All are on board--the Sultaun and his train, In gilded galley prompt to plow the main. The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?" They paused--"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince, "Was call'd The Happy many ages since-- For Mokha, Rais."--And they came safely thither. But not in Araby, with all her balm, Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, Could there the step of Happiness be traced. One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile: She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd But vanish'd from him with the ended draught. "Enough of turbans," said the weary King. "These dolimans of ours are not the thing; Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I Incline to think some of them must be happy; At least they have as fair a cause as any can, They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan. Then northward, ho!"--The vessel cuts the sea, And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-- But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world, Long from her throne of domination tumbled, Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled, The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean, And was not half the man he once had been. "While these the priest and those the noble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces. Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel. If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli; A tramontane, a heretic--the buck, Poffaredio! still has all the luck; By land or ocean never strikes his flag-- And then--a perfect walking money-bag." Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode, But first took France--it lay upon the road. Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him, Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding, Gave indication of a recent hiding. Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless, Thought it a thing indelicate and needless To ask, if at that moment he was happy. And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!" Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?" The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question-- "Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?" The query seem'd of difficult digestion, The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff, And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.