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Dull by formation, by complexion sad,

By bile, opinions, and dyspepsy sour.
One of the sons of Jack, — I know not which,
For Jack hath a most numerous progeny,
Made up for Mr. Colburn's Magazine,
This pleasant composite; a bust supplied
The features; look, expression, character
Are of the Artist's fancy and free grace.
Such was that fellow's birth and parentage.
The rascal proved prolific; one of his breed,
By Docteur Pichot introduced in France,
Passes for Monsieur Sooté; and another,-
An uglier miscreant too, the brothers Schumann,
And their most cruel copper-scratcher Zschoch,
From Zwickau sent abroad through Germany.
I wish the Schumen and the copper-scratcher
No worse misfortune, for their recompense,
Than to encounter such a cut-throat face
In the Black Forest or the Odenwald.

And now is there a third derivative
From Mr. Colburn's composite, which late
The Arch-Pirate Galignani hath prefix'd,
A spurious portrait to a faithless life,
And bearing lyingly the libell'd name
Of Lawrence, impudently there insculp'd.

The bust that was the innocent forefather
To all this base, abominable brood,

I blame not, Allan. 'Twas the work of Smith,
A modest, mild, ingenious man, and errs,
Where erring, only because over-true,
Too close a likeness for similitude;
Fixing to every part and lineament
Its separate character, and missing thus
That which results from all.

Of pork — baked, roasted, toasted, boil'd, or broil'd;
Fresh, salted, pickled, seasoned, moist, or dry;
Whether ham, bacon, sausage, souse, or brawn;
Leg, bladebone, baldrib, griskin, chine, or chop-
Profess myself a genuine Philopig.

It was, however, as a Jew whose portion
Had fallen unto him in a goodly land
Of loans, of omnium, and of three per cents,
That Messrs. Percy, of the Anecdote-firm,
Presented me unto their customers.

Poor Smouch endured a worse Judaization
Under another hand. In this next stage
He is on trial at the Old Bailey, charged
With dealing in base coin. That he is guilty
No Judge or Jury could have half a doubt
When they saw the culprit's face; and he himself,
As you may plainly see, is comforted

By thinking he has just contrived to keep
Out of rope's reach, and will come off this time
For transportation.

Stand thou forth for trial,

Now, William Darton, of the Society

Of Friends called Quakers; thou who in 4th month
Of the year 24, on Holborn Hill,

At No. 58, didst wilfully,

Falsely, and knowing it was falsely done,
Publish upon a card, as Robert Southey's,

A face which might be just as like Tom Fool's,
Or John, or Richard Any-body-else's!
What had I done to thee, thou William Darton,
That thou shouldst, for the lucre of base gain,
Yea, for the sake of filthy fourpences,
Palm on my countrymen that face for mine!
O William Darton, let the Yearly Meeting
Deal with thee for that falseness! All the rest

Sir Smug comes next; Are traceable; Smug's Hebrew family;

Allan, I own Sir Smug! I recognize
That visage, with its dull sobriety;
I see it duly as the day returns,

When at the looking-glass, with lather'd chin
And razor-weapon'd hand, I sit, the face
Composed and apprehensively intent
Upon the necessary operation

About to be perform'd, with touch, alas,
Not always confident of hair-breadth skill.
Even in such sober sadness and constrain'd
Composure cold, the faithful Painter's eye
Had fix'd me like a spell, and I could feel
My features stiffen as he glanced upon them.
And yet he was a man whom I loved dearly,
My fellow-traveller, my familiar friend,

The German who might properly adorn
A gibbet or a wheel, and Monsieur Sooté,
Sons of Fitzbust the Evangelical;

I recognize all these unlikenesses,

observe me, man,

Spurious abominations though they be,
Each filiated on some original;
But thou, Friend Darton, and
Only in courtesy, and quasi Quaker,
I call thee Friend! hadst no original;
No likeness, or unlikeness, silhouette,
Outline, or plaster, representing me,
Whereon to form thy misrepresentation.
If I guess rightly at the pedigree

Of thy bad groatsworth, thou didst get a barber
To personate my injured Laureateship;

My household guest. But when he look'd upon An advertising barber, one who keeps

me,

Anxious to exercise his excellent art,
The countenance he knew so thoroughly
Was gone, and in its stead there sate Sir Smug.

Under the graver's hand, Sir Smug became Sir Smouch- —a son of Abraham. Now, albeit Far rather would I trace my lineage thence Than with the oldest line of Peers or Kings Claim consanguinity, that cast of features Would ill accord with me, who, in all forms

A bear, and, when he puts to death poor Bruin,
Sells his grease, fresh as from the carcass cut,
Pro bono publico, the price per pound
Twelve shillings and no more. From such a barber,
O unfriend Darton! was that portrait made,

I think, or peradventure from his block.

Next comes a minion worthy to be set
In a wooden frame; and here I might invoke
Avenging Nemesis, if I did not feel,

Just now, God Cynthius pluck me by the ear.

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EEN Wildeman, het dolhuis uitgevlogen : "
Een goede Hals, maar zonder ziel of kracht: 6
Een Sukkelaar, die met verwonderde oogen

Om alles met verbeten weêrzin lacht: "
Een Franschmans lach op halfverwrongen kaken,
Die geest beduidt op 't aanzicht van een bloed:
En, om 't getal dier fraaiheên vol te maken,

Eens Financiers verwaande domme snoet." En dat moet ik, dat moet een Dichter wezen! Gelooft gy 't ooit, die deze monsters ziet? Geeft, wat ik schreef, één trek daar van te lezen Zoo zeg gerust: "Hy kent zich zelven niet."

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Min God! is 't waar, zijn dit mijn wezenstrekken,
En is 't mijn hart, dajt ze aan my-zelf onbdekken?
Of maaldet gy, wier kunst my dus herteelt,
Uw eigen aart onwetend in mijn beeld?
Het moog zoo zijn. De Rubens en Van Dijken
Zijn lang voorby, die zielen deên gelijken :
Wier oog hun ziel een heldre spiegel was,
En geest en hart in elken vezel las,
Niet, dagen lang, op 't uiterlijk bleef staren,
Maar d'eersten blik in 't harte kon bewaren,
Dien blik getrouw in klei of verven bracht,
En spreken deed tot Tijd-en-Nageslacht.

Die troffen, ja! die wisten af te malen

Wat oog en mond, wat elke zenuw sprak; Wier borst, doorstroomd van hooger idealen,

Een hand bewoog die 't voorwerp noort, ontbrak. Doch, wat maalt gy?'t Misnoegen van 't vervelen

Voor Rust der ziel in zalig zelfgenot; Met Ongeduld om 't haatlijk tijdontstelen;

En-Bitterheid, die met uw wanklap spot Wen ge, om den mond iets vriendlijks af te prachen, Of slaaprigheid of mijmrende ernst verstoort, En door uw boert het aanzicht tergt tot lachen Met zotterny, slechts wreevlig aangehoord.

Maar HODGES! gy, die uit vervlogen eeuwen
De Schilderkunst te rug riept op 't paneel,
Geen mond mismaakt door 't zielverteerend
geeuwen,

Maar kunstgesprek vereenigt aan 't penceel! Zoo 't Noodlot wil dat zich in later dagen

Mijn naam bewaar in 't onwijs Vaderland, En eenig beeld mijn leest moet overdragen, Het zij geschetst door uw begaafde hand. In uw tafreel, bevredigd met my-zelven,

Ontdek ik 't hart dat lof noch laster acht; En, die daaruit mijn ziel weet op te delven Miskent in my noch inborst noch geslacht.*

1822.

a 1822.

* Rots-Galmen, d. ii. p. 103.

Thalaba the Destroyer.

Ποιημάτων ακρατης η ελευθερία, και νόμος εις, το δόξαν τω ποιητη.

LUCIAN, Quomodo Hist Scribenda.

PREFACE.

Ir was said, in the original Preface to Joan of Arc, that the Author would not be in England to witness its reception, but that he would attend to liberal criticism, and hoped to profit by it in the composition of a poem upon the discovery of America by the Welsh prince Madoc.

That subject I had fixed upon when a school-boy, and had often conversed upon the probabilities of the story with the school-fellow to whom, sixteen years afterwards, I had the satisfaction of inscribing the poem. It was commenced at Bath in the autumn of 1794; but, upon putting Joan of Arc to the press, its progress was necessarily suspended, and it was not resumed till the second edition of that work had been completed. Then it became my chief occupation during twelve months that I resided in the village of Westbury, near Bristol. This was one of the happiest portions of my life. 1 never before or since produced so much poetry in the same space of time. The smaller pieces were communicated by letter to Charles Lamb, and had the advantage of his animadversions. I was then also in habits of the most frequent and intimate intercourse with Davy, then in the flower and freshness of his youth. We were within an easy walk of each other, over some of the most beautiful ground in that beautiful part of England. When I went to the Pneumatic Institution, he had to tell me of some new experiment or discovery, and of the views which it opened for him; and when he came to Westbury there was a fresh portion of Madoc for his hearing. Davy encouraged me with his hearty approbation during its progress; and the bag of nitrous oxyde, with which he generally regaled me upon my visits to him, was not required for raising my spirits to the degree of settled fair, and keeping them at that elevation.

In November, 1836, I walked to that village with my son, wishing to show him a house endeared to me by so many recollections; but not a vestige of it remained, and local alterations rendered it impossible even to ascertain its site which is now included within the grounds of a Nunnery! The bosom friends with whom I associated there have all departed before me; and of the domestic circle in which my happiness was then centred, I am the sole survivor.

When we removed from Westbury at Midsummer, 1799, I had reached the penultimate book of

Madoc. That poem was finished on the 12th of July following, at Kingsdown, Bristol, in the house of an old lady, whose portrait hangs, with that of my own mother, in the room wherein I am now writing. The son who lived with her was one of my dearest friends, and one of the best men I ever knew or heard of. In those days I was an early riser: the time so gained was usually employed in carrying on the poem which I had in hand; and when Charles Danvers came down to breakfast on the morning after Madoc was completed, I had the first hundred lines of Thalaba to show him, fresh from the mint.

But this poem was neither crudely conceived nor hastily undertaken. I had fixed upon the ground, four years before, for a Mahommedan tale; and in the course of that time the plan had been formed, and the materials collected. It was pursued with unabating ardor at Exeter, in the village of Burton, near Christ Church, and afterwards at Kingsdown, till the ensuing spring, when Dr. Beddoes advised me to go to the south of Europe, on account of my health. For Lisbon, therefore, we set off; and, hastening to Falmouth, found the packet in which we wished to sail detained in harbor by westerly winds. "Six days we watched the weathercock, and sighed for north-easters. I walked on the beach, caught soldier-crabs, admired the sea-anemones in their ever-varying shapes of beauty, read Gebir, and wrote half a book of Thalaba." This sentence is from a letter written on our arrival at Lisbon; and it is here inserted because the sea-anemones (which I have never had any other opportunity of observing) were introduced in Thalaba soon afterwards; and because, as already stated, I am sensible of having derived great improvement from the frequent perusal of Gebir at that time.

Change of circumstances and of climate effected an immediate cure of what proved to be not an organic disease. A week after our landing at Lisbon I resumed my favorite work, and I completed it at Cintra, a year and six days after the day of its commencement.

A fair transcript was sent to England. Mr. Rickman, with whom I had fallen in at Christ Church in 1797, and whose friendship from that time I have ever accounted among the singular advantages and happinesses of my life, negotiated for its publication with Messrs. Longman and Rees. It was printed at Bristol by Biggs and Cottle, and

the task of correcting the press was undertaken | The dramatic sketches of Dr. Sayers, a volume for me by Davy and our common friend Danvers, under whose roof it had been begun.

The copy which was made from the original draught, regularly as the poem proceeded, is still in my possession. The first corrections were made as they occurred in the process of transcribing, at which time the verses were tried upon my own ear, and had the advantage of being seen in a fair and remarkably legible hand-writing. In this transcript the dates of time and place were noted, and things which would otherwise have been forgotten have thus been brought to my recollection. Herein also the alterations were inserted which the poem underwent before it was printed. They were very numerous. Much was pruned off, and more was ingrafted. I was not satisfied with the first part of the concluding book; it was therefore crossed out, and something substituted altogether different in design; but this substitution was so far from being fortunate, that it neither pleased my friends in England nor myself. I then made a third attempt, which succeeded to my own satisfaction and to theirs.

I was in Portugal when Thalaba was published. Its reception was very different from that with which Joan of Arc had been welcomed: in proportion as the poem deserved better, it was treated worse. Upon this occasion my name was first coupled with Mr. Wordsworth's. We were then, (and for some time afterwards, all but strangers to each other; and certainly there were no two poets in whose productions, the difference not being that between good and bad, less resemblance could be found. But I happened to be residing at Keswick when Mr. Wordsworth and I began to be acquainted; Mr. Coleridge also had resided there; and this was reason enough for classing us together as a school of poets. Accordingly, for more than twenty years from that time, every tyro in criticism who could smatter and sneer, tried his "pren

which no lover of poetry will recollect without pleasure, induced me, when a young versifier, to practise in this rhythm. I felt that while it gave the poet a wider range of expression, it satisfied the ear of the reader. It were easy to make a parade of learning, by enumerating the various feet which it admits: it is only needful to observe that no two lines are employed in sequence which can be read into one. Two six-syllable lines, it will perhaps be answered, compose an Alexandrine: the truth is, that the Alexandrine, when harmonious, is composed of two six-syllable lines. One advantage this metre assuredly possesses - the dullest reader cannot distort it into discord: he may read it prosaically, but its flow and fall will still be perceptible. Verse is not enough favored by the English reader: perhaps this is owing to the obtrusiveness, the regular Jew'sharp twing-twang, of what has been foolishly called heroic measure. I do not wish the improvisatorè tune; - but something that denotes the sense of harmony, something like the accent of feeling, like the tone which every poet necessarily gives to poetry.

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tice hand" upon the Lake Poets; and every young No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,

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In the continuation of the Arabian Tales, the Domdaniel is mentioned. -a seminary for evil magicians, under the roots of the sea. From this seed the present romance has grown. Let me not be supposed to prefer the rhythm in which it is written, abstractedly considered, to the regular blank verse - the noblest measure, in my judgment, of which our admirable language is capable. For the following Poem I have preferred it, because it suits the varied subject: it is the Arabesque ornament of an Arabian tale.

Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night!

2.

Who, at this untimely hour,
Wanders o'er the desert sands?

No station is in view,

Nor palm-grove, islanded amid the waste. The mother and her child,

The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy, They, at this untimely hour, Wander o'er the desert sands.

3.

Alas! the setting sun Saw Zeinab in her bliss, Hodeirah's wife beloved. Alas! the wife beloved,

The fruitful mother late,

Whom when the daughters of Arabia named,
They wish'd their lot like hers,
She wanders o'er the desert sands
A wretched widow now;

The fruitful mother of so fair a race,
With only one preserved,

She wanders o'er the wilderness.

4.

No tear relieved the burden of her heart;
Stunn'd with the heavy woe, she felt like one
Half-waken'd from a midnight dream of blood.
But sometimes, when the boy
Would wet her hand with tears,
And, looking up to her fix'd countenance,
Sob out the name of Mother! then she groan'd.
At length collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes
To heaven, and praised the Lord;
"He gave, he takes away!"

The pious sufferer cried,
"The Lord our God is good!'

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She had not wept till that assuaging prayer;
The fountains of her grief were open'd then,
And tears relieved her heart.

She raised her swimming eyes to Heaven,
"Allah, thy will be done!

Beneath the dispensations of that will

I groan, but murmur not.

A day will come, when all things that are dark Will be made clear; - then shall I know, O Lord! Why in thy mercy thou hast stricken me; Then see and understand what now My heart believes and feels."

8.

Young Thalaba in silence heard reproof; His brow in manly frowns was knit, With manly thoughts his heart was full. "Tell me, who slew my father?" cried the boy. Zeinab replied and said,

"I knew not that there lived thy father's foe. The blessings of the poor for him Went daily up to Heaven;

In distant lands the traveller told his praise; I did not think there lived Hodeirah's enemy."

9.

"But I will hunt him through the world!" Young Thalaba exclaim'd.

"Already I can bend my father's bow; Soon will my arm have strength

To drive the arrow-feathers to his heart."

10.

Zeinab replied, "O Thalaba, my child, Thou lookest on to distant days, And we are in the desert, far from men!"

11.

Not till that moment her afflicted heart
Had leisure for the thought.
She cast her eyes around;
Alas! no tents were there
Beside the bending sands;

No palm-tree rose to spot the wilderness;
The dark-blue sky closed round,

And rested like a dome
Upon the circling waste.
She cast her eyes around;
Famine and Thirst were there;

And then the wretched Mother bowed her head,
And wept upon her child.

12.

A sudden cry of wonder
From Thalaba aroused her;
She raised her head, and saw

Where, high in air, a stately palace rose.

Amid a grove embower'd
Stood the prodigious pile;
Trees of such ancient majesty
Tower'd not on Yemen's happy hills,
Nor crown'd the lofty brow of Lebanon:
Fabric so vast, so lavishly enrich'd,
For Idol, or for Tyrant, never yet
Raised the slave race of man,
In Rome, nor in the elder Babylon,
Nor old Persepolis,

Nor where the family of Greece
Hymn'd Eleutherian Jove.

13.

Here, studding azure tablatures,

And ray'd with feeble light,

Star-like the ruby and the diamond shone; Here on the golden towers The yellow moon-beam lay; Here with white splendor floods the silver wall. Less wondrous pile, and less magnificent, Sennamar built at Hirah, though his art Seal'd with one stone the ample edifice, And made its colors, like the serpent's skin, Play with a changeful beauty: him, its Lord, Jealous lest after-effort might surpass The then unequall'd palace, from its height Dash'd on the pavement down.

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