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Ship to shine in martial story,
Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path
Freighted with Britannia's glory

And the thunders of her wrath.

Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee,
Threat'ning havoc to their deck,
When afar they first descry thee,
Like the coming whirlwind's speck.

Gallant bark! thy pomp and beauty
Storm or battle neʼer shall blast,
Whilst our tars in pride and duty
Nail thy colours to the mast.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM.

AN original something, fair maid, you would win

me

To write-but how shall I begin?

For I fear I have nothing original in me-
Excepting Original Sin.

EPISTLE, FROM ALGIERS,

TO

HORACE SMITH.

DEAR HORACE! be melted to tears,
For I'm melting with heat as I rhyme ;
Though the name of the place is All-jeers,
'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime.

With a shaver1 from France who came o'er,
To an African inn I ascend;
I am cast on a barbarous shore,
Where a barber alone is my friend.

Do you ask me the sights and the news
Of this wonderful city to sing?

Alas! my hotel has its mews,

But no muse of the Helicon's spring.

1 On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellow passenger whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, and the attentions which he paid me to alleviate the sufferings of my sea-sickness. He turned out to be a perruquier and barber in Algeria-but his yocation did not lower him in my estimation-for he continued his attentions until he passed my baggage through the customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion, to the best hotel.

My windows afford me the sight
Of a people all diverse in hue;
They are black, yellow, olive, and white,
Whilst I in my sorrow look blue.

Here are groups for the painter to take,
Whose figures jocosely combine,—
The Arab disguised in his haik,1

And the Frenchman disguised in his wine.

In his breeches of petticoat size

You

may say, as the Mussulman goes, That his garb is a fair compromise

'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes.

The Mooresses, shrouded in white,

Save two holes for their eyes to give room,

Seem like corpses in sport or in spite

That have slyly whipp'd out of their tomb.

The old Jewish dames make me sick:
If I were the devil-I declare

Such hags should not mount a broom-stick
In my service to ride through the air.

But hipp'd and undined as I am,

My hippogriff's course I must rein— For the pain of my thirst is no sham, Though I'm bawling aloud for champagne. 1 A mantle worn by the natives.

Dinner's brought; but their wines have no pithThey are flat as the statutes at law;

And for all that they bring me, dear Smith!

Would a glass of brown stout they could draw!

O'er each French trashy dish as I bend,
My heart feels a patriot's grief!

And the round tears, O England! descend
When I think on a round of thy beef.

Yes, my soul sentimentally craves

British beer.-Hail, Britannia, hail! To thy flag on the foam of the waves, And the foam on thy flagons of ale.

Yet I own, in this hour of my drought,
A dessert has most welcomely come;
Here are peaches that melt in the mouth,
And grapes blue and big as a plum.

There are melons too, luscious and great,
But the slices I eat shall be few,
For from melons incautiously eat
Melancholic effects may ensue.

Horrid pun! you 'll exclaim; but be calm,
Though my letter bears date, as you view,
From the land of the date-bearing palm,

I will palm no more puns upon you.

FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO,

FROM THE BOOK OF JOB.

HAVING met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, at Algiers, several years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire, but he left the place before I proceeded farther in the poem; and it has been thus left unfinished.

CRUSH'D by misfortune's yoke,

Job lamentably spoke

66

My boundless curse be on

The day that I was born;

Quench'd be the star that shone

Upon my natal morn.

In the grave I long

To shroud my breast;

Where the wicked cease to wrong,

And the weary are at rest."

Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair:

"What Heaven ordains, 'tis meet that man should bear.

Lately, at midnight drear,

A vision shook my bones with fear;

A spirit pass'd before my face,

And yet its form I could not trace;

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