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And masts of spicy vessels
From western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England,
But I'm in Rotterdam.
Those sailors, how outlandish
The face and form of each !
They deal in foreign gestures,
And use a foreign speech ;
A tongue not learn'd near Isis,
Or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
And now across a market
My doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue,
The Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus
I offer my salaam;
Who tells me you're in England,
But I'm at Rotterdam.
The coffee-room is open-
I mingle in its crowd, -
The dominos are noisy-
The hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavor now of Fearon's,
That mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Then here it goes, a bumper-
The toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry,
Tokay, or hock of Rhine ;
It well deserves the brightest,
Where sunbeam ever swam-
“ The girl I love in England”
I drink at Rotterdam !
SHALL I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth ?
Yet did’st thou ne'er restore my fainting health ?-
Did'st thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove ?
Nay, did'st thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me ?-
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee !
A POOR old king, with sorrow for my crown,
Thron’d upon straw, and mantled with the wind
For pity, my own tears have made me blind
That I might never see my children's frown;
And may be madness, like a friend, has thrown
A folded fillet over my dark mind,
So that unkindly speech may sound for kind, -
Albeit I know not.-I am childish grown-
And have not gold to purchase wit withal —
I that have once maintain'd most royal state-
A very bankrupt now that may not call
My child, my child-all-beggar'd save in tears,
Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate,
Foolish—and blind—and overcome with years!
RARE composition of a poet-knight,
Most chivalrous amongst chivalric men,
Distinguish'd for a polish'd lance and pen
In tuneful contest and in tourney-fight;
Lustrous in scholarship, in honor bright,
Accomplish'd in all graces current then,
Humane as any in historic ken,
Brave, handsome, noble, affable, polite;
Most courteous to that race become of late
So fiercely scornful of all kind advance,
Rude, bitter, coarse, implacable in hate
To Albion, plotting ever her mischance,
Alas, fair verse! how false and out of date
Thy phrase "sweet enemy" applied to France !