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The wondering Ali gazed around; “ He comes with fierce Mahummud's No narrow pit was here :
power, A dismal lake afar was arch'd ;
Our high and haughty foe; Its waves were cold and drear.
The Prophet's hand has bless'd his sword,
To work you endless woe.
“ Guard, Genii, guard your Peri KingAnd glimmering sprites were there beheld, Surround his sceptre high : That shore's terrific guard.
With him your reign of power shall live
With him your power must die!"
In echoes long that fearful voice
And sounds unknown in wild reply
In many peals were flung.
Amid the dim and ghastly shore
Stood Ali gazing lone Athwart the darkness gazed.
Bewildering threats around were heard,
And living thing was none.
Amid the cavern's wilds remote,
And flashing light was seen to rise,
And sink with dismal gleam.
And seen at times by wandering fires,
Like clouds that up the darken'd sky
The burning mountain throws.
The whirling smoke and mingled flame A thousand tongues encircling cried To Ali niearer drew ; “Arm! mighty Genii, arm !”
The glimmering cave and boundless lake
Were dim exposed to view.
And loud and drear a voice was heard, ** Arm, Genii, guard your Peri King; “ Arm, mighty Genii, arm! Rise, crush the earthly worm.
Surround your Monarch's trembling throne;
Wake every powerful charm.”
But high Mahummud's tranquil look
Unchanging still remain’d;
Their tears be all restrain'd.
The while Mahummud tranquil stood
On rocky fragment high ;
His followers cluster'd nigh.
The'smoke arising came ;
With streaks of darting flame.
The gloomy masses flew; And o'er the desert's sunny air
Their darksome shadows threw.
“ Where Ali wields his sword of might,
Where Genii wield their spell,
No mortal tongue may tell.
To me the combat shews;
By me his demon foes.
No murmurs stain your tongue ;
To Allah's throne be flung."
The faithful soldiers wildly gazed,
Loud rose their hollow moan : * Mahummud's bravest friend is lost,
Our Lion Chief is gone !"
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,
Mahummud's gaze pursued her thereIts darkest deeds were known.
He laugh'd in haughty scorn. And o'er the desert's silent depth
The Prophet waved his gleaming sword, Arose his followers' prayer ;
He called on Allah's name; The startled wilds return'd their voice And, lo ! from forth the desert far On all the lonely air.
A breeze arising came. Amid a rock that wily crone
The darksome folds of gather'd smoke (Whom first I mentioned) stood ;
That o'er the cavern hung, Her muttering lips were seen to move, That gentle breeze invading
pierced, Her prayer was not of good.
And far dispersing flung.
Slow clear'd the darken'd scene;
And, lo ! beneath its melting smoke
A glimmering lake was seen.
Reflects the brightening sky;
Athwart its far-expanded breadth Above the cavern old.
A ship is seen to hie.
Mahummud saw her moving lips ; With arrowy speed the shallop came,
Her swiftness seemed to fly;
In triumph waving high.
Their champion soon could know;
Above the galley's prow.
A gloomy gesture bore ;
His captives plied the oar.
LORD BYRON AND MR LANDOR.
To the Editor of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine: 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 note severely re- have written worse than Petronius, flecting on Mr Landor.
without stirring the indignation of the “ If the reader will apply to his ear the
great moralist of Don Juan; 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 insane description. It is to Mr Landor, the au
Will you permit me to quote the thor 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 most honourable friends To defend Mr Landor from the
and allies ? charge of indecency, brought by such
“ Habebant antiqui Ruvidos, Cæsios, a person as the author of Don Juan, Aquinos, Suffenos, ut habemus in Britan
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 quibus ego te vocibus compellem, vir, cate the reason why Lord B. has at- civis, philosophe, poeta, præstantissime, tacked Mr Landor. It was not bis qui sæculum nostrum ut nullo priorc miverse, but his prose, which excited the nus gloriosum sit effeceris; quem nec do. hostility of the peer-though his
micilium longinquum, nec vita sanctissi. lordship slurs that circumstance al
ma, neque optimorum voluntas, charitas, together. In Mr Landor's elegant propensio, neque hominum fere universo
rum reverentia, inviolatum conservavit ; Quæstiuncula, the following passage cujus sepulchrum, si mortuus esses anteaoccurs :
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 lu. nis 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 vesani. veniunt styli morumque vitiis notatum, nec
entem animum ingenii malaciæ. Cominficetum tamen nec in libris edendis par
mode se haberent res mortalium si unum eum, eum stipant, prædicant, occupant, quisque corrigeret : de facto universi con. amplectuntur. 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 vernæ,” 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.
Chorus then.-Buller, awake, man.--Chorus, all of you, I say.
Chorus of Contributors.
And to all other foes of the nation;
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.
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.
More's the pity. By all that's laughable, the reflection saddens me. 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 —
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.
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,
Beneath the great Marlboro'.
Ay, " 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 ?
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 devil 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 ?
ODOHERTY. 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.