Ah! what a contrast in that face portray'd, Where care and study cast alternate shade; But view it well, and ask thy heart the cause, Then chide, with honest warmth, that cold applause Which counteracts the fostering breath of praise, And shades with cypress the young poet's bays: Pale and dejected, mark, how genius strives With poverty, and mark, how well it thrives; The shabby cov'ring of the gentle bard, Regard it well, 'tis worthy thy regard, The friendly cobweb, serving for a screen, The chair, a part of what it once had been; The bed, whereon th' unhappy victim slept And oft unseen, in silent anguish, wept, Or spent in dear delusive dreams, the night, To wake, next morning, but to curse the light, Too deep distress the artist's hand reveals; But like a friend's the black'ning deed conceals; Thus justice, to mild complacency bends, And candour, all harsh influence, suspends. Enthron'd, supreme in judgment, mercy sits, And, in one breath condemns, applauds, acquits: Whoe'er thou art, that shalt this face survey, And turn, with cold disgust, thine eyes away. Then bless thyself, that sloth and ignorance bred Thee up in safety, and with plenty fed, Peace to thy mem'ry! may the sable plume Of dulness, round thy forehead ever bloom; May'st thou, nor can I wish a greater curse; Live full despis'd, and die without a nurse; Or, if same wither'd hag, for sake of hire, Should wash thy sheets, and cleanse thee from the mire, Let her, when hunger peevishly demands The dainty morsel from her barb'rous hands, Insult, with hellish mirth, thy craving maw And snatch it to herself, and call it law, Till pinching famine waste thee to the bone And break, at last, that solid heart of stone.

LAY OF THE WANDERING ARAB

"Away, away, my barb and I," As free as wave, as fleet as wind, We sweep the sands of Araby, And leave a world of slaves behind. 'Tis mine to range in this wild garb, Nor e'er feel lonely though alone; I would not change my Arab barb, To mount a drowsy Sultan's throne. Where the pale stranger dares not come, Proud o'er my native sands I rove; An Arab tent my only home, An Arab maid my only love. Here freedom dwells without a fear— Coy to the world, she loves the wild; Whoever brings a fetter here, To chain the desert's fiery child. What though the Frank may name with scorn, Our barren clime, our realm of sand, There were our thousand fathers born— Oh, who would scorn his father's land? It is not sands that form a waste, Nor laughing fields a happy clime; The spot, the most by Freedom graced, Is where a man feels most sublime! "Away, away, my barb and I." As free as wave as fleet as wind, We sweep the sands of Araby, And leave a world of slaves behind!

NOSTALGIA—MALADIE DE PAYS—CALENTURE

(For the Mirror.)

This disease, according to Dr. Darwin, is an unconquerable desire of returning to one's native country, frequent in long voyages, in which the patients become so insane, as to throw themselves into the sea, mistaking it for green fields or meadows:—

So, by a calenture misled, The mariner with rapture sees, On the smooth ocean's azure bed, Enamell'd fields and verdant trees. With eager haste he longs to rove In that fantastic scene, and thinks It must be some enchanting grove, And in he leaps, and down he sinks.

SWIFT.

The Swiss are said to be particularly liable to this disease, and when taken into foreign service, frequently to desert from this cause, and especially after hearing or singing a particular tune, which was used in their village dances, in their native country, on which account the playing or singing this tune was forbidden by the punishment of death.

"Dear is that shed, to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill, which lifts him to the storms."

GOLDSMITH.

Rousseau says, "The celebrated Swiss tune, called the Rans des Vaches, is an air, so dear to the Swiss, that it was forbidden under the pain of death to play it to the troops, as it immediately drew tears from them, and made those who heard it desert, or die of what is called la maladie de pays, so ardent a desire did it excite to return to their native country. It is in vain to seek in this air for energetic accents capable of producing such astonishing effects, for which strangers are unable to account from the music, which is in itself uncouth and wild. But it is from habit, recollections, and a thousand circumstances retraced in this tune by those natives who hear it, and reminding them of their country, former pleasures of their youth, and all those ways of living, which occasion a bitter reflection at having lost them. Music, then, does not affect them as music, but as a reminiscence. This air, though always the same, no longer produces the same effects at present as it did upon the Swiss formerly; for having lost their taste for their first simplicity, they no longer regret its loss when reminded of it. So true it is, that we must not seek in physical causes the great effects of sound upon the human heart."

This disease (says Dr. Winterbottom) affects the natives of Africa as strongly as it does those of Switzerland; it is even more violent in its effects on the Africans, and often impels them to dreadful acts of suicide. Sometimes it plunges them into a deep melancholy, which induces the unhappy sufferers to end a miserable existence by a more tedious, though equally certain method, that of dirt eating.

Such is the powerful influence of the lore of one's native country.

P.T.W.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 350, January 3, 1829

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WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE PORTRAIT OF CHATTERTON

LAY OF THE WANDERING ARAB

NOSTALGIA—MALADIE DE PAYS—CALENTURE

(For the Mirror.)

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