I hate ye, of all breeds;
Yea, all that live so selfishly-to self,
And not by interchange of kindly deeds-
Hence! from my shelf!
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
CABLES entangling her,
Shipspars for mangling her,
Ropes sure of strangling her;
Blocks over-dangling her;
Tiller to batter her,
Topmast to shatter her,
Tobacco to spatter her;
Boreas blustering,
Boatswain quite flustering,
Thunder-clouds mustering
To blast her with sulphur-
If the deep don't engulf her:
Sometimes fear's scrutiny
Pries out a mutiny,
Sniffs conflagration,
Or hints at starvation:
All the sea-dangers,
Buccaneers, rangers,
Pirates and Salle-men,
Algerine galleymen,
Tornadoes and typhons,
And horrible syphons,
And submarine travels
Through roaring sea-navels,
Everything wrong enough,
Long-boat not long enough,
Vessel not strong enough;
Pitch marring frippery,
The deck very slippery,
And the cabin-built sloping,
The Captain a-toping,
And the mate a blasphemer,
That names his Redeemer,
With inward uneasiness:
The cook known, by greasiness,
The victuals beslubbered,
Her bed-in a cupboard;
Things of strange christening,
Snatched in her listening,
Blue lights and red lights
And mention of dead-lights,
And shrouds made a theme of,
Things horrid to dream of-
And buoys in the water
To fear all exhort her;
Her friend no Leander,
Herself no sea-gander,
And ne'er a cork jacket
On board of the packet;
The breeze still a-stiffening,
The trumpet quite deafening;
Thoughts of repentance,
And doomsday and sentence;
Everything sinister,
Not a church minister
Pilot a blunderer,
Coral reefs under her,
Ready to sunder her;
Trunks tipsy-topsy,
The ship in a dropsy;
Waves oversurging her,
Sirens a-dirgeing her;
Sharks all expecting her,
Swordfish dissecting her,
Crabs with their hand-vices
Punishing land vices;
Sea-dogs and unicorns,
Things with no puny horns,
Mermen carnivorous-
'Good Lord deliver us!'
EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP.
It was a young maiden went forth to ride,
And there was a wooer to pace by her side;
His horse was so little, and hers so high,
He thought his Angel was up in the sky.
His love was great, though his wit was small:
He bade her ride easy-and that was all.
The very horses began to neigh—
Because their betters had nought to say.
They rode by elm, and they rode by oak,
They rode by a churchyard, and then he spoke:
'My pretty maiden, if you'll agree,
You shall always amble through life with me.'
The damsel answered him never a word,
But kicked the grey mare, and away she spurred.
The wooer still followed behind the jade,
And enjoyed-like a wooer-the dust she made.
They rode through moss, and they rode through more, The gallant behind and the lass before;
At last they came to a miry place,
And there the sad wooer gave up the chase.
Quoth he, 'If my nag was better to ride,
I'd follow her over the world so wide.
Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail,
But I've lost the last glimpse of the grey mare's tail!'
Scheherazade immediately began the following story.
ALI BEN ALI (did you never read
His wondrous acts that chronicles relate-
How there was one in pity might exceed
The sack of Troy?) magnificent he sate
Upon the throne of greatness-great indeed,
For those that he had under him were great-
The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,
Was a Bashaw-Bashaws have horses' tails.
Ali was cruel-a most cruel one!
'Tis rumoured he had strangled his own motherHowbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,
'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too-but happily that none
Did live within harm's length of one another,
Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze
To endless night, and shortened the Moon's days.
Despotic power that mars a weak man's wit,
And makes a bad man-absolutely bad,
Made Ali wicked-to a fault: 'tis fit
Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had No curb upon his will-no, not a bit
Wherefore he did not reign well-and full glad His slaves had been to hang him-but they faltered, And let him live unhanged-and still unaltered,
Until he got a sage bush of a beard,
Wherein an Attic owl might roost-a trail
Of bristly hair-that, honoured and unsheared,
Grew downward like old women and cow's tail,
Being a sign of age-some grey appeared,
Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale;
But yet not so poetic as when Time
Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.
Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex
His royal bosom that he had no son,
No living child of the more noble sex,
To stand in his Morocco shoes-not one
To make a negro-pollard-or tread necks
When he was gone-doomed, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name.
Therefore he chose a lady for his love,
Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear;
So called, because her lustrous eyes, above
All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear;
Then, through his Muftis piously he strove,
And drummed with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear,
Knowing a boy for certain must come of it,
Or else he was not praying to his Profit.
Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair
Will grow like beer: so did that stag-eyed dame :
Ben Ali hoping for a son and heir,
Boyed up his hopes, and even chose a name
Of mighty hero that his child should bear;
He made so certain ere his chicken came:
But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,
Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth.
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