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“Was call'd The Happy many ages since- Loud voice mustered up, for “ Vive le Roi !" For Mokha, Rais." —And they came safely Then whisperid, “ Ave you any news of Nappy?" thither.
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question,But not in Araby, with all her balm,
“Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,
That dwells somewhere beyond your herringNot in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
pool ?” Could there the step of happiness be traced. The query seem'd of difficult digestion, One Copt alone profess’d to have seen her smile, The party shrugg’d, and grinn'd, and took his snuff, When Bruce his goblet fillid at infant Nile: And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough. She bless’d the dauntless traveller as he quaff'd, But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.
Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers “Enough of turbans,” said the weary King, (Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn, “These dolimans of ours are not the thing; And bade the veil of Modesty be drawn), Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap, I Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, Incline to think some of them must be happy;
Jean Bool!-I vas not know him-Yes, I vasAt least, they have as fair a cause as any can, I vas remember dat, von year or two, They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan. I saw him at von place call’d VaterlooThen northward, ho!”—The vessel cuts the sea, Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu, And fair Italia lies upon her lee.
Dat is for Englishman,-m'entendez-vous ? But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun, Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world, Rogue I no like—dey call him Vellington." Long from her throne of domination tumbled, Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret, Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled; So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait. The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean, And was not half the man he once had been.
XV. “ While these the priest and those the noble John Bull was in his very worst of moods, fleeces,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ; Our poor old boot," they said, “is torn to pieces. His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, Its tops: the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.” His wars were ended, and the victory won, If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John; We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli; And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way, A tramontane, a heretic,—the buck,
“Never to grumble till he came to pay; Poffaredio ! still has all the luck;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such, By land or ocean never strikes his flag
The work too little, and the pay too much." And then-a perfect walking money-bag."
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty, Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode, That when his mortal foe was on the floor, But first took France—it lay upon the road. And past the power to harm his quiet more,
Poor John had wellnigh wept for Bonaparte! XIII.
Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam’d, Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, “And who are you,” John answer'd, “and be Was agitated like a settling ocean,
d-d9" Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what aild him,
XVI. Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; “A stranger, come to see the happiest man,Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding, So, signior, all avouch,-in Frangistan.”— Gave indication of a recent hiding.'
“Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand; Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are Unstock'd my pastures, and untilld my land; heedless,
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths Thought it a thing indelicate and needless The sole consumers of my good broadcloths—
To ask, if at that moment he was happy. Happy ?-Why, cursed war and racking tax And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs." —
i 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.
" In that case, signior, I may take my leave; Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen I came to ask a favor—but I grieve"
Happy ?" said Peg: "What for d'ye want to “Favor p” said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard,
ken? “ It's my belief you come to break the yard ! Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner,- Grain wadng pay the yoking of the pleugh”— Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner.”— “What say you to the present ?"—“ Meal's sae With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;
dear, But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,
To mak’ their brose my bairns have scare “ Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline;
aneugh."A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine.
“ The devil take the shirt,” said Solimaun, Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well.”— * I think my quest will end as it began.“ Kiss and be d-d,” quoth John, “ and go to Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg” hell!"
“Ye'll no be for the linen, then ?" said Peg.
And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,
A quiet soul as any in the nation;
In search of goods her customer to nail,
And hollo'd,—“Ma'am, that is not what I ail.
Mr. Bemble's farewell address,
The last, the closing scene, must be my own.
ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE.
Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced 1817.
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men: Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt ground
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forgetDisdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
O, how forget !-how oft I hither came And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame! So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
How oft around your circle this weak hand Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand, To think my scenic hour for ever past,
Till the full burst of inspiration came, And that these valued plaudits are my last.
And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! Why should we part, while still some powers By mem'ry treasured, while her reign endures, remain,
Those hours must live-and all their charms are That in your service strive not yet in vain ?
yours. Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply, And sense of duty fire the fading eye;
O favor'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms, And all the wrongs of age remain subdued For manly talent, and for female charms, Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ?
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
What fervent benedictions now were thine ! Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, But all too soon the transient gleam is past, When e'en your praise falls faltering from my It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
tongue; Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage And all that you can hear, or I can tell, But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age. Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL. 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;
Lines, Till every sneering youth around inquires, “ Is this the man who once could please our
sires ?” And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,
1817. To warn me off from the encumber'd scene. This must not be ;-and higher duties crave,
When the lone pilgrim views afar Some space between the theatre and the grave, The shrine that is his guiding star, That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
With awe his footsteps print the road I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.
WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.
1 These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, his farewell."
“Mr. Kemble delivered these lines called the “* Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced Ballantyne and Co. at Edinburgh. In a note prefixed, Mr. by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions James Ballantyne says, “The character fixed upon, with were very conspicuous. When his farewell was closed, he linhappy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in gered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had labored under a shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired, and, in so severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his profesthe physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his mind.- sional life for ever. · He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, determined to leave behind him the most per- 2 These lines were first printed in “The Forget-Me-Not, for fect specimen of his art which he had ever shown,' and his 1834." They were written for recitation by the distinguished success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her benthe curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. efit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1817; bat reached her too late The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they ceased - for her purpose. In a letter which inclosed them, the poet were resumed-rose again--were reiterated--and again were intimated that they were written on the morning of the day on hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, and Mr. which they were sent--that he thought the idea better than the Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth (the audience execution, and forwarded them with the hope of their adding by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him), to deliver perhaps “ a little salt to the bill.”
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.]
As near he draws, and yet more near,
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?
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; 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.
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 TV eírdlaw Will.
The Monks of Bangor's Marcb.
AIR—" Ymdaith Mionge." WRITTEN FOR MR. GEO. THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES.
[“ 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 comi posed 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.” -Iife, 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
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), who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air.'- GEORGE THOMSON.