Ah! what a contrast in that face portray'd, Where care and study cast alternate shade; But view it well, and ask thy heart the cause, Then chide, with honest warmth, that cold applause Which counteracts the fostering breath of praise, And shades with cypress the young poet's bays: Pale and dejected, mark, how genius strives With poverty, and mark, how well it thrives; The shabby cov'ring of the gentle bard, Regard it well, 'tis worthy thy regard, The friendly cobweb, serving for a screen, The chair, a part of what it once had been; The bed, whereon th' unhappy victim slept And oft unseen, in silent anguish, wept, Or spent in dear delusive dreams, the night, To wake, next morning, but to curse the light, Too deep distress the artist's hand reveals; But like a friend's the black'ning deed conceals; Thus justice, to mild complacency bends, And candour, all harsh influence, suspends. Enthron'd, supreme in judgment, mercy sits, And, in one breath condemns, applauds, acquits: Whoe'er thou art, that shalt this face survey, And turn, with cold disgust, thine eyes away. Then bless thyself, that sloth and ignorance bred Thee up in safety, and with plenty fed, Peace to thy mem'ry! may the sable plume Of dulness, round thy forehead ever bloom; May'st thou, nor can I wish a greater curse; Live full despis'd, and die without a nurse; Or, if same wither'd hag, for sake of hire, Should wash thy sheets, and cleanse thee from the mire, Let her, when hunger peevishly demands The dainty morsel from her barb'rous hands, Insult, with hellish mirth, thy craving maw And snatch it to herself, and call it law, Till pinching famine waste thee to the bone And break, at last, that solid heart of stone. * * * * * LAY OF THE WANDERING ARAB. "Away, away, my barb and I," As free as wave, as fleet as wind, We sweep the sands of Araby, And leave a world of slaves behind. 'Tis mine to range in this wild garb, Nor e'er feel lonely though alone; I would not change my Arab barb, To mount a drowsy Sultan's throne. Where the pale stranger dares not come, Proud o'er my native sands I rove; An Arab tent my only home, An Arab maid my only love. Here freedom dwells without a fear-- Coy to the world, she loves the wild; Whoever brings a fetter here, To chain the desert's fiery child. What though the Frank may name with scorn, Our barren clime, our realm of sand, There were our thousand fathers born-- Oh, who would scorn his father's land? It is not sands that form a waste, Nor laughing fields a happy clime; The spot, the most by Freedom graced, Is where a man feels most sublime! "Away, away, my barb and I." As free as wave as fleet as wind, We sweep the sands of Araby, And leave a world of slaves behind! * * * * * NOSTALGIA--MALADIE DE PAYS--CALENTURE.