Late landed from the Jolly Planter's yawl -
A sight whereon the dignitaries fixed
Their eager eyes, with ecstasy unmixed,
Like fathers that behold their infants crawl,
Enjoying every little kick and sprawl.
Nay-far from fatherly the thoughts they bred,
Poor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried!
The Aldermen too plainly wished them dead
And Aldermanbury'd!
"There!" cried Sir Peter, with an air
Triumphant as an ancient victor's,
And pointing to the creatures rich and rare, "There's picters!
"Talk of Olympic Games! They're not worth mention; The real prize for wrestling is when Jack,
In Providence or Ascension,
Can throw a lively turtle on its back!"
"Ay!" cried Sir John, and with a score of nods, Thoughtful of classical symposium,
"There's food for gods!
There's nectar! there's ambrosium !
There's food for Roman emperors to eat
O, there had been a treat
(Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us)
There were a feast for Alexander's Feast!
none of your mock or spurious!
And then he mentioned Aldermen deceased,
And how Tertullian had enjoyed such foison:
And speculated on that verdigrease
"Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that! Give me green fat!
As for your poets with their groves of myrtles
Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there,
A-billing in a bill of fare!
"Of all the things I ever swallow
Good, well-dressed turtle beats them hollow;
It almost makes me wish, I vow,
To have two stomachs, like a cow!"
And, lo! as with the cud, an inward thrill
Upheaved his waistcoat and disturbed his frill,
His mouth was oozing and he worked his jaw
"I almost think that I could eat one raw!"
And thus, as "inward love breeds outward talk,"
The portly pair continued to discourse;
as Gray describes of life's divorce With "longing, lingering look" prepared to walk,Having through one delighted sense, at least,
Enjoyed a sort of Barmecidal feast,
And with prophetic gestures, strange to see,
Forestalled the civic banquet yet to be,
Its callipash and callipee!
A pleasant prospect-but, alack!
Scarcely each Alderman had turned his back,
When, seizing on the moment so propitious,
And having learned that they were so delicious
To bite and sup,
From praises so high flown and injudicious,—
And nothing could be more pernicious!
The Turtles fell to work, and ate each other up!
Never, from folly or urbanity,
Praise people thus profusely to their faces,
Till, quite in love with their own graces,
They 're eaten up by vanity!
"Fly to the desert, fly with me."- LADY HESTER STANHOPE.
'T WAS in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,-
To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills! -
My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand,
I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand,
The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,
When, lo! a shadow passed across the paper like a cloud,
And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene,
Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!
The turban on her head was white as any driven snow;
A purple bandalette passed o'er the lofty brow below,
And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewelled ear;
In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere;
Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a Turkish robe of silk
Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk;
Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath
A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broidered wreath,
Compelled by clasps of costly pearl around her neck to meet,
And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!
Of course I bowed my lowest bow; of all the things on earth,
The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth,
To power, to wealth, to genius, or to any thing uncommon,
A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman !
Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and
Compelled me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;
There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh.
Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!
With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,
I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand;
And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise,
Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.
Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face;
She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;
"Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;
"It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet!
Ay,
7, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison-bars,
This interview was promised in the language of the stars!"
Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding
hands,
A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands, Nor reined they up their foaming steeds till in my very face They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race. "Fear naught," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off
"Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof! Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth, And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth." Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near, She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL for, lo! the MAN is here!"
Off went the obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee, But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and
And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian
Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for Sultan's side;
Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark
her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,
Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,
A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist
Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.
Methought-but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,
Behold the Arabs leading up a Mare of milky white!
To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,
The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse;
Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,
Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,
I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds
Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;
As for a war-horse, he that can bestride one is a hero,-
Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.
With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of
Tempestuous tail-to picture him description vainly begs!
His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath;
Nay, was it not a horse that bore the grisly shape of Death?
Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine
To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign
To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied:
"Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian
bride!"
Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke,
Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke,
So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.
"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born Or any of its ridings, this would be a blessed morn;
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