The Cadi’s Daughter.
a legend of the bosphorus.
[from any of the annuals.]
How beauteous is the star of night
Within the eastern skies,
Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman’s lance,
Or the antelope’s azure eyes!
A lamp of love in the heaven above,
That star is fondly streaming;
And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque
In the Golden Horn are gleaming.
Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower,
And she hears the bulbul sing,
As it thrills its throat to the first full note,
That anthems the flowery spring.
She gazes still, as a maiden will,
On that beauteous eastern star:
You might see the throb of her bosom’s sob
Beneath the white cymar!
She thinks of him who is far away,—
Her own brave Galiongee,—
Where the billows foam and the breezes roam,
On the wild Carpathian sea.
She thinks of the oath that bound them both
Beside the stormy water;
And the words of love, that in Athens’ grove
He spake to the Cadi’s daughter.
“My Selim!” thus the maiden said,
“Though severed thus we be
By the raging deep and the mountain steep,
My soul still yearns to thee.
Thy form so dear is mirrored here
In my heart’s pellucid well,
As the rose looks up to Phingari’s orb,
Or the moth to the gay gazelle.
“I think of the time when the Kaftan’s crime
Our love’s young joys o’ertook,
And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes
Of my silver-toned chibouque.
Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed,
Thy soul it is heavy laden;
Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila’s bower;
Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!”
A light step trod on the dewy sod,
And a voice was in her ear,
And an arm embraced young Leila’s waist—
“Belovèd! I am here!”
Like the phantom form that rules the storm,
Appeared the pirate lover,
And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,
As he fondly bent above her.
“Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caïque
Rides proudly in yonder bay;
I have come from my rest to her I love best,
To carry thee, love, away.
The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover
My own jemscheed from harm;
Think’st thou I fear the dark vizier,
Or the mufti’s vengeful arm?
“Then droop not, love, nor turn away
From this rude hand of mine!”
And Leila looked in her lover’s eyes,
And murmured—“I am thine!”
But a gloomy man with a yataghan.
Stole through the acacia-blossoms,
And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade
Hath pierced through both their bosoms.
“There! there! thou cursèd caitiff Giaour!
There, there, thou false one, lie!”
Remorseless Hassan stands above,
And he smiles to see them die.
They sleep beneath the fresh green turf,
The lover and the lady—
And the maidens wail to hear the tale
Of the daughter of the Cadi!
The Dirge of the Drinker.
Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;
He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!
Widely o’er the earth I’ve wandered; where the drink most freely flowed,
I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.
Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o’er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet,
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis’ sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o’er my hock;
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e’er Monsoon,
Sangaree’d with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter’s rum.
Drunk with Highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb;
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more—
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,
He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us beware!
We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his manhood fell,
’Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
Better ’twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare,
Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air.
Throw the sofa cover o’er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,
Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,
So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,—
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good ’un as he is!
The Death of Duval.
by w--- h--- a---th, esq.
[“Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!”—Beggars Opera.]
A living sea of eager human faces,
A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,
Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:
Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;
And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,
Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre’s bell.
Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure
Be spent the evening of this festive day!
For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!
A little while, and he, the brave Duval,
Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.
“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 clustering 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 Cæsar, 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 passed 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 noble 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 surchargèd 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 glassy case,
He was the last, the best of all that noble race!
