THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE

WRITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE.

ENGLAND hails thee with emotion,
Mightiest child of naval art,

Heaven resounds thy welcome! Ocean
Takes thee smiling to his heart.

Giant oaks of bold expansion

O'er seven hundred acres fell,

All to build thy noble mansion,

Where our hearts of oak shall dwell.

'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, Ages long ere we were born, And our great-grandfathers sounded

Many a jovial hunting-horn.

Oaks that living did inherit

Grandeur from our earth and sky,

Still robust, the native spirit

In your timbers shall not die.

Ship to shine in martial story,

Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path,

Freighted with Britannia's glory

And the thunders of her wrath.

Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee,

Threat'ning havoc to their deck,

When afar they first descry thee;
Like the coming whirlwind's speck

Gallant bark! thy pomp and beauty
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast,
Whilst our tars in pride and duty
Nail thy colors to the mast.

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 this place is All-jeers, 'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime.

With a shaver* 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.

* 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 voca tion did not lower him in my estimation-for he continuea his attentions till 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,—
The Arab disguised in his haik,*

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.

Dinner's brought; but the 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!

* A mantle worn by the natives.

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.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM.

AN original something, fair maid, you would win me

To write-but how shall I begin?

For I fear I have nothing original in me—
Excepting Original Sin.

FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO,

FROM THE BOOK OF JOB.

Having met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomin, at Algiers, several years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire, but he left the place before I proceeded farther in the poein; 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-