The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 347, December 20, 1828

With none to save him, none to hear his call,
Or wrest him from the agonizing thrall?

And yet it is but sleep we look upon!
But in that sleep from which the life is gone
Sinks the proud Saladin, Egyptia's lord.
His faith's firm champion, and his Prophet's sword;
Not e'en the red cross knights withstand his pow'r,
But, sorrowing, mark the Moslem's triumph hour,
And the pale crescent float from Salem's tow'r.

As the keen arrow, hurl'd with giant-might,
Rends the thin air in its impetuous flight,
But being spent on earth innoxious lies,
E'en its track vanish'd from the yielding skies—
So lies the soldan, stopp'd his bright career,
His vanquish'd realms their prostrate heads uprear,
And coward kings forget their servile fear.

Ere yet stern Azrael[10 - Azrael, in the Mahometan creed, the angel of death.] cut the thread of life,
While Death and Nature wag'd unequal strife,
Spoke the expiring hero:—"Hither stand,
Receive your dying sovereign's last command.
When that the spirit from my frame is riven,
(Oh, gracious Alla! be my sins forgiven,
And bright-eyed Houris waft my soul to heaven,)
Then when you bear me to my last retreat,
Let not the mourners howl along the street—
Let not my soldiers in the train be seen,
Nor banners float, nor lance or sabre gleam—
Nor yet, to testify a vain regret,
O'er my remains let costly shrine be set,
Or sculptur'd stone, or gilded minaret;
But let a herald go before my bier,
Bearing on point of lance the robe I wear.
Shouting aloud, 'Behold what now remains
Of the proud conqueror of Syria's plains,
Who bow'd the Persian, made the Christian feel
The deadly sharpness of the Moslem steel;
But of his conquests, riches, honours, might,
Naught sleeps with him in death's unbroken night,
Save this poor robe.'"

D.A.H.

BANQUETTING HOUSE, WHITEHALL

(For the Mirror.)

This splendid pile which is at present under repair, was erected in the time of James I. Whitehall being in a most ruinous state, he determined to rebuild it in a very princely manner, and worthy of the residence of the monarchs of the British empire. He began with pulling down the banquetting rooms built by Elizabeth. That which bears the above name at present was begun in 1619, from a design of Inigo Jones, in his purest style; and executed by Nicholas Stone, master mason and architect to the king; it was finished in two years, and cost £17,000. but is only a small part of a vast plan, left unexecuted by reason of the unhappy times which succeeded. The ceiling of this noble room cannot be sufficiently admired; it was painted by Rubens, who had £3,000. for his work. The subject is the Apotheosis of James I. forming nine compartments; one of the middle represents our pacific monarch on his earthly throne, turning with horror from Mars, and other of the discordant deities, and as if it were, giving himself up to the amiable goddess he always cultivated, and to her attendants, Commerce, and the Fine Arts. This fine performance is painted on canvass, and is in high preservation; but a few years ago it underwent a repair by Cipriani, who had £2,000. for his trouble. Near the entrance is a bust of the royal founder.

Little did James think (says Pennant) that he was erecting a pile from which his son was to step from the throne to the scaffold. He had been brought in the morning of his death, from St. James's across the Park, and from thence to Whitehall, where ascending the great staircase, he passed through the long gallery to his bed-chamber, the place allotted to him to pass the little time before he received the fatal blow. It is one of the lesser rooms marked with the letter A in the old plan of Whitehall. He was from thence conducted along the galleries and the banquetting house, through the wall, in which a passage was broken to his last earthly stage. Mr. Walpole tells us that Inigo Jones, surveyor of the works done about the king's house, had only 8s. 4d. a day, and £46. a year for house-rent, and a clerk and other incidental expenses. The present improvements at Whitehall make one exclaim with the poet, Pope—

"I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample brow, a new Whitehall ascend."

Again,

"You too proceed, make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before."

P.T.W.

THE UNIVERSE

(For the Mirror.)

O light celestial, streaming wide
Through morning'd court of fairy blue—
O tints of beauty, beams of pride,
That break around its varied hue—
Still to thy wonted pathway true,
Thou shinest on serenely free,
Best born of Him, whose mercy grew
In every gift, sweet world, to thee.

O countless stars, that, lost in light,
Still gem the proud sun's glory bed,
And o'er the saddening brow of night
A softer, holier influence shed—
How well your radiant march hath sped.
Unfailing vestals of the sky,
As smiling thus ye weed from dread
The soul ye court to muse on high.

O flowers that breathe of beauty's reign,
In many a tint o'er lawn and lea,
That give the cold heart once again
A dream of happier infancy;
And even on the grave can be
A spell to weed affection's pain—
Children of Eden, who could see.
Nor own His bounty in your reign?

O winds, that seem to waft from far
A mystic murmur o'er the soul,
As ye had power to pass the bar
Of nature in your vast control,