In his long list of melancholies, mad, V. Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried, VI. Then was the council call'd-by their advice, Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders- Double assessment, torage, 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 greεD, 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. 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 labour 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, E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest, wrong. VII. The Omrahs, each with hand on scymitar, Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death; (Serendib language calls a farmer Rint) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, From this oration auguring much disquiet, Sea Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. For these hard words see D'Herbelot, or the learned editor of the Recipes of Avicenna. By dint of magic amulet or lay; And, when all other skill in vain was shown, She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. X. "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 your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's." As Doctors have, who bid their patients roam XI. All are on board-the Sultaun and his train, The old Rais was the first who questioned, "Whither?" They paused-" Arabia," thought the pensive Prince, "Was call'd The Happy many ages since For 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. XII. "Enough of turbans," said the weary King, By land or ocean never strikes his flag- XIII. Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, 1 Master of the vessel. The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map. 4 The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. One of the kaders was called Fra Diavolo, i. e. Brother Devil. Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him 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. And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a 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 XV. John Bull was in his very worst of moods, Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty, Poor John had wellnigh wept for Bonaparte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd,— "And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d-d!” "Happy my tenants breaking on my hand; Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land; Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths The sole consumers of my good broadclothsHappy-Why, cursed war and racking tax Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.""In that case, signior, I may take my leave; I came to ask a favour-but I grieve""Favour ?" 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, And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation, XVIII. The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, XIX. Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttis In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle, And hollo'd.-" Ma'am that is not what I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen ?"— "Happy" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken? Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh.""What say you to the present?"—" Meal's sae dear, To mak' their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh.”— "The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began.Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg". "Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg. XX. Now, for the land of verdant Erin, For a long space had John, with words of thunder, XXI The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! XXII. Shilela their plan was wellnigh after baulking, They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him- 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. Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address,' ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE. 1817 As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; Why should we part, while still some powers remain, But all too soon the transient gleam is past, To drain the dregs of your endurance dry, ! 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 laboured 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 ceased-were 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 sudience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him,) Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced paris And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! O favour'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms, What fervent benedictions now were thine! Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL. Lines, 2 WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH. 1817. WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar to deliver 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 lingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his professional 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." No longer dare he think his toil 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 favour 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;—' She, as the flutterings here avow, Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now; Yet sure on Caledonian plain The stranger never sued in vain. To give the applause she dare not ask; 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, Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 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. ["SCOTT'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.] AIR-" Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run." The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodics, [1822.] THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; "O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For many talent, and for female charms." Lines written for Mr. J. Kemble. The Monks of Bangor's March. 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 neighbouring 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 supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession. WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye; O miserere, Domine! "Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, (he thinks,) who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air."-GEORGE THOMSON. |