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She kept an Album too at home,
Well filled with all an Album's glories ; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo,
And recipes for elder-water.
And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ;
Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
As if the taxes were abolished;
As if the Opera were demolished.
I knew that there was nothing in it;
Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it; for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,—and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded !
A little glow, a little shiver,
And “Fly not yet” upon the river ;
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows, and then we parted.
XIII. We parted—months and years rolled by;
We met again four summers after ; Our parting was all sob and sigh;
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the Ball-Room's Belle,
But only Mrs. Something Rogers.
THE LAST OF THE TITANS.
BY WILLIAM HOWITT.
Daloom, the Bedouin poet, gave the hospitality of the night to a Mameluke who was speeding on secret embassage of state. The Mameluke, in return for his kindness, perpetrated the greatest outrage that can be inflicted on the heart of man; and, instead of thanks, departed before daybreak with laughter of a fiend. Daloom, whose soul possessed all the fire and irritability of his race and profession, was furious with indignation and revenge;—and not he alone,— but his whole tribe was on flame. They surrounded his house in a tumultuous crowd. The sheik placed at his door the feetest dromedary of the East;-one chief put into his hand a deadly ataghan ;-a second, with his own girdle, braced him for the swiftest flight;—another group, laying hold of him, placed him in the saddle; and all, with ten thousand burning curses on the Atheist Mameluke, bade him begone.
He shot through the desert like a meteor. Cairo was his object; and in a few days he was treading its streets. He saw his detested enemy;--- he watched him with a ly»x's eyes;- he dogged him with a tiger's foot,— but it was in vain. He beheld him surrounded by crowds of his fellows, as callous, as reckless, as godless as himself. They feasted, they laughed, they lived as if care had never been on earth, God in heaven, or vengeance in hell: but the infuriated poet might as well have attempted to pull down the eternal sky, as to approach him. Rank, which he had not suspected beneath the ordinary guise of a Mameluke, surrounded him as with a wall of adamant. Between him and Daloom's dagger were a thousand quick eyes, a thousand fearless hearts ; and if the injured man sought redress by complaint to his superiors, a laughter which thrilled through him as an echo of the peal of the Mameluke, as he shot from his door, was his only answer. His heart was choked within him with the excess of his wrath, his brain was maddened to desperation; and pouring out imprecations against heaven, earth, and mankind, he flew back to his native regions.
Three days he had driven along in the vehemence of his transport. Lost in the turmoil of his distracted spirit, he had seen nothing of the tract through which he had passed; he trusted his route to the dromedary, which flew on like an arrow. He woke with a start, as from a tumultuous dream, as he suddenly found himself involved in a whirlwind, which raised the sands of the desert into a mighty cloud, and wrapped him in darkness and suffocation. The next moment he beheld the black hurricane rushing forwards; and having for a few seconds followed, with his eyes, its career with terror and astonishment, he looked round, and was not the less amazed to behold himself at the foot of an obelisk, whose slender shaft arose into the very heaven,-and in the vast square of a gigantic city. The shock of his wonder was like that of lightning. The sudden transition from the fierce and boiling torrent of his own passionate thoughts, was marvellous. The scenes around were of a magnitude which astounded him; the silence sank into his soul with all its vastness — deep, lifeless, and terrific. He looked on all sides for some trace of existence ;-he saw none, but in himself and dromedary. He glanced up the obelisk beside him till his eye recoiled dizzily from its fearful altitude; he turned his gaze upon the towers, and his spirit sank crushed, as it were, beneath the overwhelming sense of their immensity. What hands could have piled those massy and stupendous towers ? What might of men, in millions, could have reared those ponderous and gigantic columns, which, baffling the eye with the immensity of their bulk, shot up to the loftiest regions of air, and bore incumbent pediments and dependent scrolls, whose dimensions the imagination laboured in vain to grasp.