Now for my friend, the _Mirza_; who while in England, published a small collection of poetry he had addressed, in the Persian language, (most ably translated by George Swinton, Esq.) to a young lady, of whom we are to suppose he was deeply enamoured. In this rhodomontade, which conforms exactly with Indian hyperbole, there are certainly some figures which cannot fail to strike an European; yet are they mere common-place expressions, familiar to every native who has been introduced to that labyrinth of poetical absurdity, so delectable among Asiatics. Take the following extracts from the poems at large, as a specimen of the author’s talents. _Praise of her Ornaments_ ‘Upon this ear hangs a cloud surcharg’d with lightning; Or is it Venus sits enthroned in her ear-ring? On that ear, behold Jupiter augments her beauty; In one morning who ever saw both constellations? Since the lobe of the ear is the polar-star of the world of elegance, Her ear-rings are the Greater and Lesser Bears which revolve around!’ Here we have fustian for metaphor, and a most un-astronomical dissertation on Jupiters, Venuses, Polar-Stars of elegance, together with big and little Bears revolving around them! How will Herschell stare when he reads of this new system! _Praise of her gait and stature_. ‘From the extreme fineness of her waist, The shadow of her ringlets is a burthen to her stature. Her stature is a cypress _when she walks_, But it bears, however, the fruit of seedless pomegranates. She moves more gracefully than the water of life. Like me, the pheasant and partridge are lost in astonishment. Although she should tread on the pismire at her feet, Its smallest hair would receive no injury. Yes, it is for this that she treads so lightly, Under every step lie a hundred souls!’ The following may be considered the very acmé of absurdity! ‘When they wash’d _pearls_ and the _moon_ pure With BIRDS’ MILK, they have modell’d the globes of her breast!’ And again, ‘Her chin is not an apple of the garden, It is a WELL full of the water of life!’ And, once more, again, ‘Her lip demands tribute from sugar-candy, The BLOOD OF WINE is its only nourishment!’