Above the roaring of the wind,
  Above the river's flow,
  Methinks I hear the mystic cry
  Of "Clo!—Old Clo!"

  The exile's song, it thrills among
  The dwellings of the free,
  Its {69}sound is strange to English ears,
  But 'tis not strange to me;

  For it hath shook the tented field
  In ages long ago,
  And hosts have quailed before the cry
  Of "Clo!—Old Clo!"

  Oh, lose it not! forsake it not!
  And let no time efface
  The memory of that solemn sound,
  The watchword of our race;

  For not by dark and eagle eye
  The Hebrew shall you know,
  So well as by the plaintive cry
  Of "Clo!—Old Clo!"

  Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks,
  Or Sidon's sunny walls,
  Where, dial-like, to portion time,
  The palm-tree's shadow falls,

  The pilgrims, wending on their way,
  Will linger as they go,
  And listen to the distant cry
  Of "Clo!—Old Clo!"

  Bolted off direct to Munich,
      And within the year
  Underneath his German tunic
      Stowed whole butts of beer.
  And he drank like fifty fishes,
      Drank till all was blue;
  For he felt extremely vicious—
      Somewhat thirsty too.

  But at length this dire deboshing
      Drew towards an end;
  Few of all his silver groschen
      Had he left to spend.
  And he knew it was not prudent
      Longer to remain;
  So, with weary feet, the student
      Wended home again.

  Like a fiery comet bristling,
      Rose the young man's hair,
  And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling
      Out of sheer despair.
  Down the gloomy street in silence,
      Savage-calm he goes;
  But he did no deed of vi'lence—
      Only blew his nose.

  Then he hired an airy garret
      Near her dwelling-place;
  Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,
      Never washed his face;
  Sate all day beside the casement,
      Sate a dreary man;
  Found in smoking such an easement
      As the wretched can;

  Then like a volcano puffing,
      Smoked he out his pipe;
  Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,
      Ham and kraut and tripe;
  Went to bed, and, in the morning,
      Waited as before,
  Still his eyes in anguish turning
      To the baker's door;

  Till, with apron white and mealy,
      Came the lovely dame,
  Counting out the loaves so freely,
      Selling of the same.
  So one day—the fact's amazing!—
      On his post he died!
  And they found the body gazing
      At the baker's bride.

  My boy, what has come o'er ye?
      You surely are not well!
  Try some of that ham before ye,
      And then, Tom, ring the bell!"

  "I cannot eat, my mother,
      My tongue is parched and bound,
  And my head, somehow or other,
      Is swimming round and round.

  In my Eyes there is a fulness,
      And my pulse is beating quick;
  On my brain is a weight of dulness:
      Oh, mother, I am sick!"

  Why does that horrid grumbler,
      Old Inkpen, work you so?"
  "My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!
      'Twas that which wrought my woe!"

  They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the mar-
         riage-bell;
  It booms along the upland,—oh! it haunts me like a
         knell;
  He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering
         step,
  And closely to his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!

  They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft
         have stood,
  The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the
         wood;
  And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words
        that won my ear,
  Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal
         fere.

  He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank
         and gold;
  He said I did not love him,—he said my words were
        cold;
  He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher
        game—
  And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done
        the same?

  I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too
        late;
  I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler
        mate;
  But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing,
  And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted
         thing.

  There I saw old castles flinging
  Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,
  Saw gigantic forests swinging
     To and fro without a breeze;

  And in dusky alleys straying,
  Many a giant shape of power,
  Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,
     Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

  I, too, trod these plains Elysian,
  Heard their ringing tones of mirth,
  But a brighter, fairer vision
     Called me back again to earth.

  From the forest shade advancing,
  See, where comes a lovely May;
  The dew, like gems, before her glancing,
     As she brushes it away!

  To that question came another—
  What its aim I still must doubt—
  And she asked me, "How's your mother?
     Does she know that you are out?"

  "No! my mother does not know it,
  Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!"
  "Then be off, my handsome poet,
     And say I sent you with the news!"

  These tangled ebon tresses
     No comb hath e'er gone through;
  And thy forehead, it is furrowed by
     The elegant tattoo!

  Come, let me taste those yellow lips
     That ne'er were tasted yet,
  Save when the shipwrecked mariner
     Passed through them for a whet.

  Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!
     For I am gaunt and thin;
  There's little flesh to tempt thee
     Beneath a convict's skin.

  I came not to be eaten;
      I sought thee, love, to woo;
  Besides, bethink thee, dearest,
      Thou'st dined on cockatoo.

  Thy father is a chieftain!
      Why, that's the very thing!
  Within my native country
      I too have been a king.

  Behold this branded letter,
      Which nothing can efface!
  It is the royal emblem,
      The token of my race!

  And I have wandered hither,
      Across the stormy sea,
  In search of glorious freedom,—
      In search, my sweet, of thee!

  The bush is now my empire,
      The knife my sceptre keen;
  Come with me to the desert wild,
      And be my dusky queen.

  I cannot give thee jewels,
      I have nor sheep nor cow,
  Yet there are kangaroos, love,
      And colonists enow.

  We'll meet the unwary settler,
      As whistling home he goes,
  And I'll take tribute from him,
      His money and his clothes.

  Then on his bleeding carcass
      Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw,
  And lunch upon him roasted,
      Or, if you like it, raw!

  Thy heart with love is heating,
      I feel it through my side:—
  Hurrah, then, for the noble pair,
      The Convict and his Bride!

  But the moonlight, pale and broken,
  Pained at soul the Baron's son;
  For he knew, by that soft token,
  That the larking had begun;—

  That the stout and valiant Marquis
  Then was leading forth his swells,
  Milling some policeman's carcass,
  Or purloining private bells.

  So he sat in grief and sorrow,
  Rather drunk than otherwise,
  Till the golden gush of morrow
  Dawned once more upon his eyes:

  Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter,
  Lightly tapping at the door,
  Brought his draught of soda-water,
  Brandy-bottomed as before.

  "Sweet Rebecca! has your father,
  Think you, made a deal of brass?"
  And she answered—"Sir, I rather
  Should imagine that he has."

  "La, Sir! let alone—you fright me!"
  Said the daughter of the Jew:
  "Dearest, how those eyes delight me!
  Let me love thee, darling, do!"

  "Vat is dish?" the Bailiff muttered,
  Rushing in with fury wild;
  "Ish your muffins so veil buttered,
  Dat you darsh insult ma shild?"

  "Honourable my intentions,
  Good Abednego, I swear!
  And I have some small pretensions,
  For I am a Baron's heir.

  If you'll only clear my credit,
  And advance a thou * or so,
  She's a peeress—I have said it:
  Don't you twig, Abednego?"

     * The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.

  "Datsh a very different matter,"
  Said the Bailiff, with a leer;
  "But you musht not cut it fatter
  Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!

  Fast as one of Fagin's pupils,
  I. O. Uwins did agree!
  little plagued with holy scruples
  From the starting-post was he.

  But at times a baleful vision
  Rose before his shuddering view,
  For he knew that circumcision
  Was expected from a Jew.

  At a meeting of the Rabbis,
  Held about the Whitsuntide,
  Was this thorough-paced Barabbas
  Wedded to his Hebrew bride:

  All his previous debts compounded,
  From the sponging-house he came,
  And his father's feelings wounded
  With reflections on the same.

  But the sire his son accosted—
  "Split my wig! if any more
  Such a double-dyed apostate
  Shall presume to cross my door!

  Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster
  Than all winking—much afraid
  That the orders of the master
  Would be punctually obeyed:

  Sought his club, and then the sentence
  Of expulsion first he saw;
  No one dared to own acquaintance
  With a Bailiff's son-in-law.

  Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting,
  Did he greet his friends of yore:
  Such a universal cutting
  Never man received before:

  Till at last his pride revolted—
  Pale, and lean, and stern he grew;
  And his wife Rebecca bolted
  With a missionary Jew.

  Ye who read this doleful ditty,
  Ask ye where is Uwins now?
  Wend your way through London city,
  Climb to Holborn's lofty brow;

  When the evening shades are dusky,
  Then the phantom form draws near,
  And, with accents low and husky,
  Pours effluvium in your ear;

  Craving an immediate barter
  Of your trousers or surtout;
  And you know the Hebrew martyr,
  Once the peerless I. O. U

  "Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often
  Have you tried that slippery trick;
  Hearts like mine you cannot soften,
  Vainly do you ask for tick.
  Christmas and its bills are coming,
  Soon will they be showering in;
  Therefore, once for all, my rum un,
  I expect you'll post the tin.

  "Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe
  In the palmer's amice brown;
  He shall lead you unto jail, if
  Instantly you stump not down."
  Deeply swore the young crusader,
  But the taylzeour would not hear;
  And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe
  Evermore kept sneaking near.

  Lightly leaped he on the shop-board,
  Lightly crooked his manly limb,
  Lightly drove the glancing needle
  Through the growing doublet's rim.
  Gaberdines in countless number
  Did the taylzeour knyghte repair,
  And entirely on cucumber
  And on cabbage lived he there.

  Once his weary task beguiling
  With a low and plaintive song,
  That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth
  Drove the hissing goose along;
  From her lofty latticed window
  Looked the taylzeour's daughter down,
  And she instantly discovered
  That her heart was not her own.

  A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn
        stride;
  His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened
         wide;
  And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a
        star,—
  Saint George! protect us! 'tis The Man—the thunder-
         bolt of war!

  Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's
        ridge?
  Are these the spurs of Austerlitz—the boots of Lodi's
         bridge?
  Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet
         hive?

  From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot
        took,
  Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look:
  "Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the
         chain—
  The watchword for to-night is France—the answer St
        Heléne.

  "And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves,
         could bind
  The master of the universe—the monarch of mankind?
  I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me;
  I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars—I burst them, and
         am free.

  "To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear—
  Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink
         with fear!
  To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly
        flames;
  And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the
        Thames!

  "Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak
        lordling, do thy worst!
  These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters
        they have burst.
  Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis
        written there!
  And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!"

  Another pinch, another stride—he passes through the
        door—
  "Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?
  And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?
  Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!"

  In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes—
  Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a
        brace of moons!
  See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a
         frosty glare,
  Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to
        despair.

  Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, con-
         found it!
  I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my hat
        I've bound it.
  Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,
  Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

  Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could
         you ever
  Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a
         liver?
  Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by
        day,
  Changing from the best of china to the commonest of
        clay.

  As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued
         and old;
  And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of
         his gold.
  When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely
         then
  Something lower than his hookah,—something less than
  his cayenne.

  What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret?
           Oh, no, no,—
  Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes
         him so.
  Take him to thy dainty chamber—sooth him with thy
        lightest fancies;
  He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a
        lover's glances?

  Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I
         stood,
  Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel
         Good!
  Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and
         dead,
  With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial
         bed!

  Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the
         soul to sin!
  Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!
  Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul
         to greed!
  Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the
         deed!

  But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British
         ears.
  'Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in
         years.
  Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly
         press,
  And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretched-
         ness?
  Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I
         knew,
  When my days were all before me, and my years were
         twenty-two!

  When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might
         come;
  Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;
  Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh
         heavens!
  Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at
         Evans'!