LXVI.

One has false curls, another too much paint,

A third-where did she buy that frightful turban? A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint,

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo! an eighth appears,-"I'll see no more!" For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

LXVII.

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing,
Others were levelling their looks at her
;
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising,
And, till 't was done, determined not to stir;
The women only thought it quite amazing

That at her time of life so many were
Admirers still,—but men are so debased,
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste.
LXVIII.

For my part, now, I ne'er could understand
Why naughty women-but I won't discuss

A thing which is a scandal to the land,

I only don't see why it should be thus; And if I were but in a gown and band,

Just to entitle me to make a fuss,
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily.
LXIX.

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling,
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what,
So that her female friends, with envy broiling,
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ;
And well-drest males still kept before her filing,

And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat;
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare
With pertinacity that's rather rare.
LXX.

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany;

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad,
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,
Although their usage of their wives is sad;
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitumi.”

LXXI.

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily,
They scarcely can behold their male relations,
So that their moments do not pass so gaily

As is supposed the case with northern nations;
Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely;
And as the Turks abhor long conversations,
Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing,
O oathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.
LXXII.

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism;
Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse;
Wer never caught in epigram or witticism,

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,--
in hatams learning soon would make a pretty schism!
But luckily these beauties are no “blues,”
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em
That charming passage in the last new poem."

LXXIII.

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,
Who having angled all his life for fame,
And getting but a nibble at a time,

Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime
Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo's echo, usher of the school
Of female wits, boy-bards-in short, a fool!
LXXIV.

A stalking oracle of awful phrase,

The approving "Good !" (by no means GOOD in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze,

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw,
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter,
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better
LXXV.

One hates an author, that's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,
These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper.
LXXVI.

Of these same we see several, and of others,

Men of the world, who know the world like men,
S-tt, R-s, M-re, and all the better brothers,
Who think of something else besides the pen;
But for the children of the "mighty mother's,"
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen,
I leave them to their daily "tea is ready,"
Snug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXVII.

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention
Have none of these instructive pleasant peopie;
And one would seem to them a new invention,
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple;

I think 't would almost be worth while to pension
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill)
A missionary author, just to preach
Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXVIII.

No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses,
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Upon the living manners as they pass us;

No exhibition glares with annual pictures ;
They stare not on the stars from out their attics,
Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics.
LXXIX.

Why I thank God for that is no great matter,
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;

I fear I have a little turn for satire,

And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to iaugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after

LXXX.
On, mirth and innocence! Oh, milk and water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter,

Abominable man no more allays

His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,
I love you both, and both shall have my praise:
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy!-
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.
LXXXI.

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her,
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way,
Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour,
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay;"
Could staring win a woman this had won her,
But Laura could not thus be led astray,
She had stood fire too long and well to boggle
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle.
LXXXII.

The morning now was on the point of breaking,
A turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
In any other kind of exercise,
To make their preparations for forsaking

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise,
Because when once the lamps and candles fail,
His blushes make them look a little pale.

LXXXIII.

I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
And staid them over for some silly reason
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime),
To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime,
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn),
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.
LXXXIV.

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention,
Although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God's invention,
A charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension,
Yet, if
you like to find out this fair she,
At the next London or Parisian ball
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.
LXXXV.

Laura, who knew it would not do at all

To meet the day-light after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball,

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; The count was at her elbow with her shawl,

And they the room were on the point of quitting,
When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got
Just in the verv place where they should not.
LXXXVI.

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause
Is much the same-the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,
They make a never-intermitted bawling.
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws,
And here a sentry stands within your calling;
But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing,
Ard nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.

LXXXVII.

The count and Laura found their boat at last,
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide,
Discussing all the dances gone and past;
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside;
Some little scandal eke: but all aghast

(As to their palace-stairs the rowers glide), Sate Laura by the side of her adorer, When lo! the Mussulman was there before her.

LXXXVIII.

“Sir,” said the count, with brow exceeding grave, "Your unexpected presence here will make

It necessary for myself to crave

Its import! But perhaps 't is a mistake;

I hope it is so; and at once to waive

All compliment, I hope so for your sake;
You understand my meaning, or you shall.”
"Sir," (quoth the Turk) "t is no mistake at all.
LXXXIX.

That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might;
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,
Italian females don't do so outright;

They only call a little on their saints,

And then come to themselves, almost or quite; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling face And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

XC.

She said—what could she say? Why, not a word :
But the count courteously invited in
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
"Such things perhaps we'd best discuss within,'
Said he; "don't let us make ourselves absurd
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,
For then the chief and only satisfaction
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."
XCI.

!

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd,—it came,
A beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it's not the same.
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth
To speak, cries, "Beppo! what's
Beppo! what's your pagan name 7
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth!
And how came you to keep away so long?
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong?
XCII.

"And are you really, truly, now a Turk?
With any other women did you wive?
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork?

liver?

Well, that's the prettiest shawl-as I'm alive! You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. And how so many years did you contrive To-Bless me! did I ever? No, I never Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your XCIII. "Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you no It shall be shaved before you're a day older : Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot

Pray, don't you think the weather here is co.der How do I look? you sha'n't stir from this spot

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it's grown

MAZEPPA.

I.

"T WAS after dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede, Around a slaughter'd army lay,

No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar,

And Moscow's walls were safe again, Until a day more dark and drear, And a more memorable year, Should give to slaughter and to shame A mightier host and haughtier name; A greater wreck, a deeper fall,

A shock to one-a thunderbolt to all.

II.

Such was the hazard of the die;
The wounded Charles was taught to fly
By day and night, through field and flood,
Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood;
For thousands fell that flight to aid :
And not a voice was heard to upbraid
Ambition in his humbled hour,

و

When truth had nought to dread from power.
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave
His own-and died the Russians' slave.
This too sinks after many a league
Of well-sustain❜d, but vain fatigue;
And in the depth of forests, darkling
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling-
The beacons of surrounding foes-
A king must lay his limbs at length.

Are these the laurels and repose

For which the nations strain their strength? They laid him by a savage tree,

In out-worn nature's agony;

His wounds were stiff-his limbs were stark—
The heavy hour was chill and dark ;
The fever in his blood forbade
A transient slumber's fitful aid:

And thus it was; but yet through all,
King-like the monarch bore his fall,
And made, in this extreme of ill,
His pangs the vassals of his will;
All silent and subdued were they,
As once the nations round him lay.

III.

A band of chiefs!-alas! how few,
Since but the fleeting of a day
Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true
And chivalrous; upon the clay
Each sate him down, all sad and mute,
Beside his monarch and his steed,
For danger levels man and brute,

And all are fellows in their need.
Among the rest, Mazeppa made
His pillow in an old oak's shade-
Himself as rough, and scarce less old,
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold;

But first, outspent with this long course, The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, And made for him a leafy bed,

;

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein And joy'd to see how well he fed ; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews: But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board But spirited and docile too, Whate'er was to be done, would do ; Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, All Tartar-like he carried him; Obey'd his voice, and came to call, And knew him in the midst of all: Though thousands were around, and night, Without a star, pursued her flight,That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn.

IV.

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak,
And laid his lance beneath his oak,
Felt if his arms in order good
The long day's march had well withstood-
If still the powder fill'd the pan,

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock-
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt,
And whether they had chafed his belt→→
And next the venerable man,
From out his haversack and can,

Prepared and spread his slender stock
And to the monarch and his men
The whole or portion offer'd then,
With far less of inquietude

Than courtiers at a banquet would.
And Charles of this his slender share
With smiles partook a moment there,
To force of cheer a greater show,
And seem above both wounds and woe :-
And then he said-“ Of all our band,
Though firm of heart and strong of hand,
In skirmish, march, or forage, none
Can less have said, or more have done,
Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth
So fit a pair had never birth,
Since Alexander's days till now,
As thy Bucephalus and thou

:

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield For pricking on o'er flood and field.”. Mazeppa answer'd—“Ill betide

The school wherein I learn'd to ride !".

Quoth Charles-"Old hetman, wherefore sk
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well???
Mazeppa said ""T were long to tell;
And we have many a league to go
With every now and then a blow,
And ten to one at least the foe,
Before our steeds may graze at ease
Beyond the swift Borysthenes:
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest,
And I will be the sentinel

Of this your troop."—" But I reques,
Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt teh

This tale of thine, and I may reap
Perchance from this the boon of sleep;
For at this moment from my eyes
The hope of present slumber flies."
"Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track
My seventy years of memory back:
I think 't was in my twentieth spring,—
Ay, 't was,-when Casimir was king-
John Casimir,-I was his page
Six summers in my earlier age;
A learned monarch, faith! was he,
And most unlike your majesty:
He made no wars, and did not gain
New realms to lose them back again;
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)
He reign'd in most unseemly quiet;
Not that he had no cares to vex,
He loved the muses and the sex;
And sometimes these so froward are,
They made him wish himself at war;
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took
Another mistress, or new book:
And then he gave prodigious fêtes-
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates
To gaze upon his splendid court,

And dames, and chiefs, of princely port:
He was the Polish Solomon,

So sung his poets, all but one,

Who, being unpension'd, made a satire,
And boasted that he could not flatter.
It was a court of jousts and mimes,
Where every courtier tried at rhymes;
Even I for once produced some verses,
And sign'd my odes, Despairing Thirsis.
There was a certain Palatine,

A count of far and high descent,
Rich as a salt or silver mine:1
And ne was proud, ye may divine,

As if from heaven he had been sent:

He had such wealth in blood and

ore,

As few could match beneath the throne;
And he would gaze upon his store,
And o'er his pedigree would pore,
Until by some confusion led,
Which almost look'd like want of head,
He thought their merits were his own.
His wife was not of his opinion—

His junior she by thirty years-
rew daily tired of his dominion;
And, after wishes, hopes, and fears,
To virtue a few farewell tears,
A restless dream or two, some glances

At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances,
Awaited but the usual chances,

Those happy accidents which render
The coldest dames so very tender,

To deck her count with titles given,
'Tis said, as passports into heaven;
But, strange to say, they rarely boast

Of these who have deserved them most.

And thus I should be disavow'd
By all my kind and kin, could they
Compare my day and yesterday;
This change was wrought, too, long ere age
Had ta'en my features for his page:
With years, we know, have not declined
My strength, my courage, or my mind,
Or at this hour I should not be
Telling old tales beneath a tree
With starless skies my canopy.

But let me on: Theresa's form-
Methinks it glides before me now,
Between me and yon chesnut's bough,
The memory is so quick and warm;
And yet I find no words to tell
The shape of her I loved so well:
She had the Asiatic eye,

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood
Hath mingled with our Polish blood
Dark as above us is the sky;
But through it stole a tender light,
Like the first moonrise at midnight;
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream,
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam;
All love, half languor, and half fire,
Like saints that at the stake expire,
And lift their raptured looks on high,
As though it were a joy to die.
A brow like a midsummer lake,
Transparent with the sun therein,
When waves no murmur dare to make,
And heaven beholds her face within.
A cheek and lip-but why proceed?

I loved her then-I love her still And such as I am, love indeed

;