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee,

And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

IX.

These counsels sage availed not a whit,

And so the patient (as is not uncommon
Where grave physicians lose their time and wit)
Resolved to take advice of an old woman;
His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous,
And still was called so by each subject duteous.
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest,

Or only made believe, I cannot say—
But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,
By dint of magic amulet or lay;
And, when all other skill in vain was shown,

tle!

This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day, Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,

When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round, And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground. Each noble pants to own the glorious summonsAnd for the charges-Lo! your faithful Com

mons!"

The Riots who attended in their places
(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot)
Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers.

VIII.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation, Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green,

Imaum and Mollah there of every station,

Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. Their votes were various-some advised a Mosque With fitting revenues should be erected, With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque, To recreate a band of priests selected; Others opined that through the realms a dole Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit

The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.

'See Sir John Malcolm's admirable History of Persia.

Sympathia magica hath wonders done" (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),

It works upon the fibres and the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health restores,
And it must help us here.-Thou must endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.
Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man,

I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."
Such was the counsel from his mother came;-
I know not if she had some under-game,
As Doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mo-
ther;

But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it),
That such was her advice-the Sultaun took it.

"Was call'd The Happy many ages sinceFor Mokha, Rais."-And they came safely

thither.

But not in Araby, with all her balm,
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
Could there the step of happiness be traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile,
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he quaff'd,
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

66

XIL

Enough of turbans," said the weary King,
"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap,
Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least, they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!"-The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd
Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled;
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
"While these the priest and those the noble
fleeces,

Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces.
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.3
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic,-the buck,
Poffaredio! still has all the luck;
By land or ocean never strikes his flag-
And then-a perfect walking money-bag."
Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France-it lay upon the road.

XIII.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean,

I

Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd

him,

Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;
Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding,
Gave indication of a recent hiding.

Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless,

Thought it a thing indelicate and needless

To ask, if at that moment he was happy.

Loud voice mustered up, for " Vive le Roi !

Then whisper'd, "Ave you any news of Nappy!" The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question,"Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring

pool?"

The query seem'd of difficult digestion,

The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.

XIV.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,
And bade the veil of Modesty be drawn),
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause,
"Jean Bool!-I vas not know him-Yes, I vas-
I vas remember dat, von year or two,
I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo-
Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman,-m'entendez-vous ?
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun,
Rogue I no like-dey call him Vellington."
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.

XV.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John;
And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way
"Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay too much.”

Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,
That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet more,

Poor John had wellnigh wept for Bonaparte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd,"And who are you," John answer'd, "and b d-d?"

1 The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map. Florence, Venice, &c.

The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. One of the leaders was called Fra Diavolo, i. e. Brother Devil.

4 Or drubbing; so called in the Slang Dictionary.

5 See the True-Born Englishman, by Daniel De Foo. 6 Europe.

In that case, signior, I may take my leave; I came to ask a favor-but I grieve”"Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard, "It's my belief you come to break the yard !— But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner,— Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head; But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, "Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well.”— 'Kiss and be d-d," quoth John, “and go to hell!"

XVII.

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg
When the blithe bagpipe blew-but, soberer now,
She doucely span her flax and milk'd her cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a-month her house was partly swept,
And once a-week a plenteous board she kept.
And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws
And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,
She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.
John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor,
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor,
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon,
And was d-d close in making of a bargain.

XVIII.

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum curtsy'd sister Peg;
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do).
She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook;
Ask'd him" about the news from Eastern parts;
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts!
If peace brought down the price of tea and pep

per,

And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper;—
Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park-
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinnin',
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen.”

XIX.

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle
In search of goods her customer to hail,
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle,
And hollo'd,-" Ma'am, that is not what I ail.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.

For a long space had John, with words of thunder,
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg’d unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middle-men two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potato, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat
XXI.

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Which is with Paddy still a jolly day:

When mass is ended, and his load of sins

Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns

Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,

Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.
"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun,
"That ragged fellow is our very man!
Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me nave his shirt.”—

XXII.

Shilela their plan was wellnigh after baulking
(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy
Whack;

They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him-Alack!

Up-bubboo! Paddy had not- -a shirt to his

back!!!

And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame,

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

That in your service strive not yet in vain?
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,
And sense of duty fire the fading eye;
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy;
Till every sneering youth around inquires,

"Is this the man who once could please our sires ?"

And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.
This must not be;-and higher duties crave,
Some space between the theatre and the grave,
That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:

1 These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, called the "Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. at Edinburgh. In a note prefixed, Mr. James Ballantyne says, "The character fixed upon, with happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had labored under a severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his mind.-'He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, determined to leave behind him the most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown,' and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they ceasedwere resumed--rose again -were reiterated--and again were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, and Mr. Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth (the audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him), to deliver

The last, the closing scene, must be my own. My life's brief act in public service flown,

Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts

May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men:
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget-
O, how forget!-how oft I hither came
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame!
By mem'ry treasured, while her reign endures,

Those hours must live-and all their charms are yours.

O favor'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL

Lines,

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.

1817.

WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.

his farewell." "Mr. Kemble delivered these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell was closed, he ingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up. and cheered him with the waving of hate and long shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired and, m so far as regards cotland, the curtain dropped upon his profes sional life for ever."

2 These lines were first printed in "The Forget-Me-Not, for 1834." They were written for recitation by the distinguished actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1817; but reached her too late for her purpose. In a letter which inclosed them, the poet intimated that they were written on the morning of the day on which they were sent--that he thought the idea better than the execution, and forwarded them with the hope of their adding perhaps "a little salt to the bill."

As near he draws, and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show,
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow,
Oppress his soul; while they delight
And chasten rapture with affright.
No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day-
All these endured no favor claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.

We too, who ply the Thespian art,
Oft feel such bodings of the heart,
And, when our utmost powers are strain'd,
Dare hardly hope your favor gain'd.
She, who from sister climes has sought
The ancient land where Wallace fought;-
Land long renown'd for arms and arts,
And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts;-1
She, as the flutterings here avow,
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;
Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis yours the hospitable task

To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

AIR-" Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run.”

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. T words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies [1822.]

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were?

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill.

1817.

["Scort's enjoyment of his new territories was, however, interrupted by various returns of his cramp, and the depression of spirit which always attended, in his case, the use of opium, the only medicine that seemed to have power over the disease. It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn, that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth,-namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshiels Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west, are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland,--all the work of the poet's hand.” -Life, vol. v. p. 237.]

1 "O favor'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms."

Lines written for Mr. J. Kemble.

"Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old

The Monks of Bangor's March.
AIR-" Ymdaith Mionge."
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEO. THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES

1817.

ETHELFRID or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighboring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,

gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield (he thinks), whe had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air "- GEORGE THOMSON.