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When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious summons
And for the charges-Lo! your faithful Commons!"
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.
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.
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."
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 call'd 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,
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.
"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-Mother;
But, says the Chronicle, (who will go look it,)
That such was her advice-the Sultaun took it.
All are on board- the Sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plough the main.
The old Rais was the first who question'd, "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.
"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, I
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 tops2 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.
Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion,
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him,
Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;
Besides, some tumours 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
1 The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map.
2 Florence, Venice, &c.
The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. One of the leaders was called Fra Diavolo, i. e. Brother Devil.
Or drubbing; so called in the Slang Dictionary.
To ask, if at that moment he was happy.
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a
Loud voice muster'd 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.
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.
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;