Availéd not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life

secure,

Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden lure;

And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the cast,

And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last.

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, And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and Scourge of France!

'T was not in fight they bore him down; he never cried

amàn;

He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRAN

GHISTAN;

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,

As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to

break;

"Let me pass from out my deserts, be 't mine own choice

where to go,

I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show."

And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came,

Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame.

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

Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now? Not so: from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance,

And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France!

Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward

o'er the wavé,

Sits he that trusted in the word a son of LOUIS gave.
O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning

vain,

The text writ by the BOURBON in the blurred black book of Spain?

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

HE noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick,

He summon'd his physicians

To wait upon him quick;
They stepp'd into their coaches

And brought their best physick.

They cramm'd their gracious master
With potion and with pill;

They drench'd him and they bled him:
They could not cure his ill.

"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,

I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;

The thought of six-and-eightpence

Did make his heart full gay.
"What is 't," says he, "your Majesty
Would wish of me to-day?

"The doctors have belabour'd me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,

O man of tape and quill!

Sit down and mend a pen or two,

I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford
I'm lord, and eke of Kew:

I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents;
My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me

I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober prince is he,

And from the day we breech'd him
Till now, he's twenty-three,

He never caused disquiet

To his poor Mamma or me.

"At school they never flogg'd him,
At college, though not fast,
Yet his little-go and great-go
He creditably pass'd,

And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling,

Went never drunk to bed,

He has not two ideas

Within his honest head

In all respects he differs

From my second son, Prince Ned.

When Tom has half his income

Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,

Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse:
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,

Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a dullard, And Ned a genius?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits:

"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said; 66 On your commands I wait." "Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will as Brentford spoke it
Was writ and signed and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,

And turn'd him round and dozed;
And next week in the churchyard
The good old King reposed.