A Moorish Tale

Ali Ben Ali (did you never readHis wond'rous acts that chronicles relate,--How there was one in pity might exceedThe Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sateUpon the throne of greatness--great indeed!For those that he had under him were great--The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,Was a Bashaw--Bashaws have horses' tails.

Ali was cruel--a most cruel one!'Tis rumored he had strangled his own mother--Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brotherAnd sister too--but happily that noneDid live within harm's length of one another,Else he had sent the Sun in all its blazeTo endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days.

Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit,And makes a bad man--absolutely bad,Made Ali wicked--to a fault:--'tis fitMonarchs should have some check-strings; but he hadNo curb upon his will--no, not a bit--Wherefore he did not reign well--and full gladHis slaves had been to hang him--but they falter'dAnd let him live unhang'd--and still unalter'd,

Until he got a sage-bush of a beard,Wherein an Attic owl might roost--a trailOf bristly hair--that, honor'd and unshear'd,Grew downward like old women and cow's tail;Being a sign of age--some gray appear'd,Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale;But yet, not so poetic as when TimeComes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.

Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vexHis royal bosom that he had no son,No living child of the more noble sex,To stand in his Morocco shoes--not oneTo make a negro-pollard--or tread necksWhen he was gone--doom'd, when his days were done,To leave the very city of his fameWithout an Ali to keep up his name.

Therefore he chose a lady for his love,Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear;So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, aboveAll eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear;Then, through his Muftis piously he strove,And drumm'd with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear:Knowing a boy for certain must come of it,Or else he was not praying to his Profit.

Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fairWill grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame:Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir,Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a nameOf mighty hero that his child should bear;He made so certain ere his chicken came:--But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth!

To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sunA little daughter to this world of sins,--Miss-fortunes never come alone--so oneBrought on another, like a pair of twins:Twins! female twins!--it was enough to stunTheir little wits and scare them from their skinsTo hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear,Pulling his beard because he had no heir.

Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm downThis his paternal rage, and thus addrest;"Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown,And box the compass of the royal chest?""Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I ownI love to gaze on!--Pr'ythee, thou hadst bestPocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thinYour beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin!"

But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slackThe quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew:He call'd his slave to bring an ample sackWherein a woman might be poked--a fewDark grimly men felt pity and look'd blackAt this sad order; but their slaveships knewWhen any dared demur, his sword so bendingCut off the "head and front of their offending."

For Ali had a sword, much like himself,A crooked blade, guilty of human gore--The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elfWere struck at his head-quarters by the score--Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf,But jested with it, and his wit cut sore;So that (as they of Public Houses speak)He often did his dozen butts a week.

Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears,Came with the sack the lady to enclose;In vain from her stag-eyes "the big round tearsCoursed one another down her innocent nose";In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears;Though there were some felt willing to oppose,Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute,Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it.

And when the sack was tied, some two or threeOf these black undertakers slowly brought herTo a kind of Moorish Serpentine; for sheWas doom'd to have a winding sheet of water.Then farewell, earth--farewell to the green tree--Farewell, the sun--the moon--each little daughter!She's shot from off the shoulders of a black,Like bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back.

The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill'dAll that the waters oped, as down it fell;Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'dA ring above her, like a water-knell;A moment more, and all its face was still'd,And not a guilty heave was left to tellThat underneath its calm and blue transparenceA dame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence.

But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,--The moon in black eclipse deceased that night,Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor--The lady's natal star with pale afrightFainted and fell--and what were stars before,Turn'd comets as the tale was brought to light;And all looked downward on the fatal wave,And made their own reflections on her grave.

Next night, a head--a little lady head,Push'd through the waters a most glassy face,With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread,Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the spaceOf a pale forehead, and two eyes that shedA soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy graceOver their sleepy lids--and so she rais'dHer aqualine nose above the stream, and gazed.

She oped her lips--lips of a gentle blush,So pale it seem'd near drowned to a white,--She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gushOf music bubbling through the surface light;The leaves are motionless, the breezes hushTo listen to the air--and through the nightThere come these words of a most plaintive ditty,Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity: