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KOULI KHAN.

THE attempts on India by the reigning sovereign of Persia bring to our recollection the fate of the most memorable of Persian warriors. In the year 1739, exactly a century ago, the famous Kouli Khan, the Shah of Persia, invaded India, and, after defeating the Mogul army in a great battle, took possession of Delhi. He spared the lives of the leading people, a singular instance of lenity in Asiatic war, and so wholly opposite to his own reckless polity, that it was accounted for only by a mysterious influence. But his original habits soon returned; and, on his determination being known to put a large number of the inhabitants of the capital to the sword, his tent was attacked by five Indians, in the midst of his army; and after a desperate defence, in which he killed two of them, he was struck to the heart.

THE Persians are coming,
The Persians are come;
The banners are flying,
And thunders the drum;
And bright as a sunbeam
Rides forth in the van,
The king of all kings,
Kouli Khan, Kouli Khan !
The hills and the valleys

Of corpses are full;
There lies the pale Tartar,
There lies the Mogul.
There the elephant bleeds
From his forests afar;
For the arrows of Persia

Have finish'd the war. And now with his omrahs He sits on his throne, With kings for his captains, The East for his own. The gems on his turban, The gems on his shawl Flash fire-but his glance Flashes brighter than all. There, proud Aurungzebe! Stand thy princes in chains, But, though fallen, they remember Thy blood in their veins : With toil and with battle Their faces are wan; But their frown is as haughty As thine, Kouli Khan. Then gazed the dark Sultan, His bosom heaved high, For he ponder'd the thought Shall they live? shall they die? "Let them die" - from its scabbard His dagger outsprang; "Let them live" in the scabbard 'Twas dash'd with a clang. Then the herald came forth,

He thrice bow'd to the throne:

Like a pillar of topaz
He gloriously shone.
He thrice blew the trumpet,
The heavens gave reply;
Then proclaim'd to the captives,
"Thus live, or thus die :-

"The Shah asks three questions :

If answer'd, ye stand;
If unanswer'd, ye fall-
Each head and each hand
On the ramparts of Delhi
Shall bleed to the sun;
This moment is yours-
Now, be saved, or undone!"
All was silent as midnight,

Then out broke the words-
"Hear, princes of Cachmire!
Hear, Delhi's proud lords !
The manes of your steeds

Are like banners unfurl'd;
But what hours would it cost you,
To ride round the world?

"Next, reckon the wealth
Of the king of all kings-
His crowns and his sceptres,
His arms and his rings.
Last, tell the high thought,
That now beams in his eye.
Or your death-lot is drawn,
There your corpses shall lie."
Then the squadrons of archers
Wheel'd round, wing to wing,
And a thousand keen arrows
Were laid on the string.
Yet there stood the princes,
Though fetter'd and lone,
In their ranks still and stately,
Like statues of stone.
"They must die." But a yell
Pierced thro' heart and thro' ear,
And wild as a leopard
In sprang a Faquier :
His visage was ebon,
His beard to the ground,
Wrath burn'd in his glance
As it darted around.
"Kouli Khan! thou art conqueror,
Sheath thy red sword;
Kouli Khan! take thy choice,
To be cursed or adored!"
All gazed in strange wonder,
And dagger and spear
Were aim'd at his breast,
But loud laugh'd the Faquier.

" I will answer, dark Sultan,
Thy questions of blood."
His staff swept a ring
Round the spot where he stood.
Then he pour'd out a goblet,
And mutter'd a name;
To the gold-sculptured roof
Sprang a column of flame.
Then his voice spoke in thunder:
"What hours shall it take
To ride round the world? -

Dark Sultan, awake!
-Take the wings of the morning,
And ride with the sun,
In a day and a night

Shall thy journey be done!
"Then, what is thy wealth ?

Were it mountains of gold,
'Tis not worth one true heart-
Now, two questions are told.
Hear the third. Is it evil,
Or good to forgive?
Know that Hell gives us death,
But Heaven bids us live."

Then loud swell'd the trumpet,
And high clash'd the spear,
And a purse fill'd with diamonds
Was flung to the seer.
And to hail him the omrahs
And chieftains all ran,
And none look'd on the throne
Though there sat Kouli Khan.
But one, and the proudest,
Dared pluck his white beard :
The Faquier shot a glance,
Not a murmur was heard!
But one grasp at his throat;
And the Omrah lay low;
And the whole jewell'd circle
Recoil'd from the blow.

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"Still the axe," said the Sultan, "Must smite the Vizier, For the blood of my bravest Has reek'd on his spear. "What, tiger! more blood? Well, what prize shall be mine, If he stand on this spot

Ere yon sun shall decline ?" "Take the half of my throne!" -"Mighty Shah, he is here!" -The beard was cast off, But there stood no Faquier. For the form bow'd to earth, And the forehead so pale, There stood in his beauty A youth sheathed in mail.

Still brighter and brighter
He grew, while they gazed;
Still loftier his stature,
His eye keener blazed.
In his hand was the sword,
On his brow was the plume.
-Is he come from the skies,
Is he come from the tomb?

" I am Uriel," he spake-
From sultan to slave,
All were bow'd to the dust,
All was still as the grave-
"I am sent from the heights

Of the star-studded throne, The Angel of Mercy,

To save the undone.

"They are saved-Thou art saved ! For each drop of their gore Would have burn'd on thy soul,

Like the red molten ore,
Now, farewell, and be wise,
Thou son of the worm!"
-He upsprang, and the sound
Was like ocean in storm,
And the rolling of chariots,
And clanging of bows,
Of the warriors of heaven
Were heard as he rose :
And voices of sweetness,
And sweepings of strings;
And the gleamings were seen
Of tiaras and wings.
And the perfumes of Paradise
Fell in a stream;
And their senses were steep'd
In delight, like a dream!
Then all woke. For a year
The dagger was sheathed,
The hand of the bride,

In the bridegroom's was wreathed. And the vine hid the cottage,

The sheep fill'd the fold,
And the merchant was safe
With his silk and his gold.
And the infant was glad,
And the man without fear,
And age met the tomb,

Like the corn in the ear.
But then came dark Eblis,
The tempter of kings,
And the Sultan was wrapt
In the shade of his wings;
Wine madden'd his soul,

The fiend fill'd the man-
Thou'rt a corpse in thy tent,
Kouli Khan, Kouli Khan!

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* In the final suppression of the Janissaries in 1823, it is computed that 20,000 of those insolent mercenaries were put to the sword or sent into exile.

† The Victorious Sultan-one of his many titles. See Sir Grenville Temple's Travels.

Among the many reforms effected by the vigorous and grasping intellect of Mahmoud, not the least important was his proscription of the old cumbrous military costume, and adoption of the European uniform, the wearing of which he rigidly enforced.

Sound the trump for the Mighty !
He died ere the tramp
Of the terror-horsed Tartar

Who dash'd from the camp,
Stay'd his soul with the tale
That his dastardly hordes
Lay reap'd upon Nekshib,

7.

Where sickles were swords!
And the Lords of the Spears'
Haughty kingdom has past
To the Rebel and Hun!
And the death-song is done:
But thy praise shall not perish,
Lost Mahmoud the Last!

INSCRIPTION IN THE NEW EDITION OF MRS HEMANS'S WORKS.

BY B. SIMMONS.

HIGH be their meed who here, at last, have heap'd

The flowers long scatter'd from THY gleaming crown-
Here breathes each page thy tenderest fancy steep'd
In lovelier hues than purpling eve brings down;
-O holiest Sister! at whose bright departing,
Tears, whilst we shed them, into triumph died-
One mingled torrent through our bosoms starting
From separate founts of sorrowing and pride.
Sainted of Song! God's timbrel-sounding Daughter!
The exulting music of whose choral lays
Shook us, like Miriam's over Egypt's water,
When rose thy pœans in Jehovah's praise :-
How should we prize-in these disastrous years
Stunn'd with each tale, in sickly fiction cloak'd,
That pedant woman to the public ears

Babbles of sufferings which herself provoked-
How should we prize the glorious proofs bequeathed
By thy meek life that Virtue's not a name-
That there are Spirits 'mid the laurel-wreathed
Can hymn of holiness yet feel its flame!

Long be thy lucid memory a spell

To test their truth who mock the minstrel art,
Impostors of the faith thou kept'st so well-
Bright heartless hypocrites affecting heart!

FRENCH LITERATURE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

BY VILLEMAIN.

PART II.

We have traced, in a former article, the outline of French literature during the first or creative portion of the eighteenth century, when it was illustrated in different departments by the eloquence of Buffon, the ingenuity of Montesquieu, the fervid enthusiasm of Rousseau, and the universal talent of Voltaire. Of these, the three last impressed the deepest and most durable traces on the literature and the mind of Europe: Montesquieu, by the novelty and occasional sagacity which he mingled with much false taste in style, rash assumption of facts, and hasty generalisation in reasoning; Rousseau, by that semblance of conviction, that passionate exaggeration of sentiments and principles, derived from his own morbid propensities, which gave to his studied essays the appearance, and something of the influence, of unpremeditated popular orations, in which all Europe was his forum; and Voltaire, by his power of popularizing the most abstract discussions, insinuating philosophy into the fugitive literature of the day, making wit subservient to argument, and lending to every thing he touched the charm of a style conspicuous for its finish and simplicity. This portion of

the eighteenth century was the period of original and independent production, when France, instead of receiving the rules of taste or the models of composition from other countries, imposed her own laws on them, impressed the stamp of her habits of thought upon all Europe, and enjoyed a literary supremacy more absolute and universal than any which had existed since the age of Augustus.

The unhesitating and enthusiastic reception at first accorded to the French philosophy of the eighteenth century by the rest of Europe, now appears to us matter of astonishment. Under all the disguises of humanity, literature, zeal for improvement, removal of prejudices, and banishment of supersti. tion, with which the aim of the French philosophers was studiously invested, the principle of determined hostility to monarchy, to the privileged classes, and to that religion by which the existing state of things was cemented and upheld, now appears so palpable, that we wonder how it could have been overlooked by those whose interests were so deeply involved in the change. To us it appears evident that the doctrines thus eagerly embraced by princes and nobles,

Were silently engendering of the day
That should unpeople many palaces,
And hew the highest genealogic trees
Down to the dust, with all their bleeding fruits,
And blight their blossoms into barrenness.

This handwriting on the wall, warning kings and princes that their dominion was departing from them, which presented to them but unintelligible characters, has become abundantly significant when read by the collected light of the past. For the French Revolution has furnished the commentary of reality upon all the delusive doctrines of human perfectibility, and taught us the folly of expecting the regeneration of mankind by means of an infidel philosophy, which, while it flatters the vanity, overlooks entirely the inherent depravity, of man. But to the eighteenth century a new El Dorado appeared to

NO. CCLXXXVII, VOL, XLVI.

be opened, exciting curiosity, inviting experiment, holding out golden hopes of social amelioration, universal disinterestedness and philanthropy, political equality and primitive simplicity; pregnant, in short, with all those delusive visions of improvement which are found to recur at intervals in the progress of society; and of which, it would seem, man can hardly be cured even by the lessons of a sad and often recurring experience. Long accustomed to contemplate human nature as its selfish and savage character had been tamed and moulded by the salutary restraints of a longestablished faith and settled govern

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