III.

Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit, And makes a bad man--absolutely bad, Made Ali wicked--to a fault:--'tis fit Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had No curb upon his will--no, not a _bit_-- Wherefore he did not reign well--and full glad His slaves had been to hang him--but they falter'd And let him live unhang'd--and still unalter'd,

IV.

Until he got a sage-bush of a beard, Wherein an Attic owl might roost--a trail Of bristly hair--that, honor'd and unshear'd, Grew downward like old women and cow's tail; Being a sign of age--some gray appear'd, Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale; But yet, not so poetic as when Time Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.

V.

Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex His royal bosom that he had no son, No living child of the more noble sex, To stand in his Morocco shoes--not one To make a negro-pollard--or tread necks When he was gone--doom'd, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name.

VI.

Therefore he chose a lady for his love, Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear; So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, above All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear; Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, And drumm'd with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear: Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, Or else he was not praying to his Profit.

VII.

Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame: Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir, Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name Of mighty hero that his child should bear; He made so certain ere his chicken came:-- But oh! all worldly wit is little worth, Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth!

VIII.

To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun A little daughter to this world of sins,-- _Miss_-fortunes never come alone--so one Brought on another, like a pair of twins: Twins! female twins!--it was enough to stun Their little wits and scare them from their skins To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir.

IX.

Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down This his paternal rage, and thus addrest; "Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown, And box the compass of the royal chest?"

"Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own I love to gaze on!--Pr'ythee, thou hadst best Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin!"

X.

But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew: He call'd his slave to bring an ample sack Wherein a woman might be poked--a few Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black At this sad order; but their slaveships knew When any dared demur, his sword so bending Cut off the "head and front of their offending."

XI.

For Ali had a sword, much like himself, A crooked blade, guilty of human gore-- The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf Were struck at his _head_-quarters by the score-- Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf, But jested with it, and his wit cut sore; So that (as they of Public Houses speak) He often did his dozen _butts_ a week.

XII.

Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears, Came with the sack the lady to enclose; In vain from her stag-eyes "the big round tears Coursed one another down her innocent nose"; In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears; Though there were some felt willing to oppose, Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute, Though 'twas a piteous _case_, they put her in it.

XIII.

And when the sack was tied, some two or three Of these black undertakers slowly brought her To a kind of Moorish Serpentine; for she Was doom'd to have a winding sheet of water.

Then farewell, earth--farewell to the green tree-- Farewell, the sun--the moon--each little daughter!

She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, Like bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back.

XIV.

The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill'd All that the waters oped, as down it fell; Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd A ring above her, like a water-knell; A moment more, and all its face was still'd, And not a guilty heave was left to tell That underneath its calm and blue transparence A dame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence.

XV.

But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,-- The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor-- The lady's natal star with pale afright Fainted and fell--and what were stars before, Turn'd comets as the tale was brought to light; And all looked downward on the fatal wave, And made their own reflections on her grave.

XVI.

Next night, a head--a little lady head, Push'd through the waters a most glassy face, With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the space Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace Over their sleepy lids--and so she rais'd Her _aqua_line nose above the stream, and gazed.

XVII.

She oped her lips--lips of a gentle blush, So pale it seem'd near drowned to a white,-- She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush Of music bubbling through the surface light; The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush To listen to the air--and through the night There come these words of a most plaintive ditty, Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity:

THE WATER PERI'S SONG.

Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter.

The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave; The _Mussul_man, coming to fish in this water, Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, This grayish _bath_ cloak is her funeral pall; And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!

Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter--the last of her race-- She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.

I.

Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think How Learning doth in rugged states abide, And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied; Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride, Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!

II.

This College looketh South and West alsoe, Because it hath a cast in windows twain; Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow Through transparent holes in every pane, Which Pan, with many paines, makes whole again With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach,"