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He said, and bent his earnest look, She said, and swift by whirlwind force,

That pierced through earth and stone- Amid the gloom was borne : To him the demon cave was seen,


gaze pursued her there Its darkest deeds were known.

He laugh'd in haughty scorn.

And o'er the desert's silent depth

Arose his followers' prayer ;
The startled wilds return'd their voice

On all the lonely air.

The Prophet waved his gleaming sword,

He called on Allah's name;
And, lo ! from forth the desert far

A breeze arising came.

Amid a rock that wily crone

(Whom first I mentioned) stood; Her muttering lips were seen to move,

Her prayer was not of good.
Yet none could know the words she spoke,

Some language strange were they
Now low within her lip she lisp'd,

Now sung a mutter'd lay.

The darksome folds of gather'd smoke

That o'er the cavern hung,
That gentle breeze invading pierced,

And far dispersing flung.
The gloomy mass was slow dissolved,

Slow clear'd the darken'd scene;
And, lo ! beneath its melting smoke

A glimmering lake was seen.
With tranquil breast the shining wave

Reflects the brightening sky;
Athwart its far-expanded breadth

A ship is seen to hie.

And still as louder rose her prayer,

A darker smoke was roll'd,
And redder flames were seen to rise

Above the cavern old.

Mahummud saw her moving lips ; With arrowy speed the shallop came, He saw the rushing fire;

Her swiftness seemed to fly ;
He turned him swift with wrathful glance, And Ali's crescent flag was seen
He raised his sword in ire.

In triumph waving high.
The crone beheld ; her sparkling eye The soldiers' gaze intently strain'd,
Was quench'd in guilty shame ;

Their champion soon could know; Whene'er his piercing glance she met His stately form triumphant rose, Cold trembling seized her frame;

Above the galley's prow.
And lo! when thus her prayer was broke, And other shapes, obscurely seen,
The lightnings fainter shone ;

A gloomy gesture bore ;
The darkening smoke that rush'd on high, For, bound beneath in servile chains,
In slower clouds was thrown.

His captives plied the oar.

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That haggard crone their signal knew

“ I come," she cried, “I come ; Thy boasted spell hath now been broke,

And I must share thy doom !”

“ If passing years shall quench their hate;

If proofs of faith be shown ;
My word, their pardon then
At Allah's mighty throne.”

may seek


* Praise be to God,


To the Editor of Blackwood's Edinburgh Mugazine: SIR,- In a poem, lately published The application is plain, and hence by Lord Byron, named Christian, or the anger of Lord B. Mr L. might the Island, occurs a noté severely re have written worse than Petronius, fecting on Mr Landor,

without stirring the indignation of the “ If the reader will apply to his ear the great moralist of Don Juau; but the sea-shell on his chimney-piece, he will be

aliquis styli morumque vitiis notaaware of what is alluded to. If the text

tus," the levis homo et inconstans," should appear obscure, he will find in

and the low appreciation of Lord By“ Geber” the same idea better expressed ron's admirers, were not to be forin two lines. The poem I never read, but given. Libelled, of course, Mr Landor have heard the lines quoted by a more re must be, and, of course, the first opcondite reader —who seems to be of a dif. portunity was taken for the purpose. ferent opinion from the Editor of the Quar The lines about the shell in Christian terly Review, who qualified it, in his an.

were obviously written to bring him swer to the Critical Reviewer of his Juve.

in by the head and shoulders. nal, as trash of the worst and most insarie

Will you permit me to quote the description. It is to Mr Landor, the author of Geber, so qualified, and of some

following passage, as a specimen of Latin poems, which vie with Martial or

sound Latinity, and as a just castigaCatullus in obscenity, that the immacu.

tion of the Reviewers of Mr Wordslate Mr Southey addresses his declamation

worth-his Lordship’s quondam butts, against impurity."

though now his mosthonourable friends

and allies ? To defend Mr Landor from the

“ Habebant antiqui Ruvidos, Cæsios, charge of indecency, brought by such Aquinos, Suffenos, ut habemus in Britana person as the author of Don Juan,

nia nostra Brogamos, Jefrisios, et centum and other works which dare not see alios librariorum vernas, cum venenis et the light, being more obscene than fuligine prostantes, bonis omnibus et scripDon Juan, would be mere waste of toribus et viris ipsa rerum natura infensos. words. I shall therefore only indi At quil, s ego te vocibus compellem, vir, cate the reason why Lord B. has at civis, philosophe, poeta, præstantissime, tacked Mr Landor. It was not his qui sæculum nostrum ut nullo priorc mi. verse, but his prose, which excited the nus gloriosum sit effeceris; quem nec dohostility of the peer-though his

micilium longinqrım, nec vita sanctissi. lordship slurs that circumstance al

ma, neque optimorum voluntas, charitas, together. In Mr Landor's elegant

propensio, neque hominum fere universo Quæstiuncula, the following passage

rum reverentia, inviolatum conservavit ;

cujus sepulchrum, si mortuus esses antea. occurs :

quam nascerentur, ut voti rei inviserent, et « Summi poetæ in omni poetarum sæ

laudi sibi magnæ ducerent vel aspici vel culo viri fuerunt probi : in nostris id vidi

credi ibidem ingemiscere. In eorum inmus et videmus ; neque alius est error a

geniis observandum est quod Narniensi veritate longius quam magna ingenia mag

agro evenisse meminit Cicero, siccitate lunis necessario corrumpi vitiis. Secundo

tum fieri. Floces et fraces, ut veteres di. plerique posthabent primum, hi maligni.

cerent, literarum, discant illud utinam quod tate, illi ignorantia, et quum aliquem in.

exemplo docent, nihil afferre opis vesaniveniunt styli morumque vitiis notatum,

entem animum ingenii malaciæ. Cominficetum tamen nec in libris edendis par

mode se haberent res mortalium si unum cum, eum stipant, prædicant, occupant,

quisque corrigeret : de facto universi conamplectuntur. Si mores aliquantulum vel.

sentiunt, de homine plerique dissident.” let corrigere, si stylum curare paululum, Leaving this to the consideration of si fervido ingenio temperare, si moræ tan. the Brogami, Jefrisii, and the other tillum interponere, tum ingens nescio quid

“ librariorum verne," I have the hoet vere epicum, quadraginta annos natus, procuderet. Ignorant vero febriculis non

nour to be, indicari vires, impatientiam ab imbecilli

Sir, tate non differre ; ignorant a levi homine et

Your most obedient humble servant, inconstante multa fortasse scribi posse plus

IDOLOCLASTES. quam mediocria, nihil compositum, ardu. London, July 4,

1823. um, æternum. VOL. XIV.



Noctes Ambrosianae.

No. X.



Chorus then.-Buller, awake, man.-Chorus, all of you, I say.

Chorus of Contributors.
So triumph to the Tories, and woe to the Whigs,

And to all other foes of the nation ;
Let us be through thick and thin caring nothing for the prigs

Who prate about conciliation.


Bravo, Odoherty, Bravissimo !-that is decidedly one of your very best effusions.





No blarney to me, mon ami. I have taken my degrees in that celebrated university. In candour, however, and equity, I am bound to say, that I do think it a pretty fairish song, as songs go now-a-days.

Why, it must be admitted, that there is an awful quantity of bad songs vented just now.

It must be the case as long as they issue in such shoals; the bad must bear a huge proportion to the good at all times; for they are just the off-throwings of the ephemeral buoyancy of spirit of the day; and as actual buoyancy of spirit generally breeds nonsense, and affectation of it is always stupidity, you must e’en be content with your three grains of wheat in a bushel of chaff.

NORTH. Yes, yes, they must be from their very nature ephemeral. Which of all our songs—I don't mean particularly those of the present company—but of all the songs now written and composed by all the song-writers now extant-will be alive a hundred years hence ?

Just as many as are now alive of those written and composed, as you most technically phrase it, a hundred years since.

And that is but poor harvest indeed. Look over any of the song-books that contain the ditties of our grandmothers or great-grandmothers, and you will scarcely ever turn up a song familiar to anybody but professed readers.

ODOHERTY. More's the pity. By all that's laughable, the reflection saddens me. " Pills to purge Melancholy," has become a melancholious book in itself. You read page after page, puzzling yourself to make out the possibility-how any human mouth could by any device have got through the melodies—the uncouth melodies

BULLER. You know Tom D'Urféy's plan? He used to take a country dance, the more intricate the better ; for, as you see by his dedication, he prided himself on that kind of legerdemain, and then put words to it as well as he could.

ODOHERTY. I know-I know-but I was saying that it is an unpleasant sort of feeling you have about you, when you peruse, like a groping student, songs that you are sure made palace and pot-house ring with jollity and fun in the days of


merry King Charles, and warmed the gallantry of the grenadiers of Britain at the siege of Namur, under hooked-nose Oldglorious, or of

Our countrymen in Flanders

A hundred years ago,
When they fought like Alexanders

Beneath the great Marlboro'.


Ау, " the odour's fled.” They are like uncorked soda-water. Honest Tom D'Urféy, I think I see him now in my mind's eye, Horatio, holding his song-book with a tipsy gravity, and trolling forth

Joy to great Cæsar,

Long life and pleasure, with old Rowley leaning on his shoulder, partly out of that jocular familiarity, which endeared him to the people in spite of all his rascalities, and partly to keep himself steady, humming the bass. Have you seen Dr Kitchener's book ?

NORTH. I have, and a good, jovial, loyal book it is. The Doctor is, by all accounts, a famous fellow-great in cookery, medicine, music, poetry, and optics, on which he has published a treatise.



I esteem the Doctor,



The clevil you do!—after cutting him up so abominably in my Magazine, in an article, you know, inserted while I was in Glasgow, without my knowledge.

Why are you always reminding a man of his evil-doings ? Consider that I have been white-washed by the Insolvent Court since, and let all my sins go

with that white-washing. To cut the matter short, I had a most excellent Cookerybook written, founded on the principles practised in the 99th mess, and was going to treat with Longman's folks about it, when Kitchener came out, and pre-occupied the market. You need not wonder, therefore, at my tickling up the worthy Doctor, who himself enjoyed the fun, being a loyal fellow to the back-bone; a Tory tough and true. We are now the best friends in the world. Well, let that pass—What song-writer of our days, think you,

will live? Moore?




Moore! No, he has not the stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty, glittering, anything you please in that line; but they have defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity. For instance, the querulous politics, on your local affairs, Odoherty, which make them now so popular with a very large class of your countrymen, are mere matters of the day, which will die with the day; for I hope you do not intend to be always fighting in Ireland ?

I do not know how that will be-better fighting than stagnating ; but, at all events, I hope we will change the grounds somewhat-I hate monotony ; I trust that my worthy countrymen will get some new matter of tumult for the next generation.

It is probable that they will—and then, you know, Moore's " Oh! breathe not his name,' ".“ Erin, the tear,” &c. &c. will be just as forgotten as any of the things in Hogg's Jacobite relics.

Which will ever stand, or rather fall, as a memento of the utter perishableness of all party song-writing.




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And then there's Moore's accursed fancy for showing off learning, and his botany, and zoology, and meteorology, and mythology.

O ay, and the mixed metaphor, and the downright nonsense

the song you quoted just now could be finely amended.

NORTH. What song?

ODOHERTY. “Erin, the smile, and the tear in thine eyes, blend like the rainbow," &c. Now, that is a washy, watery comparison for my hard-drinking country-I lay £5 that a jug of punch would be a more accurate and truly philosophical emblem; as thus. There's the Protestant part of the population inferior in quantity, superior in strength, apt to get at the head, evidently the whisky of the compound. The Roman Catholics, greater in physical proportions, but infinitely weaker, and usually very hot, are shadowed forth by the water. The Orangemen, as their name implies, are the fruit, which some palates think too sour, and therefore reject, while others think that it alone gives grateful flavour to the whole.

MULLION. And what's the sugar ?

ODOHERTY. Why, the conciliators dropped in among us to sweeten our acidity—and you know some think that they have supplied with too liberal a hand, -very much at the risk of turning the stomachs of the company.

A hopeful illustration—but in truth, Odoherty, your whole conversation is redolent of nothing but drink.

ODOHERTY. I am like Tom Moore's First Angel—the gentleman without a name, and admire compotation, not exactly “ the juice of Earth,” however, as Tom calls it, that being, I take it, ditch-water.

You never saw the song Tom intended for this drunken angel of his after his fall ?



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Not I-parade it-Is it not in the poem?

MULLION. No, Denman, who is Moore's doer of late, cut it out, just as he cut up the Fables. I have a copy, however, which I shall sing.

Song of a Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-punch. By T. M. Esq.

Heap on more coal there,

And keep the glass moving,
The frost nips my nose,

Though my heart glows with loving.
Here's the dear creature,

No skylights-a bumper ;
He who leaves heeltaps
I vote him a mumper.
With hey cow rumble 0,

Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,

Push round the jorum.

What are Heaven's pleasures

That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,

In long or short metre.

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