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 THE ( \*&bm~ *~ t %R£ 
 
 SWEET SOUTH; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 
 
 WITH A FEW SHORT LYRICS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ELEANOE DABBY 
 
 LONDON: 
 HOPE & CO, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET, 
 
 1854. 
 

 — -" BIFT 
 gSSCd aAMES S. CHILDERS 
 "^ JULY 26, 1944 
 
TO 
 
 nnflUttr fiatnliln, 
 
 Magistrat Superieur & la Cour d'Appel 
 
 AT ALGIERS, 
 
 IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE HAPPY MONTH 
 PASSED BY HER HUSBAND AND HERSELF 
 UNDER HIS HOSPITABLE ROOF, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING 
 
 IS DEDICATED, 
 WITH SENTIMENTS OF SINCEREST FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 The following metrical outpouring of my 
 impressions during a month at Algiers, has 
 no higher pretension than that of being a 
 succession of truthful pictures, sketched from the 
 life, among scenes rarely visited by an English 
 lady — scenes far too poetical to be described in 
 prose. That is one reason why they are here 
 pourtrayed in verse, which, it is hoped, will not 
 render them less acceptable. For the rest, ask 
 the birds why they sing, and the fountains why 
 they flow. Is it not because they cannot help 
 it? 
 
 E. D. 
 
 Queen Square, Westminster, 
 1854. 
 
 A 2 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Inteodttction. The Improvisatrice's Reasons for 
 
 Singing - 5 
 
 The Sweet South - 7 
 
 Notes -...- 77 
 Lyetcs — 
 
 The Happy Island - - - 95 
 
 The Songs of the Sea - - 96 
 
 The Rose and the Heart - - 99 
 War-Song of Schamyl, the Circassian Chief 99 
 
 Serenade - - - - 101 
 
 Homage to Nature - - - 102 
 
 The Fairy King 103 
 
 Angel- Visits - - - - 105 
 
 The Evil Eye . - 106 
 
 When Hope is Dead - - - 108 
 
 Love's Wishes - - - 109 
 
 The Bee - - - - 110 
 
 The Immortal Elower - - 111 
 
 The Lover to His Absent Mistress - 111 
 
 An April Shower - - - 113 
 
 The Song of the Pines - - 113 
 
 The New Holy War - - - 114 
 
 The Voyage of Life - - - 117 
 
 Heaven's Blessing on the Rhine » 123 
 
 Song of the Water-Spirit - - 124 
 
 They Are Not Dead - - - 126 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 
 THE IMPROVISATMCE'S REASONS 
 FOE SINGING. 
 
 Ye bid me be idle — cease playing 
 
 On my fount of delight, my lov'd lute ! 
 Too fiercely, ye say, the wind's swaying 
 
 The tree, and its strength will uproot. 
 Ye tell me the lamp-flame is burning 
 
 Too high and too bright, and its blaze, 
 'Gainst the crystal that holdeth it turning, 
 
 May shatter or break the frail vase. 
 
 It may be so — yet, if I fan not 
 
 The flambeau, 'twill never expire ; 
 For e'en if I would, Oh, I cannot 
 
 Extinguish that heaven-sent fire ! 
 Resistless, unquenchable, ever 
 
 Its lightnings flash warm round my heart ; 
 'Tis life's essence, and should I endeavour , 
 
 To quell it, soon life would depart ! 
 
 Like a light fragile flow'r, by the current 
 
 Irresistibly hurried along, 
 I am carried away by a torrent 
 
 Still mightier — the torrent of Song ! 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In the depth of the midnight, my pillow 
 Is rock'd by its murmuring streams ; 
 
 In slumber's charm'd hour, by its billow 
 I am toss'd on a wild sea of dreams. 
 
 If I rove all alone by the river, 
 
 I'm not lonely — fair visions are near ! 
 In the leaves fairy forms float and quiver, 
 
 In the breeze fairy echoes I hear ! 
 They are whispering to me — sweet voices i 
 
 They haunt me wherever I go ; 
 And ye know not how much it rejoices 
 
 The spirit, to be haunted so ! 
 
 Between sleeping and waking, they're flitting 
 
 About me — from morning till night ! 
 Beautifying all objects — emitting 
 
 On all round their own magical light ! 
 They so sweeten existence — so dearly 
 
 I cherish them — e'en could it be 
 That they shorten'd life too, I'd sincerely 
 
 Cry, welcome, thrice welcome to me ! 
 
 Bid me not then desert my best blessing, 
 
 My fount of enchantment, my lyre ! 
 If ye love me, instead of repressing, 
 
 Oh, stir to the utmost that fire ! 
 Higher, brighter and brighter illuming, 
 
 Let it break if it will the frail vase ! 
 The crystal will glow while consuming, 
 
 And smile in the midst of the blaze ! 
 
THE SWEET SOUTH; 
 
 A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 
 
 COULEUR DE ROSE AND COULEUR NOIRE. 
 
 COULEUR NOIRE. 
 
 Deuce take this confounded journey ! 
 
 How my common sense it shocks! 
 Madder than Don Quixote's tourney 
 
 'Gainst the windmills or the flocks ! 
 Fool that I was to consent! it 
 
 Was in an evil hour begun; 
 And, my word for't, you'll repent it, 
 
 Ere the ill-omen'd tour be done ! 
 
 Up with the lark, yet evermore 
 Just too late for train or steamer ; 
 
 To mar our boating, torrents pour — 
 No views for a poetic dreamer ! 
 
8 THE SWEET SOUTH ; 01?, 
 
 Rhone and Saone a Scotch mist veils — 
 Then dust and mistral at Marseilles; 
 And there not only your own cousins, 
 But others buzzing round by dozens, 1 
 Who, jealous of that happy meeting, 
 Half devour you with their greeting ; 
 And cover you with marks unceasing 
 Of their affection and their teasing — 
 Kisses more piquant far than pleasing ! 
 
 Off in a tempest to Algiers — 
 
 Ship hot and crowded as a slaver! 
 The Moorish women full of fears, 
 
 The French fine ladies not much braver! 
 Mediterranean waves are shorter 
 
 Than the Atlantic's ; but their heaving 
 Shakes us like whipt cream in a mortar, 
 
 Till we heave too, beyond believing ! 
 We sit at table — those waves toss its 
 
 Dishes and glasses, and so rock it, 
 Scarce swallow'd, many a man deposits 
 
 His dinner in his neighbour's pocket! 
 Then the fair sex ! good heavens ! what moaning, 
 Ejaculations, shrieks, and groaning, 
 From their berths, coop'd up in a cabin 
 Just big enough to swing Queen Mab in ! 
 
 We land, amid the hurly-burly 
 
 And hubbub of the Tower of Babel ; 
 
 And find we have arrived too early — 
 Our friend is absent, or unable 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 
 
 Yet to receive us — ill, or painting 
 
 His house — I'm knock'd up — you half-fainting. 
 
 The fetes their baneful influence shed, 
 
 And in all Algiers not a bed 
 
 Is to be had for love or money ; — 
 
 Travelling, you see, is not all honey ! 
 
 E'en those same fetes are damp'd — for rain 
 
 Cold water throws upon the races ; 
 The Arabs ride and joust in vain, 
 
 And the belles dread to show their faces 
 And bonnets ! — then, when we're install'd 
 
 ' Neath our friend's hospitable roof, 
 Comes the Siroc ! — with fire soon pall'd, 
 
 As all would be, not furnace-proof, 
 And gasping with th' infernal heat, 
 One morn an earthquake rocks the street ! 
 Our chamber oscillates and dances, 
 Just as your roan-steed rears and prances, 
 And caracoles you off from him — 
 Lucky you 'scape with life and limb ! 
 
 Would you i' the "briny" plunge ? beware ! 
 Sharks, devouring sharks are there. 
 As for the "balmy," — yawn, or weep ! — 
 Insect Macbeths will murder sleep ! 
 Afric's salute, hark, lions roar ! 
 Jackals are screaming at your door ; 
 Hysenas howl, musquitos pace on 
 Your couch, despite of net or mason, 
 And snakes in every wash-hand bason ! 
 
 a 3 
 
10 THE SWEET SOUTH] OR, 
 
 We make, forsooth, a party of pleasure, 
 
 To visit the gorges of the ChifFa ; 
 And take choice viands to dine at leisure, 
 
 And choice cigars for a glorious whiff. A 
 Quartett of bold cavaliers are there ; 
 Your spouse and three others, lady fair, 
 Who would beard the very wolf in his lair ! 
 Arm'd to the teeth with stylet and musket — 
 (The stylet de rigueur, without which a Corse 
 Would be like an Arab without his horse.) 
 E'en if a tiger should show his tusk, it 
 Would soon receive a quietus — a shot 
 Or a stab from one of us, if not 
 From our driver— a slow mule-headed German, 
 Who preaches at every halt a sermon, 
 And is only intent on sparing his nags, 
 And bringing us back ere day-light flags. 
 Well, we reach at last the break-neck ravine 
 Of the Chiffa- grotto, where scarce a man, 
 Says our timorous guide, will venture in, 
 
 Down the rocks. " Thatmay be, but a woman can!" 
 Cries my dare-devil wife, and off she scampers ; 
 And off scuds her preux chevalier, who pampers 
 Each whim of hers, calling out with a smile, 
 " She's the greatest cassecou in Britain's isle !" 
 And after them, quick as a dart, doth follow 
 A light mountaineer 
 As fleet as a deer, 
 To lend her a helping hand down the hollow. 
 All's well ! after many a slide and bound 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 11 
 
 O'er the loose rolling stones and slippery ground, 
 The three are soon up again safe and sound ; 
 
 Half melted with heat, 
 
 Yet proud of their feat — 
 The rose, pluck'd from briars, is always more 
 
 sweet ! 
 But alas and alas ! a thousand alas's ! 
 Oh, when shall we get to the end of the passes ? 
 And why did we bring pasty, bottles and glasses ? 
 By the "ravin des singes" as we saunter along, 2 
 
 What vis-a-vis rushes 
 
 Pell-mell mid the bushes ? 
 Is't a cataract dashing ? No ! they are all fled ! 
 The summer drought's dwindled the Falls to a 
 
 thread. 
 'Tis a bevy of monkeys, a chattering throng, 
 
 That, mopping and mowing, 
 
 With mischief o'erflowing, 
 Are playing their pranks in their favorite glen. 
 Most nimble and most inconsiderate of men ! 
 
 That same mountaineer 
 
 As swift as a deer, 
 Pulls the trigger, and pop in a trice goes his gun. 
 Down a little one drops ; and away he doth run 
 
 To display his agility, 
 
 And goat-like facility 
 In climbing, and also to catch and to bag 
 The game, while we urge him in vain not to lag. 
 But the prey's only wounded, not killed ; and its 
 kin 
 
12 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 In arms rise around with a horrible din, 
 And menace the huntsman with such a rude hug, 
 That he's glad to escape, 
 Without the young ape 
 He hoped on the morrow to jug. 3 
 But we, who care more for the depths of the ChifTa 
 Than for all the baboon-race from Fez to Tarifa, 
 We greet him but coldly — with very good reason, 
 For never was monkey-chase so out of season ! 
 His half-hour excursion 
 Hath spoilt our diversion ! 
 We re-enter the carriage, but soon — blood an' 
 
 murther ! 
 The slow driver refuses to go an inch further ; 
 He would not be responsible — not for the world ! 
 For our lives, if we slighted 
 His advice, and benighted 
 In the gorges should linger. Suppose us ail hurl'd 
 Down the precipice — or by a panther devoured, 
 Or by still wilder Arabs attack'dando'erpowered ! 
 In vain words, reproaches, threats, oaths — even 
 
 blows ! 
 For the Judge on his back, out of patience, 
 
 bestows 
 A judicial belabouring— all is in vain 
 To move his frigidity ! 
 We've had the stupidity 
 To pay in advance ; and ere long o'er the plain 
 He is pricking to Blidah — we cursing and swear- 
 ing, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 13 
 
 While the Fates are our crowning vexation pre- 
 paring. 
 
 Return'd, and at dinner, our friend says, " At 
 least, 
 
 " If not there, on our pate de lievre here we'll 
 feast." 
 
 We send for it — Heavens ! — is't possible ? — gone ? 
 
 Away with the pannier, the cocher has flown ! 
 
 Morbleu ! Zounds ! Maledizion ! What ex- 
 clamation 
 
 Of Corsican, French, or John Bull imprecation 
 
 Can give vent to our rage ? to our fury, when 
 thinking, 
 
 The rascal at our expense grins, our health 
 drinking, 
 
 And smacking his lips o'er our host's Cyprus 
 wine ; 
 
 And despatching the pasty, 
 The tit-bit so tasty 
 
 On which we had meant like Lucullus to dine ! 
 
 Munching (would it might choke him !) no doubt 
 somewhat faster 
 
 Than his driving, to which a snail-trot would be 
 hasty ! 
 
 Oh, worthy wind-up to our day of disaster ! 
 
 For an Augenblickwexe I the miscreant's master! 4 
 
 But our friend puts him down in that black book 
 of debts 
 
 Which a true son of Corsica never forgets : 
 
 And should they e'er meet, he'll receive from yon 
 switch 
 
14 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Such a " bella vendetta" a payment so rich, 
 That the villain will own he is thoroughly beaten, 
 And curse all the pates that ever were eaten. 
 
 A fine denouement I worthy this 
 
 Most harebrained tour ! a good rebuff ! 
 Doth it not wake from dreams of bliss, 
 
 And make e'en you cry, " Hold, enough !" 
 And all to please a mad- cap woman, 
 
 Of London and her sposo weary, 
 Who pants, by way of being uncommon, 
 
 To play V Ingles a in Algieri I 
 You turn your head away, my dear — 
 D'ye laugh in your sleeve, or hide a tear ? 
 Nay, even if I too darkly etch, 
 Confess 'tis not all Fancy's sketch ! 
 
 COULEUR DE ROSE. 
 
 I smile, because it is all jeers, 
 And laughter's better, sure, than tears ! 
 Now hear all truth, sir ! if you will, 
 'Tis truth poetic, but truth still ! 
 
 Pass we the beauties of the Saone, 
 The boldness of the rapid Rhone. 
 No drop of rain to cloud the air, 
 And we're beforehand everywhere. 
 Come we to our tour's pith and marrow, 
 Algiers, the bull's-eye of our arrow ! 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 15 
 
 I grant, we had too little breeze 
 
 On land, and too much on the seas ; 
 
 Of billows far too great a shock, O ! 
 
 I grant you, friend sun, and sirocco 
 
 Vied in the warmth of their kind greeting,. 
 
 To celebrate our joyous meeting. 
 
 True, we were panting, parch'd, dissolved, 
 
 By such an universal toast ; 
 
 Faint, languishing, half dead ! 
 
 But what of that ? as said 
 Our dear imaginative host, 
 Whom each event with wit inspires, 
 It is that Afric was resolv'd 
 To welcome us with all her fires ! 
 Earthquake, musquitos, too, I grant you, 
 Whose stinging souvenirs so haunt you. 
 But would it not have been a pity, 
 To leave th' unique fantastic city, 
 Unseen its strange and startling phases, 
 Unknown the African three Graces, 
 Earthquake, siroc, and tattooed faces ? 5 
 
 I grant you, too, my Arab steed, 
 
 To prove himself of thorough breed, 
 
 Was well disposed to play with me 
 
 At pitch and toss. What then ? You see 
 
 I'm none the worse ! and on the brink 
 
 Of peril, pleasure's sweeter. Think 
 
 Of that ! and think on the delights 
 
 Of those bright days and radiant nights ! 
 
16 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 You tell me many a dream of mine 
 Turned out mere moonshine ! Be it so ! 
 Say, when did moon in England shine 
 With such resplendency divine ? 
 A mellowed sun without his glow ; 
 But clear enough for maid to read 
 A hieroglyphic billet-doux ! 
 And oh, the stars ! what English mead, 
 In May, amid its violets blue, 
 With daisies more bestarr'd ? indeed, 
 You'd swear that all the starry spheres 
 Had given each other rendezvous, 
 Upon thy deep-blue sky, Algiers ! 
 And, full of rapture to have met, 
 
 So thickly cluster, 
 
 With such a lustre 
 As, once seen, who can e'er forget ? 
 And so dilate their diamond eyes 
 With joy, to such a wondrous size, 
 They cover e'en thy violet skies ! 
 
 That terrace-roof! its trellis'd bowers, 6 
 The scent of its day-shunning flowers, 
 That, like a woman's loving heart, 
 Wherein base interest hath no part, 
 Keep all their sweets for the dark hours 
 By turns the new, transporting sight, 
 Of the unearthly-looking height, 
 All clad in white, 
 Like ghosts by night, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 17 
 
 With here and there a spectral light ; 
 
 That seems as if some fairy sprite 
 
 Had waved her wand, and it had grown 
 
 From a steep rock into a town ! 
 
 And then enamonr'd to gaze down 
 
 Upon the moon's soft smile of love, 
 
 Silvering the sea — and then above, 
 
 On the large, brilliant orbs ! all this, 
 
 Beheld, while leaning on an arm, 
 
 Whose touch crowns all with friendship's charm: — 
 
 Oh ! is it not a perfect bliss, 
 
 Sufficient to o'erpay th' ennui 
 
 Of years of dull monotony ? 
 
 " Truce to the moon ! enough of her !" 
 
 You cry. Well well, be patient, sir ! 
 
 You who other feasts prefer, 
 
 More of earth and less of air, 
 
 Take a random bill of fare ! — 
 
 Lion-cutlets, hump of camel, 
 
 Pickled panther, couscousou ; 
 Rich with nature's pearl-enamel, 
 
 Dorades of a beamy hue, 7 
 As if that very moon last night 
 Had left on them her loveliest light ! 
 Taglierini, which perforce 8 
 Must please all tastes ! to our freres Corses, 
 Resistless as a game at mora, 
 And pageots rosy as Aurora ! 
 Rouget, tunny, and red mullet, 
 
18 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 Tempting to a gourmet's gullet. 
 Doreys that might make old Quin 
 From his tomb pop out his chin ! 
 Roasted kidling, leopard-steaks, 
 Apricots preserved in cakes, 
 Wafery 5 ambrosial flakes ! 
 Citrouille-co??/ztoe, patates, 9 
 Jujubes fresh, and stuff' d tomates. 10 
 Thrush fed on mastick — fragrant elf ! 
 
 Fine as heathery grouse in flavour ; 
 Mocha, the Grand Signior's self 
 
 Might a VArahe sip and savour ! 
 Dates from where the wild goats clamber, 
 Hipe bananas, bright as amber. 
 Peerless Algerine pomegranates, u 
 
 Melons, melting with the kiss 
 Of the day -god — own our planet's 
 
 After all, not much amiss ! 
 Figs, purpled like a Tyrian net, 
 
 With the warm blushes of the south ; 
 Ithacan wine, that would have set 
 
 A- watering Ulysses' mouth ! 
 And peas — green peas ! young peas, remember ! 
 Filling to the brim their pods 
 From January to December ! 12 
 Oh, this is, sure, 
 Sir epicure, 
 A banquet worthy of the gods ! 
 
 For such rare dainties to excite 
 Due gusto and keen appetite, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. . 19 
 
 Come, seek we the Jardin Marengo, 
 
 Where oft the women and the men go 
 
 To hear the band — nay, there's but one day 
 
 For that, and we must wait till Sunday. 13 
 
 What say you ? Shall we stroll to-day 
 
 To the Arab market, or the bay ? 14 
 
 Or lounge thro' the bazaar ? or stray 
 
 On to the cool Jardin d'Essai, 
 
 And from the heat and glare repose 
 
 In those delicious verdant bowers, 
 
 Where African and Arctic flowers 
 
 Embrace — where o'er the laurier rose 
 
 The light larch waves, the tall pine towers, 
 
 And all the globe's far quarters meet, 
 
 Mingling their sweet breath at our feet ? 15 
 
 Or take a turn upon the pier ? 
 
 Or be content to linger here 
 
 On the fair Place' du Gouvernement, 16 
 
 And sauntering lazily along 
 
 Under the green Bell'Ombra trees, 
 
 Woo e'en the phantom of a breeze ? 
 
 Or ramble on beneath the shade 
 
 Of cupola and colonnade, 
 
 From Bab-azoun to Bab-el Oued ? 17 
 
 Or climb yon maze of zigzag alleys 
 
 To the old Casbah, the Dey's palace ? 
 
 Up the ancient ville mauresque, 
 What a living arabesque ! 
 
20 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 Barbaresque, bizarre, grotesque, 
 
 And above all, picturesque ! 
 
 These lanes may be dim, steep, hot, muddy, 
 
 But for a painter what a study ! 
 
 What tableaux from th' Arabian Nights ! 
 
 Here a brace of blacks — odd wights ! 
 
 Vaulting o'er the narrow road, 
 
 Laugh, till they show their teeth 
 
 Of ivory, beneath 
 An elephantine load. 
 There a group of coffee-drinkers 
 Squat orientally before 
 A Moorish cafe's door : 
 Or silently, no doubt deep thinkers, 
 A party of grave Moslem smokers, 
 "Wrapt in a cloud, like railway stokers, 
 From their chibouques another pour. 
 Here play at cards with might and main, 
 Three tawny Moors — there, Bedouins twain, 
 With tatter'd cloaks and shoeless toes, 
 Pore over chess or dominoes. 
 In each booth so close and murk, 
 Loll like tailors o'er their work, 
 Arab, Negro, Jew, and Turk. 
 See ! screened by roofs o'erhead uniting, 
 Fruit-stalls, where the red inviting 
 Capsicum in garlands twines, 
 And yellow gourds hang out like signs. 
 Jewesses, deck'd in their olden 
 Rich costume, more gay and golden, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. £1 
 
 The neighbouring courges far outshine. 
 So much the worse ! in my opinion, 
 A bright bird needs no gilded pinion. 
 Give me her unadorn'd dominion, 
 Venus beautiful, not fine ! 18 
 
 Look to the right ! an Arab barber, 
 
 Shaving with Figaro-like dexterity ! 
 Look to the left ! yon dark cells harbour 
 
 A knot of bakers. 'Twere temerity 
 To taste the loaves they toss about, 
 
 Just kneaded by those dusky hands ! 
 Listen ! wild song and wilder shout 
 
 Tell where the Mahonais' blithe bands 
 Are rattling castanets afar, 
 And capering to a crack'd guitar. 
 And, hearken ! tipsy brawl and laugh, 
 
 Hoarse stave, and goblets' jingling chime,s 
 Betray, e'en true believers quaff 
 
 The dear, forbidden juice sometimes ! 19 
 Sweet contrast to that noise and thrumming, 
 Hush ! list we to the softer humming 
 Of a quaint Arab ditty yonder ! 
 One that will haunt, where'er we go — 
 One of those airs, of which we grow, 
 As of a friend long loved, still fonder, 
 The more and more we know ! 
 Would I could hear again that air ! 
 How well its faintly-floating tone 
 Is in harmonious unison 
 
<L% THE SWEET SOUTH J OR, 
 
 With yon white-veil'd phantasmal fair 
 Gliding up the vista there, 
 Whose eyes will haunt you everywhere ! 
 Those jet-black eyes, that form of grace, 
 Embellish'd by the charm of mystery, 
 Announce, methinks, a lovely face, 
 And make one long her path to trace, 
 Unmask her features and her history ! 
 
 Yet hold ! attempt it not ! why, you 
 As well with slipper'd foot might dare 
 To enter yonder marabout. , 20 
 Or mosque in miniature, wherein 
 The Faithful bend in lowly prayer 
 
 Before the Muezzin, 
 And kiss the earth with mute prostration, 
 At every groan'd ejaculation 
 
 Of Mahomet's great name. 
 Soon they'd the unbeliever tear 
 In pieces ; — and the doom were just ! 
 For he deserves a death of shame, 
 Who can — presumptuous child of dust ! 
 With mockery gaze, not awed emotion, 
 On any creed's heart-felt devotion ! 
 Mosque, temple, or cathedral be it ! 
 In each alike we'll bow the knee ! it 
 Imports not ! Roman, Greek, or Phrygian, 
 So 'tis the shrine of true Religion ! 
 Jehovah, Allah, thundering Jove— 
 We worship one, the one above ; 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. %3 
 
 And at His feet adoring fall — 
 His, who made brothers of us all ! 
 
 But why do we 
 
 I' the mosque ne'er see 
 A female figure's drapery ? 
 That nut is hard to our digestion — 
 Crack it, kind Moor, and solve the question ! 
 " The reason is as clear as wise," 
 Yon cross-legg'd oracle replies, 
 " Why Woman's church is her kiosk. 
 
 " That sagest of all laws 
 
 " Was made, no doubt, because 
 " The Prophet, Wisdom's self, did say — 
 " Sure, if the women went to the mosque, 
 
 " The men could never pray ! " 2 
 
 Thanks, learned pundit ! Sapient turban, 
 
 Answer'd like Daniel ! Now to by-ways 
 
 Descend we from these choking highways ! 
 
 Oh for a little calm suburban ! 
 
 Ah, here we are, at home ! Suppose 
 
 We rest awhile ! — rest ? — those sworn foes 
 
 To rest, whose mouths methinks ne'er close; 
 
 The urchins of the Rue Boutin, 
 
 Are vying who can bawl the most. 
 
 It makes one wish to drown or hang 
 
 The rogues ! Well our impetuous host 
 
 May in his overboiling spleen 
 
 Cry, " Curse on those confounded boys ! 
 
24 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! fain I'd from my windows lean, 
 " And silence their distracting noise, 
 
 " And drive them to their beds, 
 " By emptying on their heads 
 ' ' No matter what — 
 " The coffee-pot, 
 (( Or — yes, by Heaven ! e'en 
 " The scalding soup-tureen ! " 
 
 Sally we forth on foot anew, 
 While Yussuf leads 
 Our eager steeds 
 Up to the palm-tree, through 
 Whose breeze-stirr'd fan of feathers shines 
 So beauteously the moon. — 'Tis there 
 We'll mount — beside the palm-tree, where 
 Our friend builds castles in the air. 22 
 Our sanguine friend, who's planted pines, 
 Young pines upon the Atlas' summit, 
 And whose vast depths of soul no plummet 
 Can fathom !— he in fancy sees 
 A long row of palmetto-trees 
 The road with shadowing plumage crown, 
 From that lone palm-tree to the town. 
 Oh, what a walk it then would be ! 
 Green-parasol'd from such a sun 
 By such a pendant canopy! 
 & promenade des palmier s none 
 Could ever match ! — for in a land 
 Where verdure sprouts from rock and sand. 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 25 
 
 And strides apace with seven-leagued boots, 
 They'd dart up, quick as parachutes 
 Dart down, and rapidly o'ershade 
 The whole way with a leaf-arcade. 
 What ornament as well as use ! 
 Would it were so indeed ! — Meanwhile, 
 Beneath the morn's too dazzling smile 
 We languish on ; no peace, no truce 
 For our stunn'd ears ! in every street 
 'Tis Pandemonium's din let loose, 
 With Pandemonium's heat ! 
 Talk of the Tower of Babel ! Nay, 
 I'll wager it must have been quiet 
 As convent on a lenten day, 
 Compared to all this deafening riot ! 
 Gods ! what a pot-pourri of tongues ! 
 What discord ! what stentorian lungs ! 
 Arabic, Spanish, Greek, Maltese — 
 All dialects and languages. 23 
 'Twould surely make both me and you sick, 
 If 'twixt light French and guttural German 
 Breath'd not, like an Elysian breeze, 
 As liquid as the locks o' a merman, 
 Honied Italian — spoken music ! 
 How dear those silvery tones to me ! 
 Ay, dear as though 'twere mine to be 
 A daughter of fair Italy! 
 
 Those accents are in distance drown'd — 
 And, hark ! there's now another sound, 
 
 B 
 
26 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Still more sonorous, and as sweet — 
 The tuneful thunder, the deep beat, 
 The rush, and roll, and mighty roar 
 Of the sea's waves upon the shore. 
 Grand diapason ! peal sublime ! 
 It wafts the spirit with its chime 
 Afar, aloft, o'er space and time ; 
 For that ne'er-ceasing voice supernal 
 Speaks of the infinite and eternal ! 
 
 Music best suited for such a ramble ! 
 
 Our very steeds, as they gaily amble, 
 
 Seem to feel the joy, the out-gushing bliss 
 
 Even life bestows, in a clime like this. 
 
 Stay ! for a moment let's draw in the rein 
 
 By the little village of St. Eugene ; 
 
 And the devious path at a foot-pace follow, 
 
 Between the wild mountains and wilder hollow. 
 
 As Arabs imbibing their coffee stop, 24 
 
 And suck in slowly each precious drop, 
 
 And smack their lips with pleasure ; 
 So let us ride on to the Pointe Pescade 
 In a minuet-step, not a gallopade, 
 
 And taste its charms at leisure ! 
 
 It is here, the whole enchanting scene ! 
 
 The sky of loveliest azure hue, 
 And the sapphire sea still more serene, 
 
 With the white sails gliding o'er its blue. 
 The Atlas mountains, the fairy creek, 25 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 27 
 
 Just made for mooring a light caique ; 
 
 And the range of crags along the strand, 
 
 Dented like lace-work by Nature's hand ; 
 
 And the little plot of snowy sand, 
 
 That, milky-white as the dashing spray, 
 
 Lies in the lap of the rocky bay ; . 
 
 So pearly and polish'd, so smooth and level, 
 
 Fit haunt for the Nereids' nightly revel ! 
 
 They have left an echo upon the air, 
 
 Methinks, of their songs and dances there, 
 
 And the scent of their cassia-wreathed hair, 
 
 Which floats while they trip to the mermaids' tune, 
 
 When the crescent-sand of that fair saloon 
 
 Is as silvery as the crescent moon — 
 
 The moon that no envious clouds eclipse — 
 
 The moon that all round in silver dips, 
 
 And even with light yon grotto tips ! 
 
 Yon cavern-grotto, yon murky lair, 
 
 Louring and black as the den of Despair, 
 
 That would tempt a corsair-chief to hide 
 
 His dearest booty, his stolen bride. 
 
 Ah, Love can light up a dungeon dark 
 
 Better than stalactite's diamond-spark ! 
 
 And Love can render the gloomiest grot 
 
 Brighter than palaces where he is not ! 
 
 All is here ! each charm of that beauteous spot 
 
 Which, once seen, never can be forgot ! 
 
 But where are they ?— Oh, where are the two 
 
 Who so often climb'd the hill, 26 
 And gaz'd entranc'd on the ravishing view 
 
 b 2 
 
£8 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Love made more ravishing still ? 
 The pirate bold and his Moorish maid, 
 Who met in yon grotto's friendly shade ? 
 Who hand-in-hand all danger defied, 
 And clamber'd the steep rocks' slippery side ; 
 And stood on the sand, and paus'd in the cave, 
 And listed the chant of the deep sea-wave 
 That pour'd its wild harmony at their feet, 
 While they pour'd into each other's ears 
 Adoring words and vows more sweet — 
 Sweet as the music of the spheres ! 
 And pray'd Time to prolong each happy morn, 
 While the deaf old savage laugh'd them to scorn. 
 Where are they ? Alas ! she is far away, 
 In her dreams living o'er Fate's sunny day, 
 Those visions its only lingering ray ! 
 And he ? — tost on the surf from morn till night, 
 Oh, he shuns that once-lov'd scene of delight ; 
 For he knows, the desolate one ! how its sight 
 Would tear open the wound, and heighten the smart, 
 Which absence leaves in the agoniz'd heart. 
 
 A sigh for the doom of those sever'd lovers, 
 For the destiny that so darkly hovers 
 O'er those who should never part ! and a smile, 
 As the view at each turn new charms discovers, 
 And farewell to the Pointe Pescade awhile ; 
 Till we come again, and fish in the blue 
 Cool waters, and breakfast on the rocks, 
 And in tender sympathy list anew 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. £9 
 
 The plaint of the billows' measured shocks > 
 That wailing, tell the tale o'er and o'er 
 To the sighing trees of the listening shore. 
 
 Mix'd with the rippling waves, rings near 
 
 A peal as pleasing to mine ear 
 
 As if I were a mountaineer ! 
 
 The tinkling bells so soft and clear 
 
 Of goats that in this happy land 
 
 Find herbage on the rockiest strand. 
 
 For Nature here, the sun's free child, 
 
 The child of fire, shoots up, runs wild, 
 
 And riots in the full excess 
 
 Of her untamed luxuriousness, — 
 
 A prodigal and giantess ! 
 
 A prodigal ! See in what showers 
 
 She flings around fruit, foliage, flowers ! 
 
 Waving o'er the steepest clift, 
 
 Smiling 'mid the frowning crags, 
 Bananas hang their leafy flags 
 
 And yellow fruit; —in the deep rift, 
 
 Down in the dreariest glen's abyss 
 
 She lavishes sweet clematis ! 
 
 Upon the sternest precipice 
 
 She throws at random sportively 
 
 The citron and the strawberry-tree, 
 
 Wild roses, green caroubiers, 
 
 Vines, olives, dates, jujubiers, 
 
 Pomegranates with their seeds of coral, 
 
 Myrtle, flower'd cactus, and rose-laurel: 
 
30 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 And on the peak most rude and bare 
 
 The prickly Barbary fig-trees dare 
 
 The roughest soil, the sultriest air, 
 
 Growing, like life's thorns, everywhere ! 
 
 Thus spendthrift Nature heaps her riches 
 
 Exhaustless round, and sense and sight 
 
 With her exuberant wealth bewitches : 
 
 And lo ! behold her giant height, 
 
 In yon enormous aloe-hedges, 
 
 Bristling, as pointed as the ledges 
 
 They wreathe with verdure ; yon tall sedges, 
 
 And huge colossal reeds, that vie 
 
 In stature with the lentisks nigh ; 
 
 Wafting on every zephyr's sigh 
 
 The spicy breath of Araby ! 27 
 
 Orange-groves ! boon Nature here 
 Laughs at them ! in this blest sphere 
 She rains her gifts in streams, in floods ! 
 And scatters wildernesses, woods, 
 Forests vast of orange-trees ! 
 Gardens of the Hesperides, 
 That for leagues perfume the breeze ! 28 
 
 Go, ye who ne'er have felt her power ; 
 
 Approach her in her loveliest hour, 
 
 In Blidah's orangeries fair, 
 
 When their spring-blossoms scent the air ; 
 
 And bless her in her beauty there ! 
 
 Or, would ye on her grandeur gaze, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 31 
 
 Her mystic rites, her Pythian orgies ? 
 
 Watch her when Phoebus' parting rays 
 
 Tip with their gold the ChifFa-gorges ! 
 
 Those gates and fortresses of Nature, 29 
 
 So stern, yet with a softening feature ! 
 
 Flowers blush and smile in every gap, 
 
 Like Cupid in a Titan's lap ; 
 
 And a green drapery of copse 
 
 From their base to their very tops, 
 
 Up to the airiest rocky spike, 
 
 Robes the gigantic peaks, just like 
 
 True valour, bravery's excess, 
 
 Yet beautified by gentleness ! 
 
 O'er them, majestically slow, 
 
 Sails, revelling in the sunset glow, 
 
 The eagle, the heaven-loving bird ; 
 
 And, through the twilight dimly flashing, 
 
 The foaming Falls, less seen than heard, 
 
 Blend their hoarse murmur and fierce dashing 
 
 With the subdued melodious flow 
 
 Of the more mildly-rushing river 
 
 Beneath, and the leaves' rustling, stirr'd 
 
 By evening's breath ; their fitful shiver, 
 
 As the wind waves them to and fro. 
 
 Those sounds mysterious, soft and low, 
 
 Like spirit- voices come and go, 
 
 And seem to whisper in our ears 
 
 Faint sibyl-notes from loftier spheres ! 
 
 While o'er the winding louring pass, 
 
 And o'er each tree-clad craggy mass 
 
32 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 Of the unending mountain-ranges, 
 With their strange ever-shifting changes 
 Of form and tint, the dappled sky 
 Spreads a more changeful canopy, 
 A gorgeous veil of varying dye, 
 A glory of bright clouds that lie 
 On the lit summits, till night-fall 
 Draws her dusk mantle over all ; 
 Making the deep ravine yet deeper, 
 Th' o'erhanging jagged cliffs yet steeper, 
 The shadowy gorge more shadowy still, 
 More awful the dark chasms that fill 
 The spirit with a speechless thrill ; 
 The soaring pinnacles more high, 
 Mingling them with the welkin nigh, 
 And turning grandeur to sublimity! 
 
 Dost thou remember, O my friend ! 
 
 Or rather, canst thou e'er forget 
 That sunset in the Chiffa-pass, 
 Which fled too rapidly, alas ! 
 
 30 But in my memory ne'er will set ? 
 No, never, never ! Heaven forefend 
 
 Those joy-marks which so brightly jut 
 Like rocks o'er Time's engulphing tide, 
 
 Should ever from our souls be shut, 
 Lost in the waste of waters wide ! 
 That they e'er swept away should be 
 Into his cold Lethean sea ! 
 No, ere they in oblivion sink, 
 Feeling must loosen her last link ! 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 33 
 
 First life must fly from memory's seat, 
 This heart must first forget to beat ! 
 
 What dazzling radiance met our view ! 
 What paradisal splendours burned, 
 When lingering we reluctant turned 
 
 To bid the wondrous gorge adieu ! 
 
 'Twas as if He who made that gorge, 
 
 Whose wrathful frowning is the forge 
 
 Of the red bolt — who called to birth 
 
 The rolling ocean, the fair earth, 
 
 And those refulgent skies above, — 
 
 All emanations of His love ! 
 
 Had bidden his pure angels write 
 
 A message of that love in light ! 
 
 Outspread before our ravish'd glance, 
 Mark yonder luminous expanse ! 
 Was lake terrestrial e'er so blue, 
 Of such ethereal azure hue, 
 Blent with a greenish tint so fine, 
 So paly and so crystalline ? 
 Ah! sure some miracle divine 
 For once to mortal glimpse hath given 
 One of the lucid lakes of Heaven ! 
 
 Glass'd in that lake's cerulean sheen, 
 Those depths transparently serene, 
 Unruffled by a wave or oar, 
 What a celestial lustrous shore ! 
 What skiey banks ! Oh, had I wings, 
 Up their aerial heights to clamber ! 
 
 b 3 
 
34 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR^ 
 
 What flashing opal colourings, 
 
 From flamy gold to faintest amber ! 
 From softest pink or deepest rose, 
 To the milk-white of Alpine snows ! 
 What castle-towers and purple isles, 
 Made ruby by the sunset's smiles, 
 And boughs of violet bloom appear, 
 Reflected in that crystal clear ! 
 Thou vision of Elysium, stay ! 
 Melt not, O melt not yet away ! 
 In pity fade not ! life's best part, 
 The day-dreams of the sanguine heart, 
 That give it freshness ever new, — 
 Are they not all illusions too? 
 Pause yet awhile, ere night enshroud 
 
 Thy pearly coasts and liquid mirror ! 
 What were the skies without a cloud, 
 
 Or life without one flattering error ? 
 Contrasting with the sunset's blaze, 
 
 Storms o'er the distant mountains lour. 
 And wrap their tops in darkling haze; 
 But lure us oft to turn and gaze, 
 
 With basiliskine magnet-power : 
 That strange wild charm, the charm of terror ! 
 Which draws with a resistless magic 
 To all that's stormy, stern, and tragic. 
 
 Vain now is its attraction — short 
 
 The influence of that spell of fear; 
 For milder fascinations court 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 35 
 
 Our eyes — an omen ever dear, 
 
 A rainbow spans the mountains near ! 
 Spans them with such a warm embrace. 
 
 Lights them with such a glorying flush, 
 That brighten'd like a love-lit face, 
 
 The turf glows with a peachy blush ! 
 To our souls' impulse yield, my friend ! 
 Before transflgur'd Nature bend ! 
 To her Creator bend the knee — 
 To hers and ours ! — and pray that He 
 Who mingleth hearts in sweet accord; 
 That He, Time's ruler and Fate's lord, 
 May bid for us the rainbow, Hope, 
 Illume the Future's horoscope : 
 'Twixt us and darkness intervene, 
 As yonder arch shines forth between 
 Us and the far o'ershadowed scene; 
 Conquers the storm-clouds in the distance, 
 And puts all horrors to the rout. 
 So, 'mid the tempests of existence, 
 The shades of absence, dread, and doubt, 
 Heaven, grant some gleams of purest bliss ! 
 Ay, many, many hours like this ! 
 
 Such joy-wing'd hours — Ah, would that they 
 
 Could be prolonged to years ! 
 Or this, when we three wend our way 
 Homeward, 'neath morning's earliest ray 
 And coolest zephyr, back again 
 From bosky Blidah's orange-bowers 
 
36 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 To picturesque Algiers ; 
 Over the vast Mitidja-plain, 31 
 All golden, rose, and blue with flowers ; 
 And iris -hue d, when vernal showers 
 Descend, and vernal breezes blow, 
 As yester-even's heavenly bow ! 
 
 With tatter 'd cloak and peak'd straw-hat, 
 
 Paces a barefoot shepherd, leading 
 
 His herds o'er the luxuriant flat — 
 
 Thrice-happy flock, to have such feeding ! 
 
 Hark ! goat-bells, sheep-bells, cow-bells ringing 
 
 In concert with his merry singing, 
 
 Make the air musical. What feasts 
 
 Of pasture for those pampered beasts ! 
 
 Up to their necks they plunge, so thick 
 
 The rich green sward round Boufarick ! 
 
 The fruitful Boufarick, where rise, 
 
 Such fertilizing virtue's in it! 
 
 And grow to a gigantic size, 32 
 
 Plants, flow'rs, trees, grasses, 'neath our eyes, 
 
 (We start and rub them in surprise,) 
 
 Each week, each day, each hour, each minute ! 
 
 Past as affection, scorning toil, 
 
 Grows in a warm heart's genial soil. 
 
 On o'er the oceanic plain 
 Bounded but by the Atlas-chain, 
 As Time is by Eternity — 
 On, on to the fantastic town ! 
 
A MONTH AT ALGTERS. 37 
 
 To minarets, domes, arcades ! and see 
 
 Where Afric's darling queenly tree 
 
 Waves its proud head and feathery crown, 
 
 By yonder limpid bubbling spring ! 
 
 To give the southern colouring, 
 
 There in one graceful group unite 
 
 A camel, with its eyes so calm 
 
 And meek, an Arab, and a palm ! 
 
 An Arab ! Nay, the Agha, white 33 
 
 With Bedouin tents full half-way down, 
 
 Half with reposing camels brown, 
 
 Promises myriads for the races 
 
 Of snowy draperies and swart faces. 
 
 The morning dawns with cloudless brow, 
 A brighter never bless'd September ! 
 Ah, where is the poetic ember 
 Would not to flame be kindled now ? — 
 'Tis noon ! — all Algiers is alive ! 
 Blithe as a Hybla-sipping hive, 
 Or bridegroom on the eve of marriage : 
 Afoot, on horseback, or in carriage, 
 Jew, Christian, Moslem, side by side ! 
 To Mustapha's romantic plain 
 They press, like billows of the main, 
 When, wave on wave, in flows the tide. 
 
 Ye Sybarites, who sigh in vain 
 For a new pleasure ; 
 Come hither, and enjoyment drain 
 
38 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 In fullest measure ! 
 Match if ye can, from pole to pole, 
 
 The scene before you ; 
 And vie, in sunshine of the soul, 
 
 With the skies o'er you ! 
 
 Peerless arena ! When was e'er 
 
 An amphitheatre so fair ? 
 
 In front the sea, the deep-blue sea, 
 
 Its light and shade, and endless change ; 
 
 And to the right, 
 
 Far as the sight 
 Can stretch, the wavy outline free, 
 And the interminable range 
 Of the bold Atlas mountains : nearer, 
 As smiling as our youthful hopes, 
 Mustapha's undulating slopes, 
 Studded with gay coquettish villas, 
 In their white robes and green mantillas. 
 And to the left, in hue still clearer, 
 Under th' o'erarching firmament 
 That spreads on high its azure tent, 
 Old Barbarossa's eagle-nest, 
 The city, white as the rock's breast 
 It hangs upon — that marvellous eyrie, 
 
 Which seems as if it were 
 
 Suspended in mid-air, 
 Fruit of the whimsical vagary 
 Of necromancer, witch, or fairy ! 34 
 A race-ground worthy of the race, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 39 
 
 But by the living show ex cell' d ! 
 Sure such a scene was ne'er beheld ! 
 Look opposite ! What fills the space 
 Between the course and beauteous bay 
 All whiten'd o'er with sunlit sails ? 
 Barbaric pomp, whose arm'd array 
 Might realize heroic tales ! 
 The Arab tribes in battle-line 
 Of Algiers, Oran, Constantine ! 
 One murmur, like the hoarse sea-surf; — 
 Then, with hush'd breath and lips apart, 
 
 They watch, with eye and heart 
 Fix'd on the place where, ranged abreast, 
 And chafing at a moment's rest, 
 The panting coursers paw the turf, 
 
 Impatient for the start. 
 The signal's given, away they fly ! 
 Is it a whirlwind rushing by ? 
 In clouds of dust, with thunder-sound 
 The fiery barbs rejoicing bound 
 
 O'er the re-echoing ground. 
 The burnous fluttering in the wind, 
 The Arab riders spur amain, 
 And skimming quick as light the plain, 
 
 Soon leave the Franks behind. 
 Mazeppa-like, in maddest flight, 
 Horseman and horse as one unite. 
 Oh, that wild gallop ! wondrous race ! 
 It brings Lenore's midnight chase 
 
 Before our wildered view ! 
 
40 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 So franticly they hurry past, 
 
 Amazed we cry, " the dead ride fast?" 
 
 Ay, and the living too ! 35 
 
 An Arab wins ! Ah, what delight 
 For his compatriots ! gasping, spent, 
 They lead him to the General's tent ; 
 
 And with glad cries 
 
 And curious eyes, 
 Throng round to feast their sight 
 Upon the glittering prize. 
 
 A costly pair 
 
 Of pistols rare 
 And richly wrought, awaits him there. 
 for a pencil to pourtray 
 The group ! their picturesque array ; 
 The haiks floating in the air, 
 The high-peak'd hats, the draperies fair, 
 The sable ostrich-plumes — the bare 
 Bronze sandaPd feet, and most the fire 
 Of their enthusiastic glances, 
 Far brighter than the swords and lances ; 
 Far prouder than the steed that prances, 
 And lifts his haughty head yet higher, 
 As if he knew — that victor-steed — 
 
 'Twas his unrivall'd speed 
 
 Had won the precious meed ! 
 
 Ye Children of the Desert free, 
 O what a charm ye have for me ! 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 41 
 
 A wild poetic charm ! Your mien 
 So graceful, stately, and serene ; 
 Your classic features and costume, 
 Both of the noble antique fashion ; 
 Your mixture strange of light and gloom, 
 Of marble calm and child-like passion, 
 Impulsiveness and naivete ; 
 Arms for your toys, and war the play 
 That rouses ye 
 To savage glee ; 
 Your fury like the raging 'sea; 
 Stoic impassibility 
 To pain, and Spartan heroism, 
 Cast o'er ye a romantic prism ; 
 A halo full of poetry ! 
 I love ye ! Oh, I love ye well ! 
 For me ye have a magic spell ! 
 But hush ! that stirring spectacle, 
 The military carrousel, 
 Inspires and carries us away 
 
 With martial fascination ; 
 And now the running at the ring 
 
 Excites our admiration. 
 The swooping down with sudden spring, 
 
 Like a falcon on its prey, 
 And arrowy velocity 
 Of the accomplish'd cavalier, 
 Till on his javelin pass a string 
 Of circles bright, as easily 
 As through the needle glides the thread ! 
 
42 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Then bearing off in full career 
 Upon the point of sword or spear 
 
 The sever'd mimic head. 
 What skill ! oft-times the conqueror 
 Is to the General's presence led, 
 
 Displaying all elate 
 Two trophies — three — or even four ! 
 So tilt they, shewing more and more 
 Address, until the sports are o'er, 
 
 And closed the first day's fete. 
 
 Oh, what a living panorama ! 
 
 From Iceland where, to Alabama, 
 
 In all the realms that intervene, 
 
 Where can we equal it ? A scene 
 
 We ne'er could gaze on to satiety ! 
 
 What life ! What movement ! What variety 
 
 In yonder motley crowd that paces, 
 
 Drives, or rides homeward from the races ; 
 
 With gladness swelled to brimming measure 
 
 By the thought of to-morrow's pleasure ! 
 
 Ah me ! for Horace Yernet's brush ! 36 
 
 Had I but that ! 'tis all I want 
 
 To paint yon sky, whose sunny flush 
 
 Makes the clear waves so luminous. 
 
 How much to amuse us and enchant ! 
 
 Here a Parisian elegante — 
 
 There, mystical and vaporous, 
 
 A veiled Morisca's spectral garb — 
 
 Here a prosaic omnibus, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 43 
 
 There a poetic Arab barb. 
 
 Those Arabs ! How they gallop back, 
 
 Fleet as the antelope ! 
 Haste ! let us follow in their track, 
 
 To yonder tented slope. 
 How like a gipsy camp ! — yet no ! 
 
 'Tis unlike all we e'er have seen ! 
 Ye biases, go ! next autumn go, 
 
 And cure your European spleen 
 In Afric, and on landscapes gaze, 
 
 Whose figures strange and vivid hues 
 
 The spirit of romance imbues. 
 What if upon Sirocco days 
 
 They are dissolving views ? 
 Phantasmagoria more strange 
 
 Ne'er met in Dreamland's endless range ! 
 
 Rising to the blue firmament, 
 
 Wreathing before full many a tent, 
 
 The smoke of many a caldron shows 
 
 There simmers couscousou, whose scent 
 
 So titillates an Arab nose ! 
 
 And group 'd around the caldrons crouch 
 
 The Bedouins, longing to carouse 
 
 On their lov'd pottage— farther browse, 
 
 Or in a deep siesta couch 
 
 The patient camels, with their soft 
 
 Gazelle-eyes — and in distance, see ! 
 
 The outline of a lone palm-tree 
 
 Completes the picture ! Come ! aloft 
 
44 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR. 
 
 Let's climb, and contemplate the whole 
 From yon umbrageous knoll. 
 
 How pastoral and primitive ! 
 
 Save where returning horsemen give 
 
 Characteristic life and motion, 
 
 Welcome as light breeze to the ocean. 
 
 On, on ! oh, what a walk is this ! 
 
 How solitary, wild and steep ! 
 
 The mountain-goat would love to leap 
 
 These narrow paths, and narrower bridges 
 
 Suspended o'er the rocky ridges 
 
 Of the ravine's abyss. 
 What foliage mantling each dark dingle i 
 Firs, Barbary-fig, and olive-trees 
 Duskily green as troubled seas. 
 How sweet, in such a scene to mingle 
 Our spirit with the kindred ones 
 That, echoing to all its tones, 
 Respond in truest unison ! 
 Those, without whom it would be lone 
 'Mid thousands, millions, all the world ! 
 What if we were this moment hurled 
 By Fate down yonder precipice ? 
 Together, would it not be bliss 
 To pass from earth in such an hour, 
 When Nature bids the glad heart glow, 
 Fresh as a dew-o'erbrimming flower, 
 
 And full to overflow ? 
 Nature, that makes souls closer twine, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 45 
 
 And even affection more divine ! 
 On, then, up yonder steepest path 
 
 And narrowest bridge of all ; 
 Hanging in air, a plank, a lath ! 
 If dizzy once, a fall 
 Into the chasm below, 
 Were instant death ! — no balustrade 
 To guard us ; yet, am I afraid ? 
 
 Afraid ? — with ye ? — Ah, no ! 
 Go one before, 
 And lead me o'er ! 
 I'll follow steadily as lightly, 
 And if my hand should tremble slightly, 
 Be sure 'twill tremble not for fear, 
 But joy that 'tis in thine, and here I 
 In thine \%— in that which but just now 
 Wrested the green caroubier-bough 
 E'en from the toppling crag's high brow, 
 (It turns one giddy but to think 
 Upon that precipice's brink !) 
 And perill'd life, to give me pleasure ! 
 Oh ! how that branch I'll fondly treasure 
 In after -years, far, far away, 
 As a memorial — precious spray ! 
 Of thy dear friendship, and this day. 
 
 The heavens grow black! 
 The cloudy rack 
 Sweeps swiftly by with shifting form; 
 The mountain-tops 
 
46 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 Are veil'd, and drops, 
 Big drops forbode a thunder-storm; 
 A storm, to raise us to the height 
 
 Of rapturous delight! 
 
 Hark! amid the deepening gloom, 
 Hollow-voic'd the thunders boom, 
 And nearer now, and louder crash; 
 While Echo from afar replies, 
 And in JEolian murmur dies: 
 And the blue fork'd lightning, 
 Fitfully the dim glens bright'ning, 
 Darts with flash on flash 
 Its fiery serpents o'er the skies : 
 And the hurricane-winds awake, 
 And toss the branches till they quake 
 In tremor, threatening to shake 
 The frail plank we must soon pass o'er — 
 The very ledge on which we stand ! — 
 On! — let them rock it more and more! 
 Are we not hand-in-hand? 
 
 Rage, whirlwind ! awful thunders, roll ! 
 Can fear approach th' ecstatic soul, 
 Worshipping nature's Deity ; 
 
 And near to all it loves ? 
 On yon fruit-bow'd pomegranate-tree, 
 
 Behold the milk-white doves ! 
 They nestle closer, dauntless pair ! 
 Can Terror, shivering Terror dare, 
 The selfish one ! to enter where 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 47 
 
 Affection rears her angel-form? 
 Arm'd with the myrtle-branch, her palm, 
 Of snowy bloom and heavenly balm. 
 Hail to her ! smiler in the calm, 
 
 Brave buckler in the storm ! 
 
 The tempest dies away, until 
 
 The doves' soft cooing we can hear. 
 
 The scene how peaceful and how still ! 
 And not a human being near 
 In this secluded spot, 
 
 Save— model for the sculptor's art ! 
 
 An Arab with a water-pot, 
 
 Who proffers a refreshing draught, 
 New vigour to impart. 
 
 We drink — a sweeter ne'er was quaffed ! 
 
 And now, revived, our way we wend, 
 
 And rapidly the rocks descend. 
 
 'Tis well ! o'er thirsting hill and plain 
 
 Faster and faster pours the rain ; 
 
 And in a cataract gushes down, 
 
 Just as we reach the sheltering town. 37 
 
 The hours glide by, as glide they will — 
 The bitterest, and yet more the sweetest ! 
 The happiest, our brief mirth to chill, 
 Like the best race-horse, are the fleetest ! 
 
 Only the sad ones 
 Drag onward like a sorry steed ; 
 
 While the few glad ones, 
 
48 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 The winners of joy's goal, proceed, 
 Like a swift barb of thorough, breed — 
 
 An Arab barb ! at railway-speed ! 
 
 But why do we moralize thus, 
 
 When there is not a cloud in the sky, 
 And the second day's festival's nigh ? 
 
 A festival, tempting to us, 
 
 As th' Olympian Games to the Greek ! 
 Such rare sports as you vainly would seek 
 In cold Europe, from Candia to Skye ! 
 
 A real race — not the shadowy race of the Hours ! 
 
 And for bonne bouche a bouquet of wild Arab 
 flowers ! 
 
 Who knows if we e'er may on such look again ? 
 Then away to the Mustapha-plain ! 
 
 Away to the Champ de manoeuvre ! 
 
 To that mountain and wave-girt chef d'ceuvre 
 Of the exquisite works of creation, 
 
 Embellish'd with all that can lend animation ; 
 
 Throngs of every nation, hi gleeful elation, 
 
 On the summit and tip-toe of high expectation 
 
 Thank heaven, we gaze on't once again ! 
 
 In front, with sails and streamers gay 
 
 And boats of many-colour'd awning, 
 
 Rainbow- tinted as the dawning 
 
 Of a bright Algerian day, 
 
 Shines the dazzling sunlit bay ; 
 
 The flaky silver of the main, 
 
 Its melted diamonds' brilliant play, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 
 
 And its azure-glancing ray, 
 Like a thousand blue eyes sparkling ! 
 To the right, without one darkling 
 Hood of mist or mantle grey, 
 The sky- supporting Atlas-chain, 
 And— joy and pasture to the sight ! 38 
 Mustapjia's uplands bath'd in light, 
 And all bedropt with villas white, 
 As an English hill with sheep. 
 To the left, along the steep 
 That the Casbah's turrets crown, 
 Stepping to meet the sea, the town ! 
 In foam- white masses shelving down ; 
 Like a waterfall enchanted, 
 
 Enchanted into stone ! 
 With its terrace-roofs flower-planted, 
 Hanging-gardens fresh and fair 
 
 As those of Babylon ! 
 
 Beautiful to look upon, 
 Half on earth and half in air, 
 Like our dreams 'tween sleep and waking, 
 Just ere morn the spell is breaking ! 
 The dome cerulean arching o'er us, 
 And in long expanse before us, 
 The garlanded and flag-deck'd stands ; 
 And opposite, the Arab bands, 
 The goums arranged in battle-line 
 Of Algiers, Oran, Constantine. 
 They need but clarion-blast to blow, 
 Methinks, to rush upon the foe ! 
 
 c 
 
 49 
 
50 
 
 THE SWEET SOUTH : OB, 
 
 Or were their own brave chieftain nigh, 
 
 His troops once more to lead ; 
 "Were he, were Abd-el-Kader by — 
 One glance of his inspiring eye — 
 
 No trumpet would they need ! 
 
 Oh, I could weep for them, for all 
 
 Who crouch beneath a conqueror's thrall I 
 
 What though his car have gilded reins £ 
 
 Golden or flowery, chains are chains ! 
 
 E'en if the body roam at will, 
 
 Souls feel their country's fetters still ! 
 
 Base lips may smile 
 
 In bondage vile ; 
 The patriot heart bleeds, breaks the while ! 
 God bade the birds of air be free, 
 And what then should the birthright be 
 Of man, his image ? — Liberty ! 
 
 And who those horsemen can behold ? 
 
 Their native dignity and grace ; 
 The fine symmetric form, and face 
 As Roman as the toga-fold 
 Of the white flowing burnous — who, 
 And doubt how joyously they'd strike 
 For Freedom one more blow ? to view 
 Those lineaments expressive, like 
 Bronze statues of the antique mould, 
 Heroes and demigods of old, 
 By fire Promethean warm'd to life ; 
 And then to mark in mimic strife 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 51 
 
 Their warlike bearing, 
 
 And reckless daring — 
 Who can deem Heaven meant them for slaves ? 
 No ! as well tame the wild sea-waves ! 
 As well tame yonder lioness 
 An Arab holds in leash before 
 The state-seat of the Governor ! 39 
 The yoke her fury may repress ; 
 But could she from her thraldom bound, 
 What havoc she would spread around ! 
 Image of Afric's heart and will, 
 Crush'd, not subdued, and tameless still ! 
 See how her lion-spirit flashes, 
 
 And oft by fits 
 
 Fierce glare emits 
 From out the smouldering ashes ! 
 
 Pass we the bending banners' mute 
 
 Yet eloquent salute, 
 And fusillade's loud acclamation, 
 When rides the General to his station ; 
 But not that touching, graceful greeting, 
 Arabian tambourine and flute, 
 The melodies of France repeating. 
 How her brave warriors start with pleasure, 
 To hear the well-remember'd measure, 
 Eudely translated, but still dear ! 
 And more than one wipes off a tear, 
 As Memory's Iris, Music, brings 
 Sweet messages upon her wings ; 
 
 c % 
 
5$ THE SWEET SOUTH; OB* 
 
 Tones that waft him back again 
 To his own loved banks of Seine I 
 
 Ended the review and race, 
 
 Like magic disappear 
 Each European tone and trace, 
 
 And other sounds are near, 
 Breathing of Afric, Afric wild — 
 Sounds that charm the desert's child ! 
 Full of ardour still-increasing, 
 Obstinate, sustain'd, unceasing. 
 Hark ! with long, redoubled beat, 
 The Indian drums the call repeat, 
 Which summons oft the dancers' feet 
 
 To rapture's dizzy whirl ! 
 Three shaven wizard-shapes advance, 
 Sun-scorch'd, with lurid rolling glance, 
 
 And that mysterious curl, 
 Half ferocity, half-guile, 
 The savage's hysena-smile 
 Upon their lips — musicians they, 
 Who on the Brocken well might play 
 
 A diabolic tune, 
 By the pale unearthly ray 
 
 Of the midnight moon, 
 On the haunted first of May, 
 
 The witches' sabbath-noon ; 
 Or whisk them round the blasted tree. 
 When revelry 
 And devilry 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 33 
 
 Fill them with Bacchantic glee ; 
 Or pair with ev'n the wither'd three 
 
 Who on the heath, 
 
 Tempted Macbeth 
 To the deed of sin and death. 
 Such are they who roll the drum, 
 And drawl the bagpipe's droning hum, 
 Till, lured by the resistless sound, 
 The chieftains, squatting on the ground, 
 Form a warlock-circle round. 
 
 The tom-tom's beat, and pibroch's drone 
 Not vainly blend their monotone. 
 
 At their appeal, who enter 
 
 The cabalistic ring, 
 And pause like tigers in the centre, 
 
 Ere on their prey they spring ? 
 No slender-ankled Almee-girl, 
 Whose native beauties gold and pearl 
 
 Encumber, not enhance ; 
 But combatants about to twirl 
 
 In that uncouth war-dance 
 Where fisty-cuffs keep up the ball, 
 And the finale is a fall : 
 That wrestling-match more fierce than scathful^ 
 
 The Raaba of Oran, 
 Welcome, thrice-welcome to the Faithful, 
 
 As coffee and the Koran ! 
 Behold athletae who make real 
 A dreamy sculptor's beau ideal. 
 Vigour and suppleness combin'd ! 
 
54 THE SWEET SOUTH; OK, 
 
 Awhile like rattle-snakes they try 
 
 The fascination of the eye ; 
 
 Then nearer, nearer, warily 
 
 They glide, and round each other wind, 
 
 And coil, and cling. Oh, ne'er wound asp 
 
 Its victim in a deadlier clasp ! 
 
 Yet, miracle ! the arms enchain, 
 
 The strangling pressure binds in vain ! 
 
 Elastic still, they, safe and sound, 
 
 Like buoyant quicksilver rebound ; 
 
 And falling, fall'n, shower blow on blow, 
 
 Like hail-storm, on the prostrate foe. 
 
 While ever and anon, 
 
 To urge the wrestlers on, 
 From their mushroom- circle rise 
 The filleted heads in ecstasies, 
 And with shrill plaudits pierce the skies. 
 The impish minstrels louder play, 
 As waxes warm the bloodless fray; 
 And, 'neath the discord's maddening might, 
 And the intoxicating sight, 
 Leap high, and caper with delight. 
 
 But all this tumbling, vaulting, drumming, 
 Is nought, ah, nought to what is coming 1 
 
 Grand, picturesque, barbaric ! 
 
 O for a lyre Pindaric ! 
 The Arab Fantasia! bolder, 
 More impassion'd, more entraining^ 
 Beethoven's master-spirit strong 
 
A MONTH At ALGIERS. £5 
 
 Ke'er in a torrent pour'd along ; 
 When, soaring genius ! all the colder 
 Caging bars of Art disdaining, 
 And Music's wildest bird unchaining, 
 He sends her in a sky-lark flight, 
 And our souls with her to the height, 
 The loftiest heaven of song ! 
 
 This Fantasia also thrills us 
 
 With a tempestuous agitation ; 
 With fervour and with transport fills us, 
 
 And quickening every heart's pulsation, 
 With throbs tumultuous sets them dancing, 
 In concert with yon coursers' prancing. 
 The children of the great Sahara ! 40 
 In coifs, half turban, half tiara, 
 They come ! the stately chieftains come ! 
 Mantled in white and crimson some, 
 Like senators of ancient Rome ; 
 And some in white and green — blest trace 
 That marks the Prophet's sacred race ! 
 The three proud tribes of Algerie ; 
 They come in martial panoply, 
 The flower of all her chivalry ! 
 
 Sheikh riding on before ; 
 With banner borne in state, the three 
 Pass onward ; and their jubilee, 
 A running fire of musketry, 
 
 Salutes the Governor. 
 That feu dejoie, how it makes bound 
 
56 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OB, 
 
 Our pulses, -with a joy profound ! 
 Welcome, thou warlike scent and sound ! 
 
 Welcome, thou gallant show ! 
 Arms glittering in the sunbeam's smile, 
 They move on — not in slow defile, 
 But vehement as the waves of Nile, 
 
 When they the shores o'erflow. 
 So gallop they ! — As shakes the plume 
 Of the lithe palm in the simoom, 
 Their ostrich -crests of sable gloom 
 
 Are rocking to and fro, 
 And floating, their white cloaks across, 
 Ev'n as the black pine-forests toss 
 In Alpine storms, 'mid ice-blanch'd moss, 
 
 And glacier's endless snow. 
 
 The winged barbs ! they run, they fly ! 
 Startled, amazed, once more we cry, 
 Is it a whirlwind rushing by ? 
 It is in sooth ! a hurricane, 
 Such as in this tornado-land 
 WTiirl blinding dust and burning sand, 
 In red flakes o'er the Desert-plain, 
 When, in a cloud of flame and storm, 
 
 Passes that Spirit of Fire, 41 
 The fierce Sirocco's giant-form, 
 And overthrows whole caravans 
 
 With his resistless ire ; 
 The gasping, fainting traveller fans 
 
 With his hot furnace-breathy 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 57 
 
 To fever and to death ; 
 And the parch'd, shrinking earth appals 
 
 Where'er his shadow falls ; 
 And turns to fire the very air 
 
 With one consuming gust. 
 'Mid sulphurous clouds of smoke and dust, 
 With pealing shot and lightning-flash. 
 So onward yon wild horsemen dash. 
 But now they part, and group or pair, 
 For those eccentric aberrations, 
 Spontaneous and irregular, — 
 Those sudden freaks and flights, which are 
 The Fantasia's variations, 
 And inspired improvisations. 
 
 By heaven, it is a glorious sight ! 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! What rare delight 
 To view yon chieftains to their airy 
 Barbs, and their own caprice give rein, 
 And scour the vast resounding plain 
 
 In many a mad vagary ! 
 Unearthly garb ! unearthly pace ! 
 The phantom demon-figures ! see 
 How o'er the wide expanse they flee, 
 
 In an impromptu race 
 Of three or four ! Look how they ride, 
 In the flood of th' equestrian tide 
 Still keeping closely side by side ! 
 Like faithful hearts, still link'd together, 
 In fortune's most outrageous weather. 
 
 c 3 
 
58 THE SWEET SOUTH j OR, 
 
 Picture exciting as 'tis strange ! 
 
 To watch the Arab cavalier, 
 
 As dropp'd from some fantastic sphere, 
 
 In wondrous evolutions range, 
 
 And from his lofty seat bend low, 
 
 To the rich trappings of his steed, 
 
 Down to the saddle-bow ; 
 His musket poise in full career, 
 Aim it, and fire, and fling on high ; 
 Then, turning with the shrill war-cry 
 Of"Ullah*l ullahj ullah!" rein 
 His charger, pause, and rush again 
 
 Upon the fancied foe. 42 
 His drapery fluttering in the breeze, 
 Like snowy plumage all around, 
 With ostrich-speed he skims the ground. 
 
 Is it from realms below 
 He comes ? or from beyond the seas, 
 Where, in the Harz, the shuddering child 
 
 Oft hears the huntsman wild, 
 With shrilly horn and yelling hound 
 
 Sweep through the clouds of night. 
 On his aerial race, 
 And shadowy spirit-chase ? 
 It brings Lenore's midnight flight 
 Again before our view ; 
 So frantic'lly they hurry past, 
 That we in awe- struck tones aghast 
 Whisper again, " The dead ride fast V 9 
 Ay, and the living too ! 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 59 
 
 Hush ! from the centre of the plain 
 
 What prolonged and piercing cries ! 
 Sounds which, like the choral strain 
 
 Of the old Greek tragedies, 
 Heard alike in joy or pain, 
 
 Triumph, terror, or surprise, 
 As in spring-bloom or winter rain 
 
 Breathe the air's symphonious sighs, 
 At all times, from every train 
 
 Of the Arab women rise : 43 
 Sounds which prove beyond disguise 
 
 That yon palanquin contains, 
 Curtain' d close from gaze profane, 
 
 Houries with yet brighter eyes 
 Than the docile, softly-glancing 
 
 Camels, tranquilly advancing 
 With measured steps, as if for pleasure 
 
 At carrying such a lovely treasure ! 
 
 Oh, to look for a moment on 
 
 Those charmers veil'd ! again that tone, 
 
 That piercing long-drawn tremolo ! 
 
 What means it now ? delight, or woe ? 
 
 'Tis consternation — horror — fear, 
 
 Makes the cry of those birds of love 
 
 So thrillingly resound above 
 
 Even the scimetars' loud clash, 
 
 And atabal and musket-crash. 
 
 Well may they shriek ! the foe is near— - 
 
 The hawk alarms the trembling dove ! 
 
60 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OR, 
 
 Mark ! hand to hand. 
 
 A spoiler -band 
 Their escort now attack. 
 Quick ! to the rescue, Arab ritters I 
 The ravishers drive back ! 
 For where's gold-laden argosy- 
 Could e'er so richly-freighted be 
 As yonder beauty-laden litters ? 
 
 By turns with force and art they wage 
 The contest — thousand wiles engage 
 The attention of the falcon stranger : 
 While on the trusty camels move, 
 And bear the trembling birds of love 
 Out of the reach of danger. 
 The combat with such ardour glowed, 
 The champions fought so valiantly ; 
 So well they played their parts, that we. 
 Whose bosoms still responsive heave 
 In sympathy, can scarce believe 
 'Twas but a feint ! — Santa Maria ! 
 But a dramatic episode 
 Of the soul-stirring Fantasia ! 
 
 Lo ! they commingle and expand 
 In one huge phalanx, one vast band 
 For the finale now— a grand 
 
 Triumphal march to battle 
 Of all the Sheikhs and all the goums, 
 With gleaming arms and nodding plumes, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 
 
 While that best martial music booms, 
 
 The muskets' volleying rattle ! 
 Hail, ye war-thunders ! louder, louder 
 
 Your spirit-kindling peal ! 
 And hail th' inspiring breath of powder, 
 
 Which makes e'en woman feel 
 Her cheek burn, and her breast beat high, 
 And fire flash from her speaking eye : 
 Fire that tells she too could defy 
 All perils, and without a sigh 
 To the last drop pour out her life 
 
 In any holy strife. 
 
 'Tis o ? er — the glorious pageant's o'er— - 
 
 As we one day shall be — no more ! 
 
 But till then — till Life's curtain fall, 
 
 That Arab Fantasia shall 
 
 In Memory's temple fill a niche ! 
 
 For what on earth can so bewitch, 
 
 Can so unto the highest pitch 
 
 Of rapturous excitement raise 
 
 The soul, as on such scenes to gaze ? 
 
 And gaze with those we love the best ! 
 
 Ay, there's the banquet's seasoning zest ! 
 
 Another night — methinks most bright 
 
 And heavenly of all ! 
 A ne'er-to-be-forgotten night ! 
 A moon that pours down floods of light, 
 As if, beloved orb ! she too 
 
 61 
 
62 THE WEET SOtJTH ; OR, 
 
 Were holding festival ! 
 Spangling the deep delicious "blue, 
 
 "Whole galaxies 
 
 Begem the skies ! 
 With planets white, the milky way 
 Is like a meadow-path in May, 
 With hawthorn-blossoms all bestrown ,• 
 Or as for warmth the Moon had thrown 
 Her silvery scarf aside in air, 
 And left it loosely floating there. 
 Look ! a new feast to charm our eyes ! 
 Like diamond arrows shot from heaven, 
 Celestial fire works — starry lightning — 
 The shooting stars dart headlong, bright'ning 
 All round ! — in quick succession seven 
 Have fallen ! Come forth, ye Arabs ! haste, 
 Ye, at whose darken'd doors the rude 
 Black camel that will once intrude 
 
 At every door, hath stood ! M 
 Haste ! for like fountain in the waste, 
 To ye those starry jets which prove 
 Souls lost on earth still live above, 
 And — joy ! not only live, but love ! 
 
 Oh, beautiful, most beautiful 
 
 Arabian superstition! try 
 Gently the mourner's pangs to lull 
 
 With Fancy's lullaby! 
 Sure in each sad bosom lie 
 Slumbering chords that must reply 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 63 
 
 At thy tender touch, appealing 
 To every heart of feeling ! 
 
 Sweet is the evening breeze ! how sweet, 
 When, after daylight's glare and heat, 
 Veil'd Twilight glides with shadowy feet ! 
 But sweeter, through the palm-tree's green 
 Cool fan-leaf, or acacia-screen, 
 To look up at the moon and stars 
 Peeping from their cloud-cymars ! 
 
 Sweetest the solemn spirit-hour, 
 When shooting stars their radiance shower, 
 Their radiance and their soothing power ! 
 Come out, ye Arabs ! out to-night, 
 Ye who have mourn'd Death's icy blight ! 
 Away! leave harem, charger, tent- 
 Leave all for the blue firmament! 
 
 What are those meteors? founts that play? 
 Star-falls ? or chains of lustrous ray, 
 Bright links from heaven to earth are they ? 
 Or carrier-pigeons made of light, 
 Sent down in an ethereal flight 
 Swifter than any mortal dove — 
 Angelic messengers of love ? 
 
 Yes ! wing'd consolers they, that fly 
 Down from their blest home in the sky, 
 To soften the bereav'd one's sigh ! 
 
6i THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Fail' spirits of the dead, they leave 
 Heaven's bliss, to comfort those who grieve 
 For them, and mitigate the woe 
 Of the lone hearts they loved below. 
 
 And when we meet in mid-career 
 
 Their sparkling glance, and feel them near ; 
 
 It is the soul of some one dear, 
 
 Quitting its own empyreal sphere, 
 
 Smiles — smiles on us poor weepers here, 
 
 And turns to balm the bitter tear! 
 
 Thus, anguish charm'd to rest awhile, 
 The daughter sees her mother's smile! 
 The aching-bosom'd friend lov'd eyes 
 That shoot beams on her from the skies; 
 The widow'd sire, the wife and child, 
 Whose graves make earth for him a wild ; 
 The lover, her who was his life — 
 All, all to him — friend, brother, sister, wife! 
 
 Then blessings on the fond belief 
 That sheds a balsam o'er our grief, 
 And whispers — Death heart-ties may sever, 
 But the lost are not lost for ever! 45 
 
 The night is past— no longer through 
 The trellis'd arbour's leafy bars 
 "We gaze up at the welkin blue, 
 And at that rain of shooting stars, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 65 
 
 Not only Arab woes beguiling! 
 For the dark eyes of our dear host, 
 Uprais'd and full of tears, reveal 
 His soul is with the lov'd and lost, 
 The angel and the cherub smiling 
 On him, the lonely and forlorn; 
 While we, in soft emotion, feel 
 
 Our eyes are filling too, 
 And list the music that ascends, 
 
 From the Place wafted o'er, 
 As 'twere a spirit-chorus borne 
 
 From the Elysian shore: 
 And our breasts vibrate with that best 
 Of all accords, that tunefullest 
 Of harmony, which sweetly blends 
 Congenial minds and loving friends. 
 
 The night is vanish'd, and a sun 
 Of burning heat and cloudless sheen, 
 Refulgent, truly Algerine! 
 
 Worthy this glowing clime, 
 Lights up the last day's sport — a run, 
 
 A gallop against Time. 
 What motley throngs that sun illumes! 
 Again, all nations and costumes ! 
 An audience uttering their intense 
 Expectancy, and deep suspense, 
 In every language under Heaven, 
 And watching anxiously the course — 
 Why, 'tis but half the period given I 
 
66 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Yet, such the racers' speed and force, 
 Already neck-and-neck the goal 
 
 They near — each eager eye 
 
 Is strain'd — each pulse throbs high ! 
 Ha ! suddenly, who slacks the reins, 
 
 Darts on with feather'd pace, 
 Outstripping his compeers, and gains, 
 
 Breathless, the winning-place ? 
 An Arab, whose whole heart and soul, 
 
 And life are in the race ! 
 Victor and barb exhausted, spent, 
 Now to the Governor-general's tent 
 
 In triumph they are leading — 
 When, hush ! what means that cry ? that stir ? 
 Lo ! scarcely grasp'd the golden meed, 
 Down drop the horseman and the steed ! 
 
 The gallant steed all-bleeding 
 
 From the sharp dagger-spur; 46 
 The gallant rider in a swoon 
 
 Clutching the long'd-for boon ; 
 Yet pleasure in his closing eyes — 
 What though he faint ? or die ? — the prize, 
 The prize on which his heart was bent 
 Is his, and he could die content ! 47 
 Ah me ! if we would thus pursue 
 Each noble end we have in view 
 Through life's short race — as zealously 
 Resolve to gain the goal, or perish 
 For any righteous cause we cherish ; 
 Oh ! how much surer we should be 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 67 
 
 To win the wreath, of victory ! 
 
 What though it prove the martyr-wreath 
 
 That mingles victory and death ? 
 
 Enough if we bear off the prize, 
 
 The prize on which our hearts were bent ! 
 
 Like yonder Arab, then our eyes 
 
 Would beam for joy, and close content ! 
 
 'Tis sunset — and on every face, 
 Even of Ishmael's swarthy race, 
 Hope spreads a flush that almost vies 
 With the rich rose-tints of the skies. 
 Flower-mart, bazaar, piazza, street, 
 Are paced by the impatient feet 
 Of crowds preparing for the ball, 
 Crown of the three days' festival ! 
 All is excitement — from the maiden 
 Of Hebrew blood, who dons her rarest 
 Bodice, with gilded broidery laden, 
 And murmurs, " I shall be the fairest !" 
 To the nymph who in snowy kirtle, 
 And simple wreath of rose or myrtle, 
 Is, in sooth, her own charms forgetting, 
 A pearl that needs no splendid setting. 
 The Arabs in the shops are making 
 A razzia of the white kid gloves, 
 The French beaux from the gardens taking 
 Choice bouquets for their ladye-loves ; 
 And our host's brave and courteous brother 
 (Just what his brother ought to be ! 
 
68 THE SWEET SOUTH ; OBj 
 
 A knight — where look for such another ? 
 Worthy the age of chivalry !) 
 Equally gallant and gallant, 
 Hath sped a mounted orderly 
 Miles off, for Heliotrope, that plant 
 Whose odours so the sense enchant, 
 Of perfumes balmiest and best ! 
 To grace the posy of their guest. 48 
 
 'Tis night, and we are on the Place 
 
 Du Gouvernement — soon Pleasure's chalice 
 
 Will be quite full ! Meanwhile, en face 
 
 Of the illuminated palace, 
 
 Under the green Bell'Ombra trees 
 
 We linger to enjoy the breeze, 
 
 And cast a passing glance by turns 
 
 On Marochetti's statue there, 
 
 And on the marvels of the Fair. 49 
 
 Above all, on the sculpture-treasure, 
 
 Statuettes, vases, busts, and urns 
 
 Of the Italian booth ; 
 
 The marbles that so soothe 
 The amour propre of those who claim 
 A tuneable Ausonian name : 
 The marbles, whose rare loveliness 
 
 Might set enthusiasts kneeling ; 
 And must attract all who possess 
 
 A spark of taste and feeling ! 
 
 Ye London friends ! oh, could ye see 
 Me standing here, beneath the free 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 69 
 
 Blue moonlit heavens as bright as day, 
 
 In the ball's gossamer array ; 
 
 With but a chaplet on my head, 
 
 And a gauze scarf flung o'er my shoulders ; 
 
 Indifferent to all beholders, 
 
 Absorb'd in the strange groups outspread 
 
 Around, so striking and so new ; 
 
 Elbow'd by Arab, Turk, Moor, Jew, 
 
 Forming a many-hued parterre 
 
 Of turbans, like a tulip-bed — 50 
 
 London fine ladies, how ye'd stare ! 
 
 And well ye might ! Such scenes make me 
 
 Oft doubt my own identity ! 
 
 The Moorish palace let us enter ! 
 Yon palace of the ancient Deys, 
 That's now the cynosure and centre 
 Of every wish. Ah, what a blaze 
 Of light ! on what a picture beaming \ 
 
 I cry, lost in a haze 
 
 Of wildering amaze, 
 Am I awake, or dreaming ? 
 Spirited to some blest shore, 
 
 To Fairyland's delights ? 
 Or a new leaf turning o'er 
 
 Of the Arabian Nights, 
 And seeing it, with magic rife, 
 Start before me into life ? 
 Is it th' Alhambra wafted hither ? 
 Traceried fruits that never wither ! . * ; 
 
70 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Fresco-foliage that ne'er fades, 
 
 Slender pillars, wreath' d arcades, 
 
 Oriental colonnades, 
 
 O'erlooking a mosaic court, 
 
 Where Titania might disport, 
 
 And roof'd in by a pavilion 
 
 Of the conquering tricolor ; 
 
 Milk-white, azure, and vermilion 
 
 Flags woven in a rich tent o'er 
 
 Our heads, and columns deck'd with tiers 
 
 Of bayonets, pistols, sabres, spears, 
 
 Disposed in glistening star-like spheres. 
 
 And when at Music's witching call, 
 
 We trip across that radiant hall ; 
 
 When o'er the tesselated court, 
 
 Where Oberon's sylphids might resort, 
 
 Amid the variegated throng, 
 
 I in the waltz am whirled along ; 
 
 Imagine, ye who know me well, 
 
 'Mid such enchantments, what a spell 
 
 Holds me, and wonder not that I, 
 
 Raptur'd, entranc'd, bewilder'd, cry ; 
 
 This moment of such bliss supreme, 
 
 Is't real, or doth it only seem 
 
 To be ? Yon lustres, do they beam 
 
 In truth, or with illusive gleam ? 
 
 Am I awake, or in a dream ? 
 
 If so, long, long, sweet vision, last ! 
 
 O flit not like a phantom past ! 
 
 For once, Joy's flower, fade not too fast ! 51 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS, 71 
 
 Pausing an instant in the dance, 
 We upward raise our dazzled glance. 
 The open galleries of fairy- 
 Architecture, light and airy, 
 How are they fill'd ? — full to the brim 
 Of Arab chiefs, whose eyes bedim 
 Their bright aigrettes ! pink of the goums J 
 A sea of picturesque costumes, 
 Burnous, haik,and ostrich-plumes ! 
 How eagerly they gaze below, 
 Upon the dancers' moving show ! 
 The waltz is ended — let us go 
 Up there, and mingling side by side 
 With those strange figures, Afric's pride, 
 Those living lions of Algiers ! 
 See how the pageant thence appears. 
 
 We mount the stairs — the marble flight, 
 Where silvery lamps of alabaster 
 Shed a soft, mellow'd, moony light 
 O'er laurell'd arch and slight pilaster ; 
 And, breathing fragrance everywhere, 
 Shrubs, in our clime exotics rare, 
 But here wild plants, perfume the air : 
 Shrubs, whose dark leaves and blossoms bright, 
 A contrast form which charms the sight, 
 Against the marble pure and white. 
 By bowery green and flower-festoon 
 We pass to an immense saloon 
 
■n 
 
 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 Where, sipping ices or sherbet, 
 
 Shapes that you never would forget, 
 
 Upon the sofas lounge and loll : 
 
 The toga'd sheikhs who look as though, 
 
 Transplanted from old Tiber's flow, 
 
 Heroes who'd trodden long ago 
 
 The Forum or the Capitol, 
 
 Had hither stepp'd, to bring a trace 
 
 Of Roman dignity and grace 
 
 To an Algerian fete ! — but, lo ! 
 
 The dance begins anew — haste we 
 
 To yon aerial gallery 
 
 So full of Arab chieftains ! Mark 
 
 How they're intently bending o'er, 
 
 While red-capp'd Greek and turbaned Moor 
 
 Ribbon'd and starr'd French militaire, 
 
 Parisian belle and Jewess fair, 
 
 Glide with Terpsichorean skill 
 
 Thro' the smooth maze of the quadrille. 
 
 How wonderingly they gaze ! and hark ! 
 
 The scene one Arab so surprises, 
 
 He thus aloud soliloquizes — 
 
 " Inshallah ! 'tis a spectacle 
 
 That doth divert me well, right well; 
 
 Ay ! by the Prophet's beard ! in France, 
 
 They foot it so as to bewitch 
 
 The eyes ; but why take all that trouble ? 
 
 How is it yonder Giaours, rich 
 
 And liberal as they are, should dance 
 
 Themselves, when, for a paltry bubble, 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 73 
 
 A few piastres, they could pay 
 
 Others — full many a young Almee, 
 
 Who'd dance to please them till doomsday ?" 
 
 We seat ourselves beside another, 
 
 Who pants as if the heat would smother 
 
 Him, and with gestures of entreaty 
 
 Points to my fan — I soon take pity. 
 
 And lend it him. He strives in vain 
 
 To wave it, hands it me again, 
 
 And looks and signs expressive say, 
 
 " Pale daughter of the North, I pray, 
 
 Teach me yon punkah how to use !" 
 
 Who such a pleader could refuse ? 
 
 Behold me then, ye country cousins, 
 
 Giving a sheikh a fanning-lesson ! 
 
 No masquerading imitation, 
 
 With loads of mimic Arab dress on ; 
 
 But a real sheikh from hood to sandal, 
 
 Learning an English fan to handle ! 
 
 Apt pupil ! he to admiration 
 
 Is fluttering it erelong, while dozens 
 
 Of brother-chiefs are looking on,^- 
 
 Bestoring me the fan anon, 
 
 With one of those inimitable 
 
 Eastern salaams, which speak far better 
 
 Than words — (believe me, 'tis no fable, 
 
 But truth I tell— truth to the letter !)— 
 
 He lays his hand upon his heart, 
 
 While his fine eyes his thanks impart. 
 
74 THE SWEET SOUTH; OR, 
 
 So ends our dialogue of glances — 
 For, hark ! another waltz strikes up — 
 That most resistless of all dances ! 
 
 " Quick ! let's descend," 
 
 Exclaims our friend, 
 " And to the brim fill Pleasure's cup 
 Once more, ere comes the dreaded morrow- 
 The morrow — parting, sighs and sorrow !" 
 
 We hurry down, and in a trice 
 Are in the dancer's paradise. 
 But Pleasure melts, as in the mouth 
 Melts a ripe and luscious fig ; 
 From the tree her fruits soon drop, 
 And Life's a waltzing whirligig, 
 Whose dizzying circles never stop. 
 And we, alas ! to the sweet South 
 Must bid farewell — away must hie 
 From this deep-turquoise sea and sky ; — 
 This sunny land, where, wildly great, 
 Queen Nature sits in savage state, 
 And holds her everlasting fete ; 
 To our cold clime of mists and snows, 
 Flat — flatter than a negro's nose ! 
 Where the sun looks as if he napp'd 
 Through half the year, ne'er quite awoke, 
 And nodding, winking, shivering, wrapp'd 
 His frozen face in a cloud-cloak ! 
 Surely he'd blush for shame, could he 
 
A MONTH AT ALGIERS. 75 
 
 View an Algerian moon, to see 
 
 His wan disk so outshone ! Must we 
 
 For such a frigid zone forsake 
 
 These scenes so charmingly outlandish? 
 
 Oh ! is it not enough to make 
 
 One break one's lute, and burn one's standish ? 
 
 Leave dome and minaret, groves of balm, 
 
 Arab and camel, Moor and palm, 
 
 All the day's ever-new delights, 
 
 And all the witchery of the nights ; 
 
 All that will be a diamond set 
 
 In Memory's priceless carcanet, — 
 
 For chilling prosy regions, where 
 
 The dull Fog-spirit rides the air ? 
 
 Realms where, from the Land's-End to Skye, 
 
 You'd give the apple of your eye 
 
 In vain, to have a Bedouin nigh ! 
 
 What ! leave th' unique fantastic town, 
 
 From the high Cash ah shelving down 
 
 So steeply ! — leave the mountain-crown, 
 
 The beauteous bay, the Atlas chain, 
 
 That emerald frame of vale and plain ! 
 
 Watch Mustapha, Cape Matifou, 
 
 Fort l'Empereur, blent with the blue 
 
 Horizon, disappear ; and e'en 
 
 The loftiest of the hilly screen 
 
 That belts the coast with girdle green, 
 
 The Boudzareah height recede, 52 
 
 As our bark flies with cruel speed ! 
 
 D % 
 
76 THE SWEET SOUTH, ETC. 
 
 Leave Algiers ! yet worse, bid adieu 
 To friends so tender and so true ! 
 Ah ! can the word farewell be spoken, 
 And aching hearts remain unbroken ? 
 
 Farewell ! as breathes the dread simoom, 
 Or the chill mistral's blast of doom : 
 As falls with dank and deadly gloom, 
 
 Blight o'er a frost-nipt flower ; 
 Gomes like a ban the word farewell, 
 Life's disenchanter, Pleasure's knell, 
 To toll the dirge, and break the spell 
 
 Of Joy's fast-fleeting hour ! 
 
 Best of the promises of Heaven, 
 
 The blessed hope, th' assurance given, 
 
 That there no kindred souls are riven, 
 
 No tear of parting tells ! 
 That there, the pain of absence past, 
 Death's anguish into Lethe cast, 
 Rejoicing, we shall bid a last 
 
 Adieu to all farewells ! 
 
NOTES 
 
 (1.) Page 8, line 4. 
 
 An allusion to the gnats or musquitoes, which the Mar- 
 sellais call cousins. 
 
 (2.) Page 11, line 9. 
 
 The " Ravin des Singes," so called from the number of 
 monkeys continually seen there. 
 
 (3.) Page 12, line 5. 
 
 African epicures esteem as one of their greatest delicacies 
 a tender young monkey, highly seasoned and spiced, and 
 baked in a jar, set in the earth with a fire over it in gipsy 
 fashion. 
 
 (4.) Page 13, line 17. 
 An augenblick, or twinkling of an eye, which, however, 
 when used by a German abigail, or waiter at an inn, 
 generally signifies at least half an hour. 
 
 (5.) Page 15, line 21. 
 
 Earthquakes are indeed frequent, and often destructive 
 in Algeria ; but in and near the town of Algiers, they have 
 happily been hitherto harmless; and so mild was the shock 
 we experienced soon after our arrival, that, occurring as it 
 did in the middle of the night, many persons slept undis- 
 turbed, and knew nought thereof, till they heard of it the 
 morning after. 
 
T8 NOTES TO THE 
 
 (6.) Page 16, line 21. 
 
 Most of the roofs in Algiers are terraced, and frequently 
 adorned with arbours and odoriferous creeping-plants ; and 
 like the Spanish mirador, or Italian belvedere, are a delight- 
 ful resort at all hours. That which was the scene of our 
 nocturnal promenades is decked with a profusion of belles 
 de nuit, and other sweet night-blowing flowers, which give it 
 a double charm. These gardens on the roof form a 
 favourite evening recreation of the inhabitants, especially 
 of the Moorish women ; and well may it be so, in a climate 
 where the nights are so indescribably brilliant and beautiful ! 
 
 (7.) Page 17, line 22. 
 The dorade or dorado, the pageot, the red mullet, and 
 other fish mentioned here, are the pride of the Medi- 
 terranean. 
 
 (8.) Page 17, line 25. 
 
 Taglidni, and two other Italian pates, Lasagne, and 
 Ravioli, have deservedly become the national dish of 
 Corsica, after having long been that of Genoa. 
 
 (9.) Page 18, line 7. 
 
 The patate is an indigenous vegetable, somewhat resem- 
 bling the American yam. The Arab couscusou, smoked 
 camel's hump, cotelettes de lion, &c, are Algerine dainties ; 
 many of them really so, especially the thrushes fed on aro- 
 matic lentisk or mastich, which grows wild, to the height 
 of a tall tree. Small delicate birds, no matter whether 
 singing-birds or not, are devoured without remorse ; nay, I 
 am told, even the enormity of eating nightingales is some- 
 times perpetrated by those all-profaning gourmets ! 
 
 (10.) Page 18, line 8. 
 
 The fresh fruit of the Jujubier, or Jujube-tree, so abun- 
 dant in Algeria. 
 
 (11.) Page 18, line 15. 
 
 The Algerine pomegranates are considered the finest in 
 the world. 
 
 (12.) Page 18, line 25. 
 
 This is no exaggeration. Young green peas are to be 
 had in Algiers, at a moderate price, from the beginning to 
 the end of the year. 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 79 
 
 (13.) Page 19, line 5. 
 The Jardin Marengo is a very pretty one, commanding a 
 fine view of the sea, and enriched with specimens of the 
 luxuriant African vegetation. It is a favourite Sunday pro- 
 menade of the Algerine fashionables ; its attractions being 
 then enhanced by an excellent Military Band, the same 
 which plays three evenings in the week on the Place du 
 Gouvernement, where it is listened to by loungers who 
 are not engaged at soiree or theatre, or strolling on their 
 terraces. These, after all, are the most agreeable spots, 
 for if a breath of cool air is to be met with anywhere, it is 
 there. The Prefect has a delightful garden, so near that of 
 Marengo, that from it one can view at one's ease the pro- 
 menaders, and listen to the sweet sounds in the adjoining 
 pleasure-grounds. The Prefect, M. Lautour-Mezerav, an 
 intelligent Functionary, formerly connected with the Press 
 at Paris, is particularly kind and courteous to strangers. 
 He offered us seats in his box at the Theatre, during our 
 sojourn at Algiers. The performers were then (in the 
 autumn of 1852), superior to the playhouse; but a hand- 
 some new theatre, in course of erection, has since been 
 completed, and opened to the public. 
 
 (14.) Page 19, line 7. 
 The large Arab corn-market exhibits a profusion of those 
 wheaten riches which once made Africa the granary of the 
 world. It is crowded with vociferous buyers and sellers, 
 whose model-forms and costumes remind one by turns of 
 classic and patriarchal ages, while thirty or forty camels, 
 reposing outside in the background, complete the picture. 
 Another curious and novel scene is the Bazaar, with its 
 groups or single figures as characteristic as the wares they 
 offer for sale. Such are the ostrich-eggs, mounted in a 
 thousand beautiful shapes ; the tasteful reticules, cigar, and 
 card-cases, and elegant little flasks of attar of roses ; the 
 bright-coloured fantastic Algerine fans, magnificent saddles 
 and caparisons, rich chibouques, kerchiefs, babouches (slip- 
 pers), and ornaments of the fine coral for which Algeria is 
 so remarkable ; above all, the superb embroidered Moorish 
 scarfs, such as the maidens of the country work; for 
 then* nuptial day, and which cost them years of labour. 
 These, and many other tempting objects, artistically 
 arranged, heightened by the lively gestures of the tur- 
 baned vendors, and the bystanders of all nations, render 
 
80 NOTES TO THE 
 
 the Bazaar du Figuier one of the most attractive resorts in 
 Algiers. 
 
 (15.) Page 19, line 16. 
 
 The Jardin d'Essai is a beautiful and admirably-arranged 
 Botanic Garden, a league or two from Algiers, where one 
 may observe the effect of this fine climate on the products 
 of all others, which thrive alike under its genial influence. 
 Well might Aristide Guilbert say, " Le regne vegetal de 
 l'Afrique francaise est d'autant plus riche, que la tempera- 
 ture, a la fois tres elevee et remarquablement douce de cette 
 belle region, se prete a une grande variete de cultures. 
 Les productions naturelles des pays situes entre les Tro- 
 piques y croissent a cote des plantes de l'Europe rneri- 
 dionale ; on pourrait dire qu'il n'y a presque point de vege- 
 tans necessaires a l'existence de 1'homme, recherches pour 
 la table du riche, employes par les echanges du commerce, 
 ou travailles par Tindustrie, qui ne prosperent sous le beau 
 ciel de l'Algerie. La spontaneite est un des caracteres les 
 plus frappants de cette puissante nature. Elle a une exu- 
 berance de vitalite si communicative, qu'on en remarque 
 les effets jusque dans les importations etrangeres ; les 
 arbres de l'Europe et de TAmerique, transplanted sur le sol 
 de la Regence, s'y propagent sans culture comme les pro- 
 ductions indigenes." — Productions de VAlgerie. 
 
 (16.) Page 19, line 19. 
 
 The Palace of the Governor, General Randon, and the 
 Hotel de la Regence, the best at Algiers, are among the 
 edifices that embellish the Place du Gouvernement, also 
 adorned by Baron Marochetti's fine statue of the Due 
 d' Orleans, which attracts universal admiration. The Place 
 is delightfully shaded by the Bell ' Ombra trees, which well 
 merit their beautiful name, being as remarkable for the 
 grace and charm of their broad-spreading foliage as for the 
 rapidity of their growth. 
 
 (17.) Page 19, line 25. 
 
 It has been truly said of the streets Bab-Azoun, Bab-el- 
 Oued, and ^the Rue de la Marine, that they present a noble 
 coup daiil'with their long piazzas and handsome shops. 
 The frequent recurrence of the words Oued (stream or 
 river), Hamman (bath), and A\jn (fountain), proves the 
 abundance of water in this fertile soil, which pours foith 
 thermal and mineral springs of all kinds. This, aided 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 81 
 
 by excellent irrigation, contributes, no doubt, to the won- 
 derful variety and exuberance of vegetation in this sunny 
 clime. 
 
 (18.) Page 21, line 5. 
 
 An allusion to the old story of the great sculptor, who 
 said to his friend the mediocre painter, finding he had given 
 a purple mantle to his Venus — " Not being able to make 
 her beautiful, you have made her tine." It must, however, 
 be confessed that many of the youthful Jewesses of Algiers 
 are as piquantes and handsome, as they are surcharged with 
 ornaments — which is saying a great deal ! The costume of 
 the matrons, with its high, out-spreading, horn-shaped head- 
 dress, is doubly disfiguring, and requires great personal 
 beauty to set it off. 
 
 (19.) Page 21, line 19. 
 
 Let any one take a walk through the Moorish quarter, 
 among its steep narrow ruelles and labyrinthine windings, 
 and many a burst of tipsy merriment, issuing from the dark 
 nooks, will soon verify what has been said of the natives : — 
 " Un nombre fort considerable d'entre eux, malgre Allah et 
 son prophete, trouvent le vin bon ; et, chose bien reconnue 
 par les inarchands de vin, c'est qu'il n'y a pas de pires 
 ivrognes que les Maures et les Arabes ; lorsqu'ils sont 
 autour d'une table, ils boivent outre mesure, et leur soif ne 
 cesse qu'avec la derniere lueur de leur raison." It is re- 
 markable how very few converts to Christianity have been 
 made in Algeria ; they are to be met with principally 
 amongst the lowest classes addicted to excessive drinking. 
 
 (20.) Page 22, line 11. 
 The name Marabout (Mahometan priest or saint), is also 
 given, probably in honour of those holy men, to the minia- 
 ture mosques scattered here and there, like chapels of e.-se 
 to the larger temples, and likewise to those small, circular, 
 dome-roofed apartments decorated with verses from the 
 Koran, and ostrich-eggs like pendent lamps, which, half 
 boudoir, half oratory, are so often to be found in Moorish 
 mansions. Nothing can be more simple than the interior 
 of the Mosques. No soft cushions or luxurious' divans ! 
 Mats on the pavement, a fountain for ablutions, and lamps 
 from the roof, form all the accessories ; but what fervour 
 and faith in the Islamite devotees, as they prostrate them- 
 selves on the floor in reply to the prolonged moaning 
 
 D 3 
 
82 NOTES TO THE 
 
 sounds in which are issued the ejaculations and prayers of the 
 imaun ! How unlike the melange of opera-airs executed by 
 a military band during the most imposing ceremonies of the 
 Roman Catholic church, performed in the Cathedral, which 
 was once a mosque ! Even now the Cross and Crescent 
 are to be seen in strange juxta-position, and the walls are 
 covered with inscriptions from the Koran, one of the prin- 
 cipal of which is concealed by the High Altar ! 
 
 (21.) Page 23, line 15. 
 
 The answer really made by a Moor who was asked why 
 only male worshippers were to be found in the Mosques. 
 
 (23.) Page 25, line$. 
 The bewildering diversity of languages in Algiers may be 
 
 y easily imagined, in a city where the population is so mixed, 
 
 consisting, exclusively of the French colonists and other 
 Europeans, of seven different races : — Berbers, or Kabyles, 
 Arabs, Moors, Turks, Cooloolies (the offspring of Turks by 
 JV Arab or Christian women), Jews, and Negroes from Soudan. 
 
 From morning till night there is a deafening tumult in the 
 streets ; a general outcry, almost justifying our host's 
 wrathful threats ; and sometimes rising to such a pitch, that 
 poniards are drawn, and wrested with difficulty from the 
 tipsy infuriated disputants. 
 (2Z;) Page 24, line 16. 
 The palm-tree alluded to is known as le palmier, par 
 \ excellence, and is one of the most picturesque objects a little 
 beyond the town. If our friend's visionary project could 
 be realized, such a palmy avenue would be alike refreshing, 
 and enchanting to the eye, and form a vista of unparalleled 
 beauty. 
 
 (24.) Page 26, line 18. 
 
 It is worth something to see an Arab sip, and sip, and 
 linger over his coffee, just as one lingers over a favourite 
 book, or a parting interview with a dear friend. The genuine 
 cafe maure is, au reste, by no means a contemptible bever- 
 age, albeit not quite clear enough to satisfy those accus- 
 tomed to the transparent quintessence of the fragrant berry, 
 as prepared by Parisian connoisseurs. 
 
 (25.) Page 26, line 28. 
 
 The Little or Lesser Atlas, portions of which are distin- 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 86 
 
 guished as the Jurjura, the Tipara Mountains, &c. The 
 chief range is frequently called the Greater Atlas, up to 
 the boundary between Morocco and Algeria ; further east- 
 ward it is known as the Lesser Atlas. Some of the moun- 
 tains attain an elevation of 14,000 or 15,000 feet. 
 
 (26.) Page 27, line 29. 
 The half-forgotten tradition of the unhappy loves of the 
 Corsair-chief and the Moorish maiden, and of their stolen 
 rendezvous in or near the grotto here described, throws a 
 halo of romance over the exquisitely beautiful Pointe pescade. 
 The ill- starred lovers are supposed to be still living, but 
 eternally separated. Like " an appetite that grows by what 
 it feeds on," the Pointe Pescade charms more and more, the 
 oftener it is visited and re-visited. It is equally adapted 
 for a solitary ramble, or a social excursion a cheval ; the 
 precipitous pathway being impassable en voiture beyond 
 Saint Eugene, where the carriage-road ends. Such a fishing- 
 excursion we enjoyed one morning, and admired beyond 
 expression the lovely scenery around ; although, while the 
 fish we had was broiling on the rocks, so were we too under 
 the rays of an almost tropical sun. While we were break- 
 fasting, my Arab courser, Aristide, played a prank little 
 worthy of his name, slipped his tether unobserved, and 
 scampered off at full speed, with that love of a gallop pe- 
 culiar to his race ; an escapade which cost the cavaliers of 
 our party nearly an hour's melting chase ere they could 
 recover the truant. 
 
 (27.) Page 30, line 14. 
 
 We have already said that the genial temperature of Al- 
 geria is suited to every variety of the vegetable world. 
 European, Asiatic, and American plants flourish side by 
 side, even without culture, like the indigenous productions 
 of the country. Place our feeble exotics near their stalwart 
 African brothers, and they would shrink to Lilliputian in- 
 significance ! There, the very reeds soar to the height of 
 tall trees, and the trees to a gigantic stature — such is the 
 fertility of that heaven-favoured soil and climate ! Palms 
 and date-trees, the flowery cactus, the thorny one, or 
 Barbary fig-tree, and aloe, overtopping all around with their 
 prickly hedges, the arbute, which bears a pleasant straw- 
 berry-like fruit, the odoriferous mastich, olive, almond, &c, 
 &c, grow spontaneously to the rarest perfection. " On the 
 
84 NOTES TO THE 
 
 southern side of the Atlas," says Aristide Guilbert, 
 " fig-trees live even at a height of 1.400 metres; and 
 orange-trees, mingled with the cactus and agaves, at 
 an elevation of 600 metres, on the northern declivity. 
 On the green of the thickets and hedges, the flowers of the 
 cactus, pomegranate, and wild rose, detach themselves like 
 brilliant points, and everywhere the rose-laurel forms on 
 the banks of the rivers and streams a crimson border which 
 marks the sinuosities of their course. During the winter, 
 instead of a sheet of snow, one sees spread over the hills, 
 rich carpets of tulips, anemones, &c. The coasts of Algeria 
 are nearly covered with woods, which would furnish cork 
 enough for the consumption of Europe; and the navy 
 would find there plenty of curved timber for ship-building. 
 Some vegetables Dear even eight crops in the year, and cer- 
 tain umbelliferous plants attain an enormous development. 
 Mallow-leaves have been seen large enough to cover a plate, 
 with stalks like great shrubs. The vine-branches are of a 
 prodigious size, and bear bunches of grapes that no ordinary 
 European scales could hold. Such is the height of forage- 
 plants, that in their expeditions our cavaliers have often 
 disappeared amid the thick jungle of wild herbs !" 
 
 (28.) Page 30, line 21. 
 
 The site of the Hesperian Gardens is said to be " either in 
 an oasis of the African Desert, at the foot of Mount Atlas, 
 in Cyrenaica, or in the Happy Islands of the Atlantic. Of 
 the five towns of the Pentapolis, Bengazi is generally be- 
 lieved to occupy the site of the ancient Hesperis. ' ' Meth inks, 
 however, it might well be at Blidah, the Versailles of Algiers, 
 in its ravishing odoriferous orangeries, that the real Hespe- 
 rian gardens themselves still exist ; for in Blidah we behold 
 the land of the Hesperides to the letter ! Its situation at 
 the foot of the little Atlas, the fertility of its soil, and the 
 waters of L' Oued el Kebir (the great river), which refresh 
 it during the summer heats, render Blidah the queen of all 
 the surrounding localities. Encircled for miles and leagues 
 by a vast orange-wood, the fig, plane, cypress, and all kinds 
 of forest and fruit-trees, attain a colossal growth in the 
 open fields ; while its position, slightly inclining, forbids any 
 mass of stagnant or insalubrious water to collect there. 
 Every native and many European houses boast, in the middle 
 of the patio, or court-yard, with which they are generally 
 furnished, magnificent orange-trees, whose deep-green foliage, 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 
 
 85 
 
 contrasting with the ripe golden fruit, agreeably reposes 
 the sight, and overspreads the court with a delightful 
 shade. 
 
 (29.) Page 31, line 3. 
 
 Among the romantic denies of the Lesser Atlas— those 
 wild and picturesque passes between crags cut into peaks 
 by the hand of Nature, which the Turks call Demir-Capy 
 (Gates of Iron), and which are in truth admirable fortresses, 
 that a handful of brave men could defend against a host — 
 among those recesses, the Gorges of the Chiffa are the pride 
 of Algeria ; so much so, that a native might utter to a tra- 
 veller neglecting visiting them, the same sentiment which 
 an Andalusian would cite to the tourist departing from Spain 
 without having seen Seville — 
 
 " Quiert no ha visto Sevilla, 
 Eo ha visto maravilla!" 
 
 They are indeed equally wonderful and beautiful, with their 
 labyrinthine windings, and endless variety of shape ; and 
 succession of rock and mountain, mantled with richest 
 verdure to the very summits. The river Chiffa, from which 
 the gorge takes its name, has a bed of 400 metres in breadth ; 
 and banks nearly 40 in height. It is one of those rivers 
 described by Aristide Guilbert, as " rolling sloAvly in the 
 plain waters of little depth, as if buried between banks of 
 extreme steepness." The Falls of the Chiffa, when nourished 
 by the winter rains, are said to gush down in silvery tor- 
 rents, and the swollen stream to rush rapidly, which adds 
 much to the grandeur of the scene ; especially towards the 
 extremity of the pass, where the lofty peaks almost meet 
 overhead ; they are there united by an aerial bridge, while 
 the river rolls in the fearful chasm beneath, mingling its 
 more peaceful flow with the thunder of a dashing cascade. 
 Fancy all this, gentle reader, under an Algerian sky; 
 and imagine what a scene it must be ; the sublimity and 
 fascination of which, once beheld, can never be forgotten ! 
 
 (30.) Page 32, line 20. 
 
 This is a faithful, unexaggerated description of the glorious 
 sunset we gazed on in the Gorges of the Chiffa — a sunset 
 which must live in the memory of all who witnessed it; 
 and is so vividly engraved on mine, that since then, I never 
 contemplate a fine sunset, without that transcendently- 
 
86 NOTES TO THE 
 
 beautiful one rising before my " mind's-eye,"and throwing 
 every other into the shade. 
 
 (31.) Page 36, line 2. 
 
 Probably what formed one of the charms of our journey 
 from Algiers to Blidah and back, will soon disappear, if it 
 be not already superseded by the great leveller, steam ; for 
 they were talking of a railroad when we travelled thither. 
 Farewell then, farewell for ever to the primitive diligence ; 
 the coachman driving six-in-hand ; one spirited leader head- 
 ing the team in tandem-fashion, and occasionally cur- 
 vetting, as if proud of showing the way to the brace of 
 yoke-fellows close behind, and the cream-coloured leash in 
 the rear. Farewell to the musical tinkle of the horses' 
 bells, and the cries of the driver, reminding one of the 
 Spanish muleteers ; and to the whole picturesque attelage, 
 harmonizing so perfectly with the characteristic scenery 
 around, and the figure in the foreground ; the courteous, 
 though ragged- cloaked Arab, seated before the coupe, who 
 offered us a pomegranate, and accepted in return a cigar as an 
 overture to the conversation afterwards carried on between 
 him and us, more by signs than words. All was so novel 
 to me, that I was quite delighted with the excursion from 
 beginning to end — from our outset in the cool of early 
 morning in an open caleche, to our arrival at Blidah, in the 
 evening-twilight, by the diligence. A gentle air just 
 waved the aloes and Barbary fig-trees growing wild by the 
 road-side, as we drove by the Fort l'Empereur, and traversed 
 the commune of Elbiar, passing by the celebrated and 
 admirable establishment of the Jesuits for foundlings, 
 where they are brought up in habits of industry and 
 morality, and taught a trade to enable them to gain their 
 livelihood. We made an agreeable halt by Ben Aknoun, at 
 the beautiful country-house, called Ben Taleb, or " Fils du 
 Savant," of the late lamented M. Lussac, one of the most 
 eminent jurisconsults of Algiers. There, after breakfasting 
 under his hospitable roof, we admired that charming 
 specimen of a Moorish mansion ; the fine view it commands 
 of the Atlas Mountains, and the Bay of Algiers ; and the 
 lofty orange-trees, before one of its circular arabesque- 
 ornamented boudoirs or marabouts ; after which, music, and 
 a stroll in the flowery gardens beguiled the hours till it was 
 time to bid adieu to our kind Amphytrion and the amiable 
 ladies of his family, and to proceed on our journey by the 
 diligence. On quitting M. Lussac's villa, the road passes 
 
, SWEET SOUTH. 87 
 
 through the commune of Dely-Ibrahim. so often de- 
 vastated by the incursions of the Arabs. We then reached 
 Douera, which opens into the rich plain of the Metidja, the 
 finest and most extensive of Algeria. This immense plain 
 is thirty leagues in extent, and skirts the Atlas Mountains 
 through the whole range of the Barbary States. It is 
 partially bounded by the hills of the Sahel and the sandy 
 downs of the Arracli. Its surface is slightly undulating, and 
 traversed by various rivers, the Masafran, the Hamise, and 
 the Arrach, in an almost parallel direction. Some years before 
 the conquest of Algiers by the French, William Shaler, 
 Consul-General of the United States, spoke thus of the 
 Metidja, called by the Arabs La Meredu pauvre, ou VEnne- 
 mie de la /aim : — " The plain of the Metidja, of which the 
 eastern part adjoins the town of Algiers, is probably one of 
 the finest level lands existing on our globe, either with regard 
 to its temperature, fertility, or position. A number of 
 springs, and several rivulets, descending from the sur- 
 rounding mountains, water it with their streams ; and, 
 according to its development, there is not a similar district, 
 capable of nourishing so numerous a population. If this 
 unhappy country, by a chain of events, could yet enjoy 
 once again the benefits of civilization, Algiers, aided by the 
 sole resources of the Mitidja, would become one of the 
 most opulent cities of the Mediterranean." A skilful 
 engineer and geographer has remarked, that one might try 
 with every chance of success, to make Artesian wells 
 throughout the vast plain of the Mitidja, from the basins of 
 Babazoun to the Cape Matifou. On descending the 
 Mitidja, by Douera, or by the Maison Carree, it offers an 
 aspect of bare and savage grandeur. In the spring' it is 
 enamelled with flowers and verdure ; but its solitude 
 inspires a sentiment of melancholy. On approaching the 
 mountains, it takes a livelier air; and one sees in the 
 distance, farms, hamlets, and villages, embowered in foliage. 
 That part of the plain which we traversed was animated here 
 and there by flocks and herds tended by an Arab shepherd 
 with bernous and high conical hat. The view is bounded, 
 as far as the eye can reach, by the chain of the Atlas, 
 which was then veiled, or rather illumined by the varie- 
 gated clouds of a sunset only second to that of the Chiffa. 
 In crossing the Mitidja to arrive at Blidah, the route leads 
 you by the Quatre Ckemins, Boufaricle, and Beni-Mered, 
 which latter participates in the fruitfulness of Boufarick. 
 
88 NOTES TO THE 
 
 Beni-Mered is celebrated for the death of Jean Sergent 
 Valent, who, at the head of twenty -four men, resisted the 
 redoubled attacks of several hundred Arabs, and perished 
 with all his companions, rather than surrender. The 
 column erected to his memory, and that of his brave fol- 
 lowers, by the care of General Bugeaud, aided by a national 
 subscription, attests the admiration their denouement ex- 
 cited at the time. From Beni-Mered to Blidah is a 
 league and a half, but it grew dark ere we reached Bou- 
 farick. The latter part of our journey was between light 
 and dark, between sleeping and waking ; and the stars were 
 spangling the deep-blue sky when, roused by the sound of 
 military music from the higher Place, we found ourselves 
 entering the shadowy gateway of Blidah. We were received 
 with true Corsican hospitality by a cousin of our host, a 
 gallant officer quartered there, and his amiable wife, whose 
 delicate, fragile form, made us feel quite astonished on hear- 
 ing that her great-grandmother was the heroine Faustina, 
 the wife of General G-afFori, Generalissimo of the Corsicans 
 who rose in arms for the independence of their country. 
 Among the traits of heroism of Faustina, two of the most 
 remarkable were her wishing to set fire to a barrel of 
 powder in the fortress, when the garrison, dying with hun- 
 ger, urged her to surrender in the absence of her husband ; 
 and her noble reply, when exposing the lives of her two 
 children to the enemy's shot — " She might have more chil- 
 dren, but could only have one country." There was some- 
 thing charmingly new and characteristic in our evening with 
 her fair descendant at Blidah, whether waited on at supper 
 by a tall Arab yclept Abd-el-Kader (so beloved a name in 
 Algeria that even domestics are occasionally dignified with 
 it !), or lounging in the tasteful salon, admiring the Moorish 
 fans, ostrich-eggs, and the stuffed specimen of an African 
 swan which adorned the sofa with its milk-white plumage ; 
 or inhaling the soft night-air, and watching the moon-light 
 silver the leaves of the fine orange-trees in the court -yard. 
 The following morning we visited the lions of the pretty town 
 of Blidah, its upper and lower Place, its refreshing Bains 
 Para^is, really not unworthy of their name ! and, above all, two 
 of its famed orangeries. Delicious spots, what must they be 
 in the spring ! After thus whiling away the time till we 
 could procure a carriage, we set out some hours later than 
 we ought to have done on that expedition to the Chiffa- 
 gorges, which I have already so fully recorded in rhyme, 
 that I have left myself nothing to say of it in prose. 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 89 
 
 (32.) Page 36, line 19. 
 
 Boufarick is celebrated for its wonderfully luxuriant vege- 
 tation. It has been truly said that in summer one may follow 
 with the eye the growth of the trees. Persons who have 
 visited Egypt affirm that Boufarick is as fertile as the 
 Delta. 
 
 (33.) Page 37, line 9. 
 
 Our walk from the race-course back into the town by the 
 circuitous but picturesque bye- ways of the locality known 
 as u au -dessus de VAgha" was indeed not to be forgotten. 
 Arab tents overspreading the uplands, groups of horsemen 
 galloping homeward from the exciting sports, and higher yet, 
 the romantically broken ground, the difficult clamberings, 
 the dizzying bridges, the hair-breadth 'scapes, and the effect 
 of the thunder-storm among the mountain-paths and hol- 
 lows, gave a wild peculiar charm to the scene. A proof 
 that the age of chivalry is not yet extinct, but that some 
 sparks of its ancient flame are still alive, occurred the same 
 morning on our way to the races. The demand for vehicles 
 of every description was so great that we were unable to 
 find one disengaged to take us thither, and were toiling 
 along on foot under a burning sun, when three officers in a 
 barouche, perceiving my fatigue, courteously stopped their 
 carriage, offered me a seat, and then insisted on making 
 room for my husband and our companion and host. It 
 was not till we were en route that they recognised in the 
 latter one of the most distinguished Magistrates of Algiers. 
 During the ride they conversed amicably with us, assuring 
 me " that there would always under any circumstances have 
 been a place pour une dame,'" and when on alighting we 
 proposed paying a share of the carriage, entreated we 
 would not think of doing " what would diminish the plea- 
 sure they had felt in being of use to us." Methinks a 
 group of exhausted pedestrians on the road to Ascot or 
 Epsom might faint with weariness ere they would meet with 
 anything similar to this instance of French politeness ! 
 
 (34.) Page 38, line 28. 
 
 The race-ground of Algiers — the Champ de Mustapha, 
 or, as it is generally termed, the Champ de Manoeuvre, com- 
 mands a panorama of such matchless beauty, that the sight 
 of it alone was worth the whole journey ! In front the ra- 
 diant Mediterranean— behind and to the right the far-spread- 
 
90 NOTES TO THE 
 
 ing Atlas, the villa-studded hills, with the Fort l'Empereur, 
 and the white Arab tents in the distance ; in the foreground 
 the races, and to the left the sunlit pyramidal town ! Well 
 might an enchanted Parisian exclaim, that neither Chantiliy, 
 nor Satory, nor the Champ de Mars could vie in situation 
 with the turf of Mustapha ! "Wliere indeed is the race- 
 course that could? 
 
 (35.) Page 40, line 3. 
 
 The surpassing grace and beauty of the Arab barbs, 
 their superb caparisons, their velocity, and the yet more 
 surprising Centaur-like inseparability of man and steed, 
 make European races appear tame in comparison. A high- 
 mettled Arab gallops as spontaneously as the nightingale 
 sings, and appears never so happy as when at full speed. 
 He and his rider are then both alike in their element, and 
 are as much at home as a swan in a swimming-match ! 
 
 (36.) Page 42, line 21. 
 
 Horace Yernet, whom we had the pleasure of meeting at 
 a dejeuner given by our host, told us he was so invigorated 
 by the genial climate, so charmed with the wild luxuriance 
 of African scenery, and the striking originality of Arab life 
 and manners, that he found his genius, exhausted in the 
 dissipation and monotony of European capitals, inspired 
 anew and revivified, and "that he felt disposed to pass the 
 rest of his days in Algeria. What on earth can indeed be 
 more artistic, more truly poetic than the noble Arab ? Au 
 reste, Horace Yernet has proved by his late inimitable 
 paintings, how much he loves that land of the sun, which 
 he has made pictorially his own. 
 
 (37.) Page 47, line 21. 
 
 The deluging rains in these southern regions, like those 
 of tropical climes, are as sudden and violent as the whirl- 
 winds, and dash down with the impetuosity of a water-spout. 
 Sometimes they pour for hours with continuous fury, but 
 are often transient and quickly succeeded by bright 
 sunshine. 
 
 (38.) Page 49, line 6. 
 
 That most expressive German word, Augemceide (pasture 
 or delight of the eye), truly depicts the enchantment of the 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 91 
 
 spectator feasting his sight, on the amphitheatre of the Mus- 
 tapha-plain, particularly when it is animated by the Raaba, 
 or by an Arab Fantasia. 
 
 (39.) Page 51, line 8. 
 
 After all the alarming prognostications of Couleur Noire, 
 the only wild beast we saw in Algeria was the lioness in 
 leash before the Grand Stand. Fettered as she was, the 
 glare of her fiery eye was, it seems, so little pleasing to the 
 Governor, that he intimated her presence might be dis- 
 pensed with, in the second tour the cavalcade of the Gowns, 
 or tribes, made round the arena. It appears, however, we 
 narrowly escaped encountering at Blidah a hyaena in native 
 fierceness and freedom ; the journals having announced that 
 one was seen stalking down the principal street, the very 
 day we left that town. The animal was bayonetted by two 
 soldiers. 
 
 (40.) Page 55, line 14. 
 
 The Sahara, or Great Desert, occupying the central parts 
 of North Africa. 
 
 (41.) Page 56, line 24. 
 
 We experienced, during our stay at Algiers, several siroc- 
 cos, of an intensity very unusual so late in the season. One 
 especially lasted several days. As we were descending, 
 in the evening, the narrow alleys of the Jewish quarter, 
 in our road to the British Consul's, a whirlwind- 
 blast, accompanied by a lurid light like a cloud of pale 
 flame in the distance, made our companions hastily warn 
 us to follow their example, and veil our eyes. The effect 
 of this gust, which hurried us precipitately onwards, and 
 drove us violently into Mr. Bell's doorway, heightened by 
 the shrill cries of the terrified Jews, who have a supersti- 
 tious dread of the sirocco, was singularly awful. That 
 night the shrubs on the terraced roofs rocked to and fro 
 with a force which led us to hope that the storm might 
 carry off the sirocco, as it frequently does ; but such was 
 not the case this time. Mr. Bell has filled for many years 
 high diplomatic functions in Algeria, and is justly appre- 
 ciated for his skilful management of the affairs of his 
 department. 
 
 (42.) Page 58, line 13. 
 
 The cream of the Arab Games is the Fantasia, in which 
 one views those sudden impromptu courses which consti- 
 
9S NOTES TO THE 
 
 tute its very essence, and wherein every rider abandons 
 himself to the impulse of the moment. Well might one 
 of our friends exclaim — " Ce sont des phantomes ! de vrais 
 demons!" There is, in sooth, something very unearthly 
 in those wild cavaliers ! 
 
 (43.) Page 59, line 10. 
 The Arab women have a strange, prolonged, tremulous 
 cry, which, with some slight variation of tone, serves to 
 express every emotion of the mind. 
 
 (44.) Page 62, line 19. 
 The Arabs have a figurative saying, that when death 
 is in their abodes, " the black camel stands at the door." 
 
 (45.) Page 64, line 22. 
 The consoling superstition of the bereaved Arab is, that 
 when a falling star meets his view, it is the spirit of his 
 lost relative smiling on him. 
 
 (46.) Page 66, line 18. 
 The Arab riders have the barbarous custom of affixing 
 short sharp-pointed daggers to their spurs. 
 
 (47.) Page 66, line 24. 
 
 This is no exaggeration. The Arab winner of the third 
 day's wondrously-rapid race, was carried fainting from the 
 field, the moment after he had shown the greatest delight 
 on receiving the prize. 
 
 (48.) Page 68, line 8. 
 
 The gallant Commandant de Gendarmerie here alluded 
 to, has signalized himself by his enterprising courage in 
 capturing, after a hand-to-hand struggle, the desperate bri- 
 gands, Crudele and Tancredi, whose bands, long the dread 
 of his native isle, were dispersed after their chiefs were 
 taken. Another worthy scion of the same family, the 
 young Brignolet (nephew of the Commandant), fell in Al- 
 geria in the French service, after an heroic resistance to a 
 party of Arabs. He perished, still grasping the colours, 
 and crying with his last breath, " Vive la France !" 
 
 (49.) Page 68, line 16. 
 
 Besides the fine statue, and broad-leafed trees, which are 
 its permanent ornaments, the Place du Gouvernement was 
 enlivened during the fete-days by a Fair, equally curious 
 
SWEET SOUTH. 93 
 
 and interesting. It contained few booths, but they were 
 stocked with articles of first-rate quality, the product of 
 different nations. Here were the Arab booths, there the 
 German and Italian ; the latter particularly rich in the Fine- 
 Art department, and some of them not unworthy to have 
 been exhibited in the Crystal Palace. While we were ad- 
 miring them on the eve of the ball, the moonlight, and 
 fitful sheet-lightnings flashing on the Arabs, Turks, Moorish 
 girls, and characteristic groups around, completed the 
 romance of the scene. 
 
 (50.) Page 69, line 11. 
 
 The variety of tint in the turbans is striking to a stranger 
 accustomed to the monotony of European costume. The 
 dark blue, the only colour allowed to Jewish turbans, 
 marks that Paria-race. 
 
 (51.) Page 71, line 2. 
 
 "Well might a foreigner feel like Abon Hassan (when he 
 doubted whether he was awake or asleep), at the brilliant 
 ball given by the Governor-General Kandon and his Coun- 
 tess. The Journal des Deficits, in fully describing the 
 scene, makes these remarks : — " Les demeures orientales se 
 pretent admirablement aux fetes. Quand la lumiere des 
 lustres se repand dans ces galaries etagees les unes sur les 
 autres, se joue a travers ces colonnades reunies par des 
 arceaux festonnes, un meme mot vient sur toutes les 
 bouches ; on dit : ' C'est de la f eerie !' et quand la musique, 
 a son tour, fait son entree a, travers ces enchantemens, 
 quand le choeur aerien des sons se joue au milieu de ces 
 merveilles, on se croit transport e au pays des reves. Ceux 
 qui, la nuit du 30 Septembre, etaient dans le Palais du 
 Gouverneur, ont passe par ces impressions." The adventure 
 of the fan occurred literally as recorded in the verses. 
 
 (52.) Page 75, line 28. 
 
 The Massif, on the declivity of which is built the town 
 of Algiers, presents to view a regular succession of hills ; 
 the most remarkable of these is the Bouzareah, the summit 
 of which is four hundred metres above the level of the 
 
LYRICS. 
 
 THE HAPPY ISLAND. 
 
 A health to the happy Island, 
 
 The home of plenty and peace, 
 Where each hillock's brow is sprinkled with snow 
 
 By the flocks of milk-white fleece : 
 Where the hops' luxuriant arches 
 
 With the vine in grace may vie ; 
 And the dappled deer from the park-glade peer, 
 
 Then vanish like fairies shy. 
 There orchard and corn-field flourish, 
 
 And the palm of wealth dispute; 
 One rich with ripe ears, like golden-tipp'd spears, 
 
 The other with golden fruit. 
 
 All hail to the glorious Island ! 
 
 The oak-crown'd Queen of the Seas ! 
 Whose brave sons are proud as her cliffs i'the 
 cloud, 
 
 And free as her freshening breeze ! 
 
96 LYRICS. 
 
 There the blue-eyed, fair-hair'd maidens, 
 
 With beauty and virtue deck'd, 
 Are sweet as Love's smile, and as pure from guile 
 
 As the Heaven their looks reflect ! 
 There alike on mount and valley 
 
 Bold Liberty's banner waves, 
 O'er the castle-towers and the cottage-bowers 
 
 That shall ne'er be trod by slaves ! 
 
 France may vaunt her purple vineyards, 
 
 And her Father Rhine, Almaine ; 
 The rude Russ may boast his chain-kissing host, 
 
 And her dark nymphs tawny Spain ! 
 Beauteous Italy in bondage 
 
 May warble her Orphean strain ; 
 But can she disarm her tyrants, or charm 
 
 Lost freedom to life again ? 
 Then hurrah for peerless England ! 
 
 While we've strength to shout and fight, 
 We'll cheer her lov'd name, and uphold her fame, 
 
 And live or die for her right ! 
 
 THE SONGS OF THE SEA. 
 
 Oh many, full many a song hath the land! 
 The murmur of leaves by the light zephyr fann'd ; 
 The whisper of reeds to the rivulet— river 
 And reeds making music for ever and ever. 
 
LYRICS. 97 
 
 The trill of the birds, the sweet fall of the fountain, 
 
 The thunder re-echoed from mountain to moun- 
 tain ; 
 
 E'en the voice of the storm has a wild charm for 
 me, 
 
 But dearer than all are the songs of the Sea ! 
 
 Those peals, 'mid the mountains so grand, are 
 
 still more 
 Soul-lifting, sublime, on the billowy shore, 
 "Where, from cavern to cavern borne on, they boom 
 
 o'er us, 
 Now near, now afar, like a deep Spirit-chorus ; 
 And the Ocean responds with his thundering surges, 
 And the hollow winds join with their low moaning 
 
 dirges ; 
 All mingling to form the tempestuous glee, 
 The fierce battle-strain — the war-song of the Sea ! 
 
 At sunrise and sunset, when rose-tints unfold, 
 
 Or the clouds are all radiant with crimson a.nd 
 gold; 
 
 When his white waves like bright melted dia- 
 monds are flowing, 
 
 Or at even, with rich ruby blushes are glowing ; 
 
 How they soar up to Heaven, while he sings, 
 happy Ocean, 
 
 To the great God of Light his loud chant of devo- 
 tion ! 
 
 E 
 
98 LYRICS. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 How solemn that anthem of wild harmony, 
 The morning and evening-hymn of the Sea ! 
 
 But there's a still mellower, tenderer tune ! 
 Tis pour'd forth at night to his mistress, the Moon, 
 Who rulethhis tides, his heart's constant pulsation, 
 And whose silvery scarf he in fond adoration 
 Xightly wears on his bosom, while all breathes of 
 
 love — 
 The Deep, and the luminous Heavens above ; — 
 Oh, hark to that measure, the sweetest to me, 
 The soft serenade— the love-song of the Sea ! 
 
 Come forth, my Lady bright ! * 
 
 Come forth, my heart's delight ! 
 
 Come forth, O come to-night ! 
 
 Smile upon my waves so blue, 
 
 Smile on them till they smile too ; 
 
 Beam on them with tender glance, 
 
 Till for joy they sing and dance ! 
 
 Touch, oh touch me with that kiss 
 
 Of light, which thrills me through with bliss ! 
 
 Agitating the fond breast 
 Of thy lover, Ocean, 
 With a heaving soft emotion, 
 
 Sweeter far than rest ! 
 
 * "The Sea's Serenade to the Moon " is set to music by 
 the late eminent Professor, Herr Muhlenfeldt. Schott, 
 Regent Street. 
 
LYRICS. 99 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE HEART. 
 
 Thou say'st my heart is like a rose, 
 
 And from its crimson cell 
 A fragrant glowing leaf bestows 
 
 On each one it loves well. 
 Yet, be content! — it ne'er deceives — 
 
 Falsehood it ne'er hath known ! 
 The sweetest, deepest of its leaves 
 
 Is thine, and thine alone ! 
 
 And sure the heart that tremblingly 
 
 In Woman's bosom beats, 
 Rich as the rose, should also be 
 
 As lavish of its sweets ! 
 Pure as that child of Nature fair, 
 
 And tender as the dove ; 
 Full many a leaf for friendship there — 
 
 One, only one for 
 
 WAR-SONG OF SCHAMYL, THE 
 CIRCASSIAN CHIEF.* 
 
 Joy ! the wild war-cry is borne on the gale — 
 Welcome, thou soul-stirring summons ! All hail ! 
 
 * Achulga, the Circassian fortress, and the residence of 
 Schamyl, fell some time back into the power of the Eussians, 
 after a desperate resistance. Schamyl escaped wounded. 
 His wife and one of his sons were slain. 
 
100 LYRICS. 
 
 Challenge that makes the heart leap in the breast, 
 And the bright ataghan start from its rest ! 
 
 Where is my gallant young bird, my brave boy ? 
 He who was Schamyl's hope, treasure, and joy ! 
 Where my fair stag-eyed Circassian bride ? 
 She who was once the Seraglio's pride ! 
 
 Achulga ! Achulga ! thy walls are laid low, 
 But a voice from their ruins cries, " Death to the 
 
 foe!" 
 'Tis the voice of Revenge ! to the Heavens let it 
 
 rise ! — 
 May it call down a red bolt of wrath from the 
 
 skies ! 
 
 With your wounded chief mourn, soldiers, mourn ! 
 
 When the might 
 Of numbers o'ercame valour, freedom, and right ; 
 When they wrapp'd the vast hall of my fathers in 
 
 fire, 
 Oh, would it had been Schamyl's funeral-pyre ! 
 
 The Cossacks — the base bloody vultures slew then, 
 Ay ! slew at one swoop — could such monsters be 
 
 men ? 
 Mine eaglet so bold, and my true-hearted dove — 
 The wife of my bosom — the son of my love ! 
 
LYRICS. 101 
 
 Mourn, said I ? shame ! Rally, fight round your 
 
 chief ! 
 Man seeks revenge to interpret his grief ! 
 Tears are the weapons of women and slaves ; — 
 Who tramples on us must first trample our graves ! 
 
 Shout, ye proud victors ! your threats we defy ! 
 Soon shall our swords to your vaunting reply ! 
 Clash ye the cymbal, and beat ye the drum ? . 
 Tremble ! our harvest of vengeance is come ! 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 Slumber light as sylph's repose, 
 
 Light as dew-fall on the rose, 
 
 Light as thine own fairy foot, 
 
 Sweet as an enchanted lute, 
 
 Soft as that fair hand of thine, 
 
 Press thine eyelids, Lady mine ! 
 
 And through Dreamland's rainbow sphere 
 
 May my form be ever near, 
 
 Whispering in thy charmed ear — 
 
 " Oh, I love thee ! love thee well ! 
 
 Love thee more than tongue can tell !" 
 
 Could those words be written o'er 
 All the sands on the sea-shore, 
 
 e 2 
 
1 02 LYRICS. 
 
 All the greatest cities' walls, 
 
 Temple-columns, palace-halls ; 
 
 Traced on all the meadow-flowers 
 
 Of this flowery world of ours, 
 
 And in all the sky's blue bowers— 
 
 Oh ! believe me, love, e'en then they could not be 
 
 Written half so oft, as they are felt by me ! 
 
 HOMAGE TO NATURE. 
 
 How my spirit rejoices in Nature's wild voices, 
 
 Outnumbering Echo's ! How sweet to mine ear 
 The roar of the billow, the sigh of the willow, 
 
 When silken- wing'd zephyrs are fluttering near ! 
 From the tossing of ocean, to the soft rippling 
 motion 
 
 Of a rivulet dimpling and dancing in glee ; 
 From the whirlwind oak-rending, to the summer 
 breeze bending 
 
 The light whisp'ring reed, all are welcome to 
 
 O where are the pleasures, where are the trea- 
 sures 
 Like Nature's, dear Nature's ? How fair to 
 mine eye 
 The snow on the mountain, the spray of the foun- 
 tain, 
 The black of the pine-wood against the blue sky ! 
 
LYRICS. 10 3 
 
 From the bright golden noonlight, to silvery 
 moonlight, 
 Entrancing the soul with a magical spell ; 
 From the rock, rude and horrent, and thundering 
 torrent, 
 To the flower-smiling valley ; — all, all 1 love 
 well! 
 
 Away ! ye heart-chilling, ye time and joy -killing 
 
 Reunions of vanity, pomp, and ennui, 
 Where the lip is all gladness, but the bosom all 
 sadness ! 
 Oh, a circle of crag, lake, and forest for me ! 
 They ne'er can deceive me, they never can grieve 
 me, 
 My rapturous feelings they'll ne'er coldly 
 blight ! 
 Theirs a charm never- cloying — no fear while 
 
 en j°y in g> 
 
 That possession may brush off the bloom of 
 delight ! 
 
 THE FAIKY KING. 
 
 Who says the gentle elfin race 
 Hath vanish'd like the wind, 
 
 Nor left a single verdant trace, 
 Or flowery track behind ? 
 
104 LYRICS. 
 
 Who dares to say, the meads no more 
 
 With, fairy gems are pearl'd ? 
 What treason to the Conqueror 
 
 Who rules our inner world ! 
 In Fairyland's most honied spring 
 
 He dips his sceptre-dart : 
 Love is the only Fairy-king, 
 
 The Oberon of the heart ! 
 
 The little Love-god, first of sprites, 
 
 Wears on his sunny brow 
 A crown of hopes and soft delights, 
 
 And smiles of rosy glow. 
 His elves, gay sports, their master meet, 
 
 With airy dance, and spread 
 Sweet blossoms at his sovereign feet, 
 
 And ever 'neath his tread, 
 All round the emerald fairy-ring 
 
 Its freshness doth impart, 
 Blest foot-print of our bosom-king, 
 
 Our Oberon of the heart ! 
 
 His fairy-favours kisses are, 
 
 His throne's a throne of hearts, 
 His natural magic mightier far 
 
 Than Sorcery's mightiest arts! 
 His signal-flag, a blush ; his wand 
 
 Of power, the lightest touch 
 Of fondness from the loved one's hand — 
 
 What wand can charm so much ? 
 
LYRICS. 105 
 
 Oh ! ere thou from our sphere take wing, 
 
 May life itself depart ; 
 Love, witching Love ! thou Fairy-king, 
 
 Thou Oberon of the heart ! 
 
 ANGEL-VISITS. 
 
 Oh ! say not the Angels no longer descend 
 
 To illume this dull planet of ours, 
 While the seraph- pair, Music and Poesy, lend 
 
 Such charms to our fast-fleeting hours ! 
 Each melodious whisper, each he art- thrilling line, 
 
 To minstrel or poet e'er given, 
 Is a bright emanation from regions divine, 
 
 A wing'd visitant wafted from Heaven ! 
 
 And what are those life-like illusions that make 
 
 The night dearer far than the day ? 
 Those visions from which with a sigh we awake, — 
 
 Oh ! tell me, my friend, what are they ? 
 When the lov'd and the lost, who are fled to the 
 skies, 
 
 And for whom our hearts silently bleed, 
 In slumber restor'd, kiss the tears from our eyes, — 
 
 Are not these angel-visits indeed 9 
 
 And when parted friends meet in Sleep's shadowy 
 sphere, 
 All beaming with smiles when I see 
 
106 LYRICS. 
 
 Thy form gliding near, and delightedly hear 
 
 That voice which is music to me ; 
 When my spirit is fill'd with a joy sweet as pure, 
 
 And my hand feels the pressure of thine, — 
 No, these are not dreams, merely dreams! they 
 are, sure, 
 
 Angel- visits from thy soul to mine ! 
 
 THE EYIL EYE. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 {Set to Music by Her?' Oberthiir, the popular Harpist and 
 Composer. — Schott, Regent Street.) 
 
 By the Danube's rapid-rushing river, 
 That bounds like a feather'd dart from the quiver, 
 Along the banks of that arrowy stream, 
 Who rides so fast by the pale night-beam ? 
 Through a billowy sea of clouds foam-white, 
 
 The silver Moon is sailing ; 
 And, half in shadow and half in light, 
 Like the eye of Beauty darkly bright, 
 The river is rolling its waves of might, 
 And thundering on in its headlong night 
 
 With giant-strides unfailing. 
 But who is yon rider, swifter far 
 Than cloud-skimming moon or shooting star ? 
 Yon rider, running a race with the tide, 
 Whose billows in rivalry dash beside ! 
 
LYRICS. 107 
 
 Away, away ! by the rapid river, 
 
 Like the lightning-shaft from its cloudy quiver ; 
 
 Away, away ! by the arrowy stream, 
 
 That flashes so cold in the faint moonbeam, 
 
 He speeds, as fleet as the winged wind, 
 
 And, starting anon, looks round him 
 With a shudder, as though he fear'd to find 
 Death on his pale horse spurring behind. 
 'Tis a sight to chill the gazer's mind ! 
 That glance of horror and anguish combined, 
 
 T.hat glance, as if fiends had bound him 
 On a fiery barb, to ride away 
 Without rest by night or peace by day ; — 
 'Tis a sight to freeze the gazer's soul ! 
 Hath his race no respite, his course no goal ? 
 
 Some say he's a Spirit, doom'd for ever 
 To haunt the banks of the rushing river ; 
 And sure those cowl'd features so marble-wan, 
 Are more like a spectre than mortal man! 
 Some say he thus frantic 'lly doth fly, 
 
 With terror never-sleeping, 
 From the withering blight of an Evil Eye ; 
 Yet sure those wild hurried looks defy 
 In their scorn all power beneath the sky ! 
 Some darkly hint at the days gone by, 
 
 And whisper he is reaping 
 Crime's deadly fruit, and 'tis Passion's storm 
 Hath shrunk to a reed his shadowy form ; 
 That ghastly smile ! what else could there 
 Imprint such defiance, mix'd with despair ? 
 
108 LYRICS. 
 
 Away, away ! by the Danube's river, 
 Dark shape, in vain thou may'st ride for ever ! 
 Lost wretch ! in vain by the arrowy stream, 
 'Neath the hot noon-blaze or the cold night-beam ! 
 On thy frenzied race, away, away ! 
 
 O'er thoughts of horror brooding ! 
 So may'st thou ride for ever and aye, 
 No slumber by night, no peace by day ! 
 Ay, spur thy brave steed ! press on as he may, 
 At thy back is the foe no force can stay, 
 
 The foe there's no eluding ! 
 On, on as thou wilt ! thou canst not fly ! 
 Remorse, remorse is.the Evil Eye 
 That follows thee thus with a blasting power, 
 And will follow thee still to thy dying hour ! 
 
 WHEN HOPE. IS DEAD. 
 
 (With Music by Herr Miihlenfeldt. — Schott and Co.) 
 
 When Hope is dead, and buried deep, 
 Would vain desires might perish too ! 
 
 Ah ! would that they could calmly sleep, 
 Nor unavailing tears renew ! 
 
 But still they sigh, and sigh in vain, 
 
 Though clipp'd their wings and blanch'd their 
 bloom ; 
 Wishes like restless ghosts remain, 
 
 And fondly hover round Hope's tomb ! 
 
LYRICS. 109 
 
 LOVE'S WISHES. 
 
 The crescent Moon like a fairy boat 
 O'er the silvery waves of cloud doth float ; 
 O waft me away, thou barque of light, 
 Waft me away on thy wing to-night ! 
 
 On thy diamond-dropping wing — 
 
 And my soul for joy will sing 
 
 Like a skylark in its flight, 
 
 All dizzy with delight ! 
 
 But if thou canst not spirit me o'er 
 Yon deep-blue tide, to the lovely shore 
 W r here my heart is, and / fain would be ; 
 If thoughts and wishes alone are free, — 
 
 Be my winged messenger, 
 
 Be my carrier-dove, and bear 
 
 That sweet missive o'er the sea, 
 
 Which Love confides to thee ! 
 
 Young Moon, bright crescent, light fairy boat, 
 O'er the silvery cloud-waves swiftly float ! 
 Bid thy ruling elf, the Sylphid fair, 
 Love — Spirit whose home is everywhere ! 
 
 With his rosiest feather write 
 
 On thy sail, thou barque of light ! 
 
 All the sighs and feelings there, 
 
 Which else would die in air ! 
 
110 LYRICS. 
 
 THE BEE. 
 
 Ah ! who is so blest as the honey-bee, 
 
 The sylph and humming-bird of the flowers? 
 
 The light-wing' d elf ! who so happy as he, 
 Making the most of the golden hours ? 
 
 No hermit austere in his waxen cell, 
 
 But an epicure, and a sage as well ! 
 
 He kisses the rose's blushing cheeks, 
 
 And sucks the balm from the woodbine's lip, 
 
 While a merry murmur his pleasure speaks ; 
 Nor only doth he sing and sip : 
 
 But reaps besides, and carries away 
 
 A harvest to hive for a rainy day. 
 
 The garden's Sultan, he fondly flies 
 
 From bud to bud through his Flower-serai ; 
 
 He waits not to see — he is far too wise ! — 
 His blooming Beauties wither and die ; 
 
 But the moment one turns pale, he retreats 
 
 To solace himself with another's sweets. 
 
 Come, friends, let's take for our guide the Bee ! 
 
 Who the way of wisdom so well can teach ? 
 Let's follow his gay philosophy ! 
 
 Ne'er lose a blossom within our reach; 
 Nor fail, 'mid the Present, to garner up 
 Some gleanings for filling the Future's cup ! 
 
LYRICS. Ill 
 
 THE IMMORTAL FLOWER. 
 
 There's a flower which, thou and I 
 Deep, deep in our bosoms wear ; 
 All others may fade and die, 
 But no hue of change is there ! 
 It will smile and bloom 
 Beyond the tomb, 
 For its native clime's the sky ; 
 And the Angels who stand 
 At God's right hand, 
 Would droop their wings and sigh, 
 If that flower did not shine 
 In their palmy wreaths divine ! 
 Oh! what is that flower so rare, 
 
 Fresh with dew from the meads above, 
 And breathing the balmier air 
 
 Of a world more pure and high ? 
 That star dropp'd from Heaven ! Ah, where 
 Is the heart that will not reply, 
 In a quicken' d throb — 'Tis love! 
 
 THE LOVER TO HIS ABSENT 
 MISTRESS. 
 
 Absent ? thou art not absent, 
 Though seas between us roll ; 
 
 Thou'rt ever, ever present 
 Unto my constant soul ! 
 
112 LYRICS. 
 
 Thine eyes are ever on me, 
 
 Thy voice is in mine ear ; 
 Thy sweet voice, fondly murm'ring 
 
 The words I love to hear ! 
 Thou seenCst so near — th' illusion 
 
 Holds o'er my heart such sway ; 
 Oh, Dearest, I can scarcely 
 
 Believe thou'rt far away ! 
 
 Why do I now love only 
 
 In solitude to be ? 
 'Tis then I am not lonely, 
 
 'Tis then I am with thee ! 
 And why is night so welcome ? 
 
 More welcome than day's beams ! 
 It is that night brings slumber, 
 
 And slumber brings sweet dreams ! 
 Sweet dreams of thee ! Elysian 
 
 Dreams that no care alloys ; 
 Ah, one such happy vision 
 
 Is worth all waking joys ! 
 
 With thee if thorns I'd gather, 
 
 They'd turn to flowers the while ; 
 With thee, oh, I would rather 
 
 Weep, than with others smile ! 
 To die for thee were dearer 
 
 Than for aught else to live ! 
 Absence ! thy pang's severer 
 
 Than all which Death could give ! 
 
LYRICS. 113 
 
 Yet no, no ! we're not parted, 
 Though seas between us roll ; 
 
 E'en sever'd, the true-hearted 
 Still mingle soul with soul ! 
 
 AN APRIL SHOWER* 
 
 A Shower ? Sure a sunbeam dissolving is this, 
 Such smiles all around it doth fling ! 
 
 'Tis Nature, fair Nature, who's weeping in bliss, 
 For joy at the coming of Spring ! 
 
 Ah yes, so refreshing, so balmy, and bright, 
 In yon rain nought but gladness appears ; 
 
 A tender heart melting, brimful of deiight, 
 Delight gushing forth in sweet tears ! 
 
 THE SONG OF THE PINES. 
 
 Oh, how I love the land-waves' roar, 
 
 The breezy Song of the Pines ! 
 That sea-like roar ! How it bears me o'er 
 To the ocean-waves, to the billowy shore 
 
 Where my fancy oft reclines ! 
 
 * About to be published, with music by the lamented 
 and talented Composer, Herr Miihlenfeldt. 
 
 F 2 
 
Hi LYRICS, 
 
 Rock my soul, ye boughs, as ye wildly move ! 
 
 Lullingly, dreamily sing ! 
 Rock it in visions of joy and love, 
 And bring to it murmurs from realms above, 
 
 On trie night-wind's rushing wing ! 
 
 Waft me away from the thousand darts 
 
 Of ice, in these freezing spheres ! 
 From the hollow world, with its ingrate hearts, 
 Its fickle friendships, and fate that parts, 
 And its ever-dropping tears ! 
 
 Whisper, ye Spirit-voices, to me ! 
 
 Soothe my bosom's tossing strife ! 
 To a blissful sea of poesy 
 And music waft me, and set me free 
 
 From the cold false Sea of Life ! 
 That tearful gulf 'neath a Bridge of Sighs, 
 Where one by one each sweet feeling dies ; 
 Till we're tost adrift, like sea-weeds thrown 
 On the desolate shore — alone, alone ! 
 
 THE NEW HOLY WAR. 
 
 Sweet is the Feast of Roses, in ravishing Cash- 
 mere, 
 
 And bright the Feast of Lanterns, when night 
 like noon is clear ; 
 
 But brightest, fairest, sweetest, best, holiest of all 
 
 Will be, ye gallant Moslems, your victor-festival ! 
 
LYRICS. 115 
 
 The houries of the Harem are broidering scarfs 
 
 for ye, 
 To wind, brave hearts, around ye, when crown'd 
 
 with victory ; 
 But their own white loving arms are the dearest 
 
 scarfs of all, 
 And they shall twine ye fondly at Glory's Festival ! 
 
 And happier still the martyrs who are foredoom'd 
 by Fate ! 
 
 Celestial brides their coming in Paradise await ; 
 
 Laurels on earth, and palms in Heaven, and Hou- 
 ries of the skies 
 
 Bless the immortal hero, who for his country dies ! 
 
 Oh, fair Stamboul ! thou'rt lovelier than ever in 
 
 thy woe, 
 For in thy beauteous bosom a sacred fire doth 
 
 glow; 
 An all-inflaming ardour — a spirit pure and high — 
 A spirit that would make thee alone the world 
 
 defy! 
 
 Then let the proud Invader, in torrents like the 
 
 waves 
 Of the o'erwhelming Neva, pour in his dastard 
 
 slaves ! 
 Thy banks are hearts devoted ! ere the floods 
 
 enter thee, 
 The corpse of thy last warrior the stepping-stone 
 
 shall be ! 
 
116 LYRICS. 
 
 Hail, glorious Omar Pasha ! sublime, heroic soul ! 
 Prayers, wishes, blessings, follow thee — thee and 
 
 thine Istamboul !. 
 Hail, Ismail of the charmed life ! One patriot is 
 
 worth 
 All the base-minded serfs, and all the despots 
 
 upon earth ! * 
 
 The blood-red flag of Turkey yet deeper shall 
 
 be dyed, 
 In crimson tears the foe shall weep his perfidy and 
 
 pride ; 
 The very cypress-groves shall smile, when on the 
 
 winds are borne 
 Loud paeans — from the Caucasus e'en to the 
 
 Golden Horn! 
 
 Chivalrous Prance, and lion-hearted England, why 
 will ye 
 
 Be jealous rivals ? Vie henceforth in generous 
 rivalry ! 
 
 Bid the Cross with the Crescent in this Holy War 
 unite ; 
 
 On, Champions of wrong'd valour ! and God pro- 
 tect the Right ! 
 
 * Ismail Pasha is called, for his reckless daring, the 
 Murat of the Turkish army. At the battle of Citate, he 
 had two horses killed under him ; and so wonderful have 
 been his hair-breadth escapes from a mortal wound, that the 
 superstitious soldiery imagine he bears a charmed life. 
 
LYRICS. 1 17 
 
 For the heart's Holy Places — for honour, justice, 
 
 truth 
 Ye fight — and is not this, then, a Holy "War in 
 
 sooth ? 
 Oh, head a new Crusade ! for all th' oppress'd, 
 
 'gainst tyrant-might ! 
 Heaven's armies will be there ! the God of 
 
 Battles loves the Right ! 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 Ah ! see ye the Ferryman, plying 
 
 For ever between shore and shore ? 
 From his beckoning hand there's no flying, 
 
 And the wave of that sceptre, his oar. 
 Hark ! he calls us away from the wild-wood, 
 
 Where we merrily gather'd wild-flowers, 
 And sported in innocent childhood — 
 
 Alas, for those frolicsome hours ! 
 
 The wind blows freshly, the current is strong, 
 O'er the Rapids of Time we are whirl'd along ! 
 So fast, so wondrous fast 
 The banks on each side 
 Away from us glide, 
 In a moment the present is past ! 
 
1 18 LYRICS. 
 
 Yet the Ferryman's smiling, and we smile too, — 
 Hope glows in our bosoms — the sky's clear and 
 blue ; 
 
 Not a cloud lours o'er us, 
 And the region before us, 
 The beautiful region to which we are speeding, 
 
 Is lovelier yet 
 Than the fair scene we gaze on so quickly receding, 
 
 "With tender regret. 
 Mists wrap it already, and veil from our view 
 The wild wood to which we've just bidden adieu. 
 
 'Tis night — Oh, the balmiest night of May ! 
 The moon makes it brighter but softer than day. 
 'Mid the young blossom'd trees the nightingales 
 
 warble — 
 Oh ! their music might melt e'en a heart of 
 marble ! 
 
 And I'm fondly prest 
 To the throbbing breast 
 Of the one I love best ! 
 O Heavens ! how sweetly the nightingales sing 
 In the spring of the year, and in life's dearer 
 spring ! 
 
 And we are those sweeter vows breathing 
 That the soul more deliciously move, 
 
 And that faeriest chaplet enwreathing, 
 The first rosy chaplet of Love ! 
 
LYRICS. 119 
 
 But hark ! the stern ferryman calls us 
 
 From Youth's moonlit and love-lighted bowers, 
 
 From all that so dearly inthrals us — 
 Alas, for those rapturous hours ! 
 
 The wind blows mildly, the current is strong, 
 O'er the Eapids of Time we are whirl' d along ! 
 So fast, so wondrous fast, 
 The banks on each side 
 Away from us glide, 
 In a moment the present is past ! 
 
 Yet the Ferryman's smiling, and we smile, too — 
 Hope still swells our bosoms — the skies still are 
 blue — 
 
 Scarce a cloud lours o'er us ; 
 
 And the region before us, 
 The beautiful region to which we are speeding, 
 
 Is charming and bright 
 As the moonlight illusions we gaze on, receding 
 
 Too soon from our sight. 
 A mist — that of tears ! — wraps and veils from our 
 
 view 
 The May-grove to which we've just bidden adieu. 
 
 J Tis sunset — a glorious warm summer-eve ! 
 All golden and ruby the ocean-floods heave. 
 A friend's by my side — a true friend ! — best trea- 
 sure, 
 Less'ning each pain, and enhancing each pleasure ! 
 
1 20 LYRICS. 
 
 And our spirits meet 
 
 In converse sweet, 
 
 Like the waves at our feet. 
 O Heav'n ! In Life's summer how precious that 
 
 grasp 
 Of the hand— firm Affection's unchangeable clasp ! 
 
 Ours are pressing each other — delighted 
 
 After absence, soul mingles with soul ; 
 E'en more closely than ever united, 
 
 Draining Joy's purest, holiest bowl. 
 But the merciless boatman is calling ! 
 
 Must we leave Friendship's evergreen bowers? 
 Must we yield to his summons appalling ? 
 
 Alas, for those happiest hours ! 
 
 The wind blows coolly, the current is strong, 
 O'er the Rapids of Time we are whirl' d along ! 
 So fast, so wondrous fast, 
 The banks on each side 
 Away from us glide, 
 In a moment the present is past ! 
 
 Yet the Ferryman smiles, andwe smile faintly, too; 
 Hope lingers — the skies are still tinted with blue. 
 
 Only light clouds are o'er us ; 
 
 And the region before us, 
 The autumn-hued region to which we are speeding, 
 
 Is almost as fair, 
 Though faded, as that now so quickly receding ; 
 
 But how chang'd the soft air ! 
 
LYRICS. 121 
 
 A mist — of deep sighs ! wraps and veils from our 
 
 view 
 The sunset to which we've just bidden adieu. 
 
 'Tis twilight — sear foliage saddens the ground — 
 
 At every gust showers rustle around. 
 
 Nought but leaves — yellow leaves ! all the pathway 
 
 cover — 
 The path so lately with roses strewed over ! 
 
 Yet Love still is near, 
 
 And Friendship sincere 
 
 Dries the big falling tear. 
 O God! how unspeakably welcome are they, 
 In the twilight autumnal of life's closing day! 
 
 Friendship ripens with ripening reason, 
 
 Fruit of Eden! — Love worthy the name 
 Is a flow'r for the stormiest season, 
 
 And both burn with unquenchable name! 
 Hark ! the ferryman calls ! so soon tear us 
 
 From yon leafless but soul-lighted bowers ? 
 Oh churl ! cruel ! yet awhile spare us ! 
 
 Alas, for those still-happy hours ! 
 
 The wind blows chilly, the current's more strong, 
 O'er the Rapids of Time we are whirl'd along! 
 So fast, so wondrous fast 
 The banks on each side 
 Away from us glide, 
 In an instant the present is past ! 
 
122 LYRICS. 
 
 The boatman grows graver, and we smile no more ; 
 Ha! Is it a scythe hidden under the oar? 
 
 Murky clouds lour o'er us ; 
 
 And the region before us, 
 The desolate region to which we are speeding, 
 
 Is so bleak and sad, 
 It makes e'en the wither'd leaves swiftly receding 
 
 Look verdant and glad ! 
 And weeping, with anguish too bitter to tell, 
 We bid the last smile of existence farewell. 
 
 *Tis a winter night — moonless and starless — how 
 
 cold! 
 We shiver ! — a bare frozen waste we behold — 
 A wide waste, with snow-flakes and tombs whiten'd 
 
 o'er! 
 All darkness around and all mystery before ; 
 Yet the voice most dear 
 Is, thank Heaven ! still near, 
 Calming every fear, 
 Soothing every grief! true affection is there, 
 To brighten the midnight and warm the chill air ! 
 
 Hark ! we're call'd ! — but a desert so dreary 
 
 We can quit without heaving a sigh! 
 Of all round, e'en of life we are weary ! 
 
 In Love's arms we would willingly die ! 
 But who's the pale Ferryman, plying 
 
 To yon awful, dim, cloud- curtain' d shore ? 
 From his beckoning hand there's no flying, 
 
 And the sign of his shadowy oar ! 
 
LYRICS. X.X6 
 
 The wind blows icy ! — it freezes our breath ! 
 Ah ! can it be this is the bark of Death ? 
 The phantom-boat so fast 
 O'er a Dead Sea glides, 
 Without current or tides, 
 For the Rapids of Time are past ! 
 
 Though rayless the night, there's a star in our 
 
 hearts 
 Softly smiling — Hope's planet, that never departs ! 
 
 Morning- star, that shines o'er us! 
 
 And the region before us, 
 The heavenly region to which we are speeding, 
 
 Is lovelier yet 
 Than the loveliest our faint parting souls see 
 receding 
 
 With tender regret ! 
 Then on, bravely on ! if Life's voyage be o'er, 
 Joys immortal are ours on Eternity's shore! 
 
 HEAVEN'S BLESSING ON THE RHINE ! 
 
 THE GERMAN EXILE TO HIS FATHERLAND. 
 
 {With Music by the delightful Composer, Herr Neuland. 
 iSongs and Legends of the Rhine, No. 1. — Schott and Co.) 
 
 Belov'd and lovely River, so beautiful and bright, 
 With all thy spells of wild romance arise before 
 
 my sight ! 
 The lov'd one fills her lover's lay, be thou the 
 
 theme of mine, 
 
124 LYRICS. 
 
 The burden of it evermore, Heaven's blessing on 
 the Rhine ! 
 
 O, thou Cybele of Rivers ! that castle-crown' d 
 dost shine, 
 
 'Mid legend-haunted ruin grey, and graceful- 
 wreathing vine ; 
 
 E'en stranger-pilgrims feel thy charm, and wor- 
 ship at thy shrine ! 
 
 Oh then, how we, thine own, must cry, Heaven's 
 blessing on the Rhine ! 
 
 Could I once more, but once more, thine isles and 
 
 lov'd shore seek ! 
 I think of thee, I dream of thee, till tears roll 
 
 down my cheek ; 
 O take me dying to thy breast ! my last thought 
 
 shall be thine, 
 My last faint faltering sigh shall be, Heaven's 
 
 blessing on the Rhine ! 
 
 SONG OF THE WATER-SPIRIT. 
 
 Tell me, tell me, hovering Sprite, 
 Disporting round yon torrent bright ; 
 Say, radiant Spirit, where's thy home ? 
 
 Where foldest thou to rest thy wings, 
 All pearly with the ocean-foam, 
 
 All dripping from the river-springs ? 
 
LYRICS. 125 
 
 Rest ? I have none ! Like a bird from tree to tree, 
 I fly ever on — from the cataract to the sea ; 
 From the sea to the river, 
 Where the light poplars quiver ; 
 From the river to the lake, meand'ring with its 
 
 bends, 
 And gliding with the swans — my graceful snowy 
 friends. 
 
 I flit like a bee — a wild bee — from flower to flower ; 
 
 Now bathe in the rain of the fountain's silver 
 shower ; 
 
 Now ride upon a dolphin's back, 
 Leaving still a rainbow-track — 
 A glory on the billowy brine, 
 Half his colours, and half mine. 
 
 But most I love — oh ! most of all, 
 The dashing, leaping waterfall! 
 There's grandeur in its thunder-shocks, 
 
 There's beauty in its liquid stair, 
 Showering brightness down the rocks ; 
 
 O, how I love to frolic there ! 
 There, 'mid light, music, whirl, and foam, 
 The Water- Spirit's favourite home ! 
 
 THEY ARE NOT DEAD ! 
 
 They are not dead ! they are not dead ! 
 
 The Heroes of the olden time, 
 Who for their Country fought and bled, 
 
 And left a lustrous name sublime, 
 
126 LYRICS. 
 
 An aureole gilding History's page ; 
 
 A flame to light Fame's destin'd heirs, 
 The brave souls of a later age, 
 
 To deeds like theirs — to deeds like theirs ! 
 
 Their spirits live ! their spirits live ! 
 
 'Tis tliey, the glorious, great, and free, 
 Who to each noble bosom give 
 
 A quenchless love of liberty ! 
 They live in each heroic star, 
 
 In Korner, Batthyany, Tell ; 
 In all whose names inspiring are 
 
 For us a watch-word and a spell ! 
 
 They are not dead ! they are not dead ! 
 
 The Heroes of the modern time, 
 Who for their Country fought and bled; 
 
 They, too, have left a name sublime, 
 An aureole gilding History's page, 
 
 A blaze, to light Fame's destin'd heirs, 
 The brave souls of a future age, 
 
 To deeds like theirs ! to deeds like theirs ! 
 
 Their spirit floats upon the air J 
 
 It makes the patriot's heart throb high ; 
 It bids Hope smile away despair, 
 
 And check the exile's heavy sigh. 
 It whispers, " Clouds may veil the sun, 
 
 Freedom in death-like trance may lie ; 
 But she shall wake ! th' immortal One 
 
 Can never die, can never die ! 
 
 THE END. 
 

 
 
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