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XL.

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase
Used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays
Close to the lady as a part of dress,
Her word the only law which he obeys.
He is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XLI.

With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy's a pleasant place to me, Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France.

XLII.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,
Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about,
Because the skies are not the most secure ;
I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way,-
In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray.
XLIII.

I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the Sun set, sure he 'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all Heaven t'himself; that day will break

as

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. XLIV.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

That not a single accent seems uncouth,

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,

Which we 're obliged to hiss, and spit,and sputter all. XLV.

I like the women too (forgive my folly),

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us?-in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below? †

* For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's death, see his lives.

+ Note.-(In talking thus, the writer, more especially
Of women, would be understood to say,
He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way;

XLVII.

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still,” I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it);

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we 've got it); I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 't is not too late;

XLVIII.

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many;
I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear;

I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,
That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King!
Which means that I like all and everything.

XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.
L.

But to my tale of Laura,-for I find
Digression is a sin, that by degrees
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,
And, therefore, may the reader too displease-
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,

And caring little for the author's ease,
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard
And hapless situation for a bard.

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Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so

Laura the usual preparations made,

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war,
And as for Fortune-but I dare not d-n her,
Because, were I to ponder to infinity,
The more I should believe in her divinity.
LXII.

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet;
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage;
I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet;
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage,
We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet
How much she 'll make amends for past miscar-
Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune,
riage.
Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune.

LXIII.

To turn, and to return;-the devil take it!
This story slips forever through my fingers,
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it,
It needs must be-and so it rather lingers :
This form of verse began, I can't well break it,
But must keep time and tune like public singers;
But if I once get through my present measure,
I'll take another when I 'm next at leisure.

LXIV.

Which you do when your mind 's made up to go They went to the Ridotto ('t is a place
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade,
Spectator, or partaker in the show;

The only difference known between the cases
Is-here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces."

LVII.

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before)
A pretty woman as was ever seen,

Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door,
Or frontispiece of a new Magazine,

With all the fashions which the last month wore,
Color'd, and silver paper leaved between

That and the title-page, for fear the press

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,
Just to divert my thoughts a little space,
Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow
Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face
May lurk beneath each mask; and as my sorrow
Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find,
Something shall leave it half an hour behind).
LXV.

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips,

Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd,

LVIII.

They went to the Ridotto; 't is a hall

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again; Its proper name, perhaps, were a masked ball, But that's of no importance to my strain; "T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain: The company is "mix'd" (the phrase I quote is As much as saying, they 're below your notice); LIX.

For a "mix'd company " implies that, save

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, Whom you may bow to without looking grave, The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore Of public places, where they basely brave The fashionable stare of twenty score

Of well-bred persons, call'd "The World; " but I, Although I know them, really don't know why.

LX.

This is the case in England; at least was
During the dynasty of Dandies, now
Perchance succeeded by some other class
Of imitated imitators :-how
Irreparably soon decline, alas!

The demagogues of fashion: all below
Is frail; how easily the world is lost

By love, or war, and now and then by frost!
LXI.

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor,
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer,
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or

A blundering novice in his new French grammar;

Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill.

LXVI.

One has false curls, another too much paint,

A third-where did she buy that frightful turban? A fourth's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint,

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo! an eighth appears,-"I'll see no more!" For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

LXVII.

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing,
Others were levelling their looks at her;
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising,
And, till 't was done, determined not to stir;
The women only thought it quite amazing
That, at her time of life, so many were
Admirers still,-but men are so debased,
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste.
LXVIII.

For my part, now, I ne'er could understand
Why naughty women-but I won't discuss
A thing which is a scandal to the land,

I only don't see why it should be thus;
And if I were but in a gown and band,
Just to entitle me to make a fuss,
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily.

LXIX.

While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what,

So that her female friends, with envy broiling,
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that;
And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing,
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat;
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare
With pertinacity that 's rather rare.

LXX.

He was a Turk, the color of mahogany;

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad,
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,
Although their usage of their wives is sad;
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad; They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum."

LXXI.

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily,
They scarcely can behold their male relations,
So that their moments do not pass so gayly

As is supposed the case with northern nations;
Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely;
And as the Turks abhor long conversations,
Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing,
Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.
LXXII.

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism;
Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse;
Were never caught in epigram or witticism,
Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,-
In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism!
But luckily these beauties are no
"Blues,"
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em
“That charming passage in the last new poem:"

LXXIII.

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,
Who having angled all his life for fame,

And getting but a nibble at a time,
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same

Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime
Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo's echo, usher of the school

Of female wits, boy bards-in short, a fool!

LXXIV.

A stalking oracle of awful phrase,
The approving "Good!" (by no means GOOD in
law),

Humming like flies around the newest blaze,
The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw,
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter,
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better.

LXXV.

One hates an author that 's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worse coxcombs e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,
These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper.
LXXVI.

Of these same we see several, and of others,
Men of the world, who know the world like men,
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers,
Who think of something else besides the pen;
But for the children of the "mighty mother's,"
The would-be wits ard can't-be gentlemen,
I leave them to their daily "tea is ready,"
Smug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXVII.

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And one would seem to them a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple;

I think 't would almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXVIII.

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases,
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Upon the living manners, as they pass us;

No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. LXXIX.

Why I thank God for that is no great matter,
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;
I fear I have a little turn for satire,

And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold,though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.

LXXX.

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter,
Abominable Man no more allays

His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,
I love you both, and both shall have my praise:
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy!-
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.

LXXXI.

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her,
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way,
Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honor,
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay."
Could staring win a woman, this had won her,
But Laura could not thus be led astray;
She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle.

LXXXII.

The morning now was on the point of breaking,
A turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
In any other kind of exercise,
To make their preparations for forsaking

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, His blushes make them look a little pale.

LXXXIII.

I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
And stay'd them over for some silly reason,
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime)

To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime,
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn)
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.
LXXXIV.

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention,

Although I might, for she was nought to me More than that patent work of God's invention, A charming woman, whom we like to see; But writing names would merit reprehension, Yet if you like to find out this fair she,

At the next London or Parisian ball
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.
LXXXV.

Laura, who knew it would not do at all

To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball,

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting. The Count was at her elbow with her shawl,

And they the room were on the point of quitting, When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got Just in the very place where they should not.

LXXXVI.

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause
Is much the same-the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,
They make a never intermitted bawling.
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws,
And here a sentry stands within your calling;
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing,
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.
LXXXVII.

The Count and Laura found their boat at last,
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide,
Discussing all the dances gone and past;

The dancers and their dresses, too, beside;
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast

(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, When lo! the Mussulman was there before her.

LXXXVIII.

"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, "Your unexpected presence here will make

It necessary for myself to crave

Its import? But perhaps 't is a mistake;

I hope it is so; and, at once to waive

All compliment, I hope so for your sake: You understand my meaning, or you shall." "Sir," (quoth the Turk), "tis no mistake at all:

LXXXIX.

"That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might;
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,
Italian females don't do so outright;

They only call a little on their saints,

And then come to themselves, almost or quite; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces,

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

XC.

She said,-what could she say? Why, not a word:
But the Count courteously invited in
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
"Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within,”
Said he; 66 don't let us make ourselves absurd
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,
For then the chief and only satisfaction
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."

XCI.

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd-it came,
A beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it 's not the same.
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth

To speak, cries" Beppo! what 's your pagan name?
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth!
And how came you to keep away so long?
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong?

XCII.

"And are you really, truly, now a Turk? With any other women did you wive?

Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork?
Well, that's the prettiest shawl—as I 'm alive!
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork.
And how so many years did you contrive
To-Bless me! did I ever? No, I never
Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver?
XCIII.

"Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not;
It shall be shaved before you 're a day older:
Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot-

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it's grown!"

XCIV.

What answer Beppo made to these demands
Is more than I know. He was cast away
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands:
Became a slave of course, and for his pay
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands
Of pirates landing in a neighboring bay,
He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became
A renegado of indifferent fame.

XCV.

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
Keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
And not be always thieving on the main;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,

And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca,
Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.

XCVI.

Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten!) cash,

He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb, And got clear off, although the attempt was rash; He said that Providence protected himFor my part, I say nothing, lest we clash

In our opinions:-well, the ship was trim, Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.

XCVII:

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading
And self and live stock to another bottom,
And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading
With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em.
However, he got off by this evading,

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him;
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.

XCVIII.

His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him
(He made the church a present by the way);
He then threw off the garments which disguised him,
And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes for a day:
His friends the more for his long absence prized him,
Finding he 'd wherewithal to make them gay,
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them,
For stories-but I don't believe the half of them.

XCIX.

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age
With wealth and talking make him some amends;
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage,
I've heard the Count and he were always friends.
My pen is at the bottom of a page,

Which being finished, here the story ends; "T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

MAZEPPA.

ADVERTISEMENT.

"CELUI qui remplissait alors cette place était un gen

tilhomme Polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Podolie: il avait été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris à sa cour quelque teinture des belleslettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été découverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était du pays de l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta long-tems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supériorité de ses lumières lui donna une grande considération parmi les Cosaques: sa réputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le Czar à le faire Prince de l'Ukraine."-VOLTAIRE, Hist. de Charles XII., p. 196.

"Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tué sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois à cheval, dans sa fuite, ce conquérant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant la bataille."-Ibid., p. 216.

"Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse où il était rompit dans la marche; on le remit à cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'égara pendant la nuit dans un bois; là, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer à ses forces épuisées, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'être surpris à tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tous côtés.”—Ibid., p. 218.

Mazeppa.*

1.

'TWAS after dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede, Around a slaughter'd army lay,

No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war,

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar,

And Moscow's walls were safe again,
Until a day more dark and drear,
And a more memorable year,
Should give to slaughter and to shame
A mightier host and haughtier name; †
A greater wreck, a deeper fall,

A shock to one-a thunderbolt to all.
II.

Such was the hazard of the die;
The wounded Charles was taught to fly
By day and night through field and flood,
Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood;

*The story is a well known one; namely, that of the young Pole, who, being bound naked on the back of a wild horse, on account of an intrigue with the lady of a certain great noble of his country, was carried by his steed into the heart of the Ukraine, and being there picked up by some Cossacks, in a state apparently of utter hopelessness and exhaustion, recovered, and lived to be long after the prince and leader of the nation among whom he had arrived in this extraordinary manner. Lord Byron has represented the strange and wild incidents of this adventure, as being related in a half serious, half sportive way, by Mazeppa himself, to no less a person than Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, in some of whose last campaigns the Cossack Hetman took a distin

For thousands fell that flight to aid:
And not a voice was heard t'upbraid
Ambition in his humbled hour,

When truth had nought to dread from power.
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave

His own-and died the Russians' slave.
This too sinks after many a league
Of well sustain'd but vain fatigue;
And in the depths of forests, darkling,
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling-
The beacons of surrounding foes-

A king must lay his limbs at length.
Are these the laurels and repose
For which the nations strain their strength?
They laid him by a savage tree,

In outworn nature's agony;

His wounds were stiff-his limbs were stark-
The heavy hour was chill and dark;
The fever in his blood forbade

A transient slumber's fitful aid:
And thus it was; but yet through all,
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall,
And made, in this extreme of ill,
His pangs the vassals of his will:
All silent and subdued were they,
As once the nations round him lay.

guished part. He tells it during the desolate bivouac of Charles and the few friends who fled with him towards Turkey, after the bloody overthrow of Pultowa. There is not a little of beauty and gracefulness in this way of setting the picture-the age of Mazeppa-the calm, practised indifference with which he now submits to the worst of fortune's deeds the heroic, unthinking coldness of the royal madman to whom he speaks-the dreary and perilous accompaniments of the scene around the speaker and the audience,all contribute to throw a very striking charm both of preparation and of contrast over the wild story of the Hetman."

+ Napoleon Bonaparte.

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