Richmond Enquirer

POETRY.

EPISTLE TO HORACE SMITH, FROM ALGIERS.
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Dear Horace, be melted to tears:
For I'm sweltering with heat as I rhyme ;—
Though the name of this place is All-jeers,
Tis no joke to be caught in 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
Or this wonderful city to sing?
Alas! my hotel has its views;
But no view of the Helicon's spring.
My windows afford me the sight
Of a people all diverse in hue:
They look 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 pantaloon 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 that give room,
Seem like corpses in sport or in spite,
That have slily whipp'd out of the 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 their wines have no pith,—
They are flat as the Statutes at Law;
And for all that they bring, my 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 ;
There 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,
Melon-cholic effects might 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.

* Haik, mantle worn by the natives.