"Was call'd The Happy many ages since- But not in Araby, with all her balm, 66 XII. 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. 66 While these the priest and those the noble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces. 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; 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 !" The query seem'd of difficult digestion, XIV. Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers 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?" XVI. "A stranger, come to see the happiest man,— So, signior, all avouch,-in Frangistan."—" "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 And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut. a Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.” 1 The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map. 2 Florence, Venice, &c. 3 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. See the True-Born Englishman, by Daniel De Foe. • 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, A quiet soul as any in the nation; XVIII. The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, per, And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper;- XIX. Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle 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, 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 have 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. Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address,' ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE. 1817. As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, That in your service strive not yet in vain? And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien, 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, And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! 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,2 WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH. 1817. WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar 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." As near he draws, and yet more near, 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 To give the applause she dare not ask; 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 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. ["Scorr'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 dis ease. 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. 2 "Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old 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 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 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. Veiled nun and friar gray March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye; O miserere, Domine! On the long procession goes, O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, Hands that censers only swung, Met the northern bow and bill, Heard the war-cry wild and shrill; Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, Woe to Saxon cruelty, O miserere, Domine! Weltering amid warriors slain, Sing, O miserere, Domine! Bangor o'er the murder wail! Never shall thy priests return; Letter TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817. FROM ROSS, where the clouds on Benlomond are sleeping From Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean is sweeping 1 William of Malmsbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre:-" tot semiruti parietes ecclesia From Largs, where the Scotch gave the Northmen a drilling From Ardrossan, whose harbor cost many a shilling From Old Cumnock, where beds are as hard as a plank, sir From a chop and green pease, and a chicken in Sanquhar, This eve, please the Fates, at Drumlanrig we anchor. W. S. [Sir Walter's companion on this excursion was Captain, now Sir Adam Ferguson.—See Life, vol. v. p. 234.] from Rob Roy. 1817. (1.) TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE. "A BLOTTED piece of paper dropped out of the book, and, being taken up by my father, he interrupted a hint from Owen, on the propriety of securing loose memoranda with a little paste, by exclaiming, 'To the memory of Edward the Black Prince-What's all this?-verses!-By Heaven, Frank, you are a greater blockhead than I supposed you !'" O for the voice of that wild horn, The dying hero's call, "Fontarabian echoes!' continued my father, interrupting himself; the Fontarabian Fair would have been more to the purpose.—Paynim ?— What's Paynim?-Could you not say Pagan as well, and write English, at least, if you must needs write nonsense ?'" Sad over earth and ocean sounding, And England's distant cliffs astounding, Such are the notes should say How Britain's hope, and France's fear, Victor of Cressy and Poitier, In Bourdeaux dying lay. rum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas." |