"Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?"

Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.

"Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,-- Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!"

But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart.

"He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.

"He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came, Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame.

"He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath-- Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

With step majestic to the cart advances The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.

He feels that on him now are fixed the glances Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet, Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.

In him the honour of "The Road" is centred, And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.

His was the transport--his the exultation Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, They bore with them, in the triumphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.

_Io Triumphe_! They forgot their clay.

E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, Like the old vintages of Spanish land, Locks cl.u.s.tering o'er a brow of high command, Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, He knew, was graven on the page of Time.

Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.

He left his deeds behind him, and his name-- For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,-- St Giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale, To pledge the crowd, on her--his beauteous Alice-- His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.

She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip--it quivered but a moment-- Then pa.s.sed his hand across his flushing brows: He could have spared so forcible a comment Upon the constancy of woman's vows.

One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England's n.o.ble daughters Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, And waving many a snowy handkerchief; Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!

His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam-- That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended, His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.

The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, And fixed the hempen bandages, while he Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free.

The car rolled on, and left him dangling there, Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, Or the soft petals of the daffodilly, When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, So drooped his head upon his manly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.

He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall: "THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWNED DUVAL!"

There still they tell us, from their gla.s.sy case, He was the last, the best of all that n.o.ble race!

Eastern Serenade.

BY THE HONOURABLE SINJIN m.u.f.f.

The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest.

The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the sh.o.r.e.

Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride?

Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side!

I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik-- I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake.

But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!

Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill; No sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here, And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere!

Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!

I see thee--I hear thee--thy antelope foot Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air.

Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!

Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb, 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star!

Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss!

And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss!

Wherever I wander--wherever I roam, My spirit flies back to its beautiful home; It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! {269}

Dame Fredegonde.

When folks, with headstrong pa.s.sion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice And modest air, for your advice.

But as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it.

'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act.

Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.

So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offered juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavour to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips.

A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame.

But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude.

"And what can a lone woman do?

The nights are long and eerie too.

Now, Guillot there's a likely man, None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't."

With thoughts like these her mind is crossed: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.

"But then the risk? I'll beg a slice Of Father Haulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square.

I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell!

He's steady, knows his business well.

What do you think?" When thus he met her: "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!"

"But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master.

There is no trusting to these men."

"Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!"

"But help I must have; there's the curse.