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Ah, gentle, tender lady mine!
The winter wind blows cold and shrill,
And what care we for war and wrack,
There lies the greatest of them all!
To pluck him down, and keep him up,
He captured many thousand guns;
He wrote "The Great" before his name;
And dying, only left his sons.
The recollection of his shame.
Though more than half the world was his,
He died without a rood his own;
And borrow'd from his enemies
He fought a thousand glorious wars,
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.
This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon.
ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON.
OR, THE CAGED HAWK.
No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee;
Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the tale
How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff,
How thy white burnous went streaming, like the storm-rack o'er the sea,
Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to spare and save,
Availéd not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life secure,
Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom !
Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom!
Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance, [France! And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and scourge of
'Twas not in fight they bore him down; he never cried amàn; He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRANGHISTAN ; But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane,
He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain.
They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake,
And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. [came, Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng; He knew them false and fickle-but a Prince's word is strong.
How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel's prow
Not so from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance,
Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave,
O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning vain,
They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by GUIZOT; Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show!
THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.
THE noble King of Brentford
They cramm'd their gracious master
They drench'd him and they bled him :
"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,
I'd better make my will."
The monarch's royal mandate
The thought of six-and-eightpence
"The doctors have belabour'd me