Imatges de pàgina


This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway-
And where's Serendib? may some critic say.
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sindbad's map,-
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every
friend and kinsman out of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-
The last edition see by Long: and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.


Serendib found,-deem not my tale a fiction-
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
Sovereign specific for all sort of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours,)
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Or cordial smooth for princes' palate fitter-
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not but the Sultaun never laugh'd,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so bad.


Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room;
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed,
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside,

And then in solemn accents spoke their doom,
"His Majesty is very far from well."
Then each to work with his specific fell:
The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut ;*
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily,
Relied on his Munaskiff al fillfily.*
More and yet more in deep array appear,

And some the front assail and some the rear ;

* For these bard words see D'Herbelot, or the learned editor of the Receipts of Avicenna.

Their remedies to reinforce and vary,
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary;
Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary,
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labour,
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre.
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches,
To rid the palace of those learned leeches.


Then was the council call'd-by their advice,
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,

And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders)
Tatārs and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of Eastern parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My learned Malcolm calls them couroultai;
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong,-

E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.


The Omrabs, each with hand on scymitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-
"The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath

Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death;
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong and raise the shout of battle!
This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day,
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,

(Serendib-language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

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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

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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.

• Nobility.

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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 realm a dole

Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit
The Sultan'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 burthen to thy faithful clergy,"

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"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, if worn 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 called The Happy many ages

For Mokha, Rais."And they came safely thither.
But not in Araby with all her balm,
Not where Judæa 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 top the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.§
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."

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* Master of the vessel.

The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map.
Florence, Venice, &c.

The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. One of the leaders was called Fra Diavolo, i. e. Brother Devil.

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 hideing.*

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 answered 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 called Vaterloo-
Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman,-m' entendez vouz ?
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 streight.

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,
And authors vouch 'twas still this Worthy's way,
"Never to grumble till he came to pay;

*Or drubbing, so called in the Slang Dictionary.

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