EPISTLE, FROM ALGIERS,

TO

HORACE SMITH.

DEAR HORACE! be melted to tears,
For I'm melting with heat as I rhyme;
Though the name of the place is All-jeers,
'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime.

With a shaver1 from France who came o'er,
To an African inn I ascend;

I am cast on a barbarous shore,
Where a barber alone is my friend.

Do you ask me the sights and the news
Of this wonderful city to sing?

Alas! my hotel has its mews,

But no muse of the Helicon's spring.

1 On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellow passenger whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, and the attentions which he paid me to alleviate the sufferings of my sea-sickness. He turned out to be a perruquier and barber in Algeria-but his vocation did not lower him in my estimation-for he continued his attentions until he passed my baggage through the customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion, to the best hotel.

My windows afford me the sight
Of a people all diverse in hue;
They are black, yellow, olive, and white,
Whilst I in my sorrow look blue.

Here are groups for the painter to take,
Whose figures jocosely combine,-

1

The Arab disguised in his haik,1

And the Frenchman disguised in his wine.

In his breeches of petticoat size

You may say, as the Mussulman goes, That his garb is a fair compromise

'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes.

The Mooresses, shrouded in white,

Save two holes for their eyes to give room, Seem like corpses in sport or in spite

That have slyly whipp'd out of their tomb.

The old Jewish dames make me sick:
If I were the devil-I declare

Such hags should not mount a broom-stick
In my service to ride through the air.

But hipp'd and undined as I am,

My hippogriff's course I must rein— For the pain of my thirst is no sham, Though I'm bawling aloud for champagne. 1 A mantle worn by the natives.

Dinner's brought; but their wines have no pith— They are flat as the statutes at law ;

And for all that they bring me, dear Smith!

Would a glass of brown stout they could draw!

O'er each French trashy dish as I bend,
My heart feels a patriot's grief!

And the round tears, O England! descend
When I think on a round of thy beef.

Yes, my soul sentimentally craves

British beer.-Hail, Britannia, hail! To thy flag on the foam of the waves, And the foam on thy flagons of ale.

Yet I own, in this hour of my drought,
A dessert has most welcomely come;
Here are peaches that melt in the mouth,
And grapes blue and big as a plum.

There are melons too, luscious and great,
But the slices I eat shall be few,
For from melons incautiously eat
Melancholic effects may ensue.

Horrid pun! you'll exclaim; but be calm,
Though my letter bears date, as you view,
From the land of the date-bearing palm,

I will palm no more puns upon you.

FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO,

FROM THE BOOK OF JOB.

HAVING met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, at Algiers, several years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire, but he left the place before I proceeded farther in the poem; and it has been thus left unfinished.

CRUSH'D by misfortune's yoke,

Job lamentably spoke

'My boundless curse be on

The day that I was born;

Quench'd be the star that shone

Upon my natal morn.

In the grave I long

To shroud my breast;

Where the wicked cease to wrong,

And the weary are at rest.”

Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair:

"What Heaven ordains, 'tis meet that man should bear.

Lately, at midnight drear,

A vision shook my bones with fear;

A spirit pass'd before my face,

And yet its form I could not trace ;

It stopp'd-it stood-it chill'd my blood,

The hair upon my flesh uprose

With freezing dread!

Deep silence reign'd, and, at its close,

I heard a voice that said—

'Shall mortal man be more pure and just
Than God, who made him from the dust?
Hast thou not learnt of old, how fleet
Is the triumph of the hypocrite;
How soon the wreath of joy grows wan
On the brow of the ungodly man ?

By the fire of his conscience he perisheth
In an unblown flame:

The Earth demands his death,

And the Heavens reveal his shame.""

JOB.

Is this your consolation?

Is it thus that ye condole

With the depth of my desolation,
And the anguish of my soul?
But I will not cease to wail
The bitterness of my bale.—
Man that is born of woman,
Short and evil is his hour;
He fleeth like a shadow,

He fadeth like a flower.

My days are pass'd-my hope and trust

Is but to moulder in the dust.