On this day, Jan. 22, 1876, the ruler of a remote eastern principality died after a reign that had lasted from very early in the century and had been so peaceful and devoid of incident that very few people, outside of the British Foreign Office, knew of the existence of either Swat or its venerable ruler. Curiously enough, the publication of the demise of the Ahkoond of Swatz appealed simultaneously to the humorous sense of Mr. Edward Lear in England and of Mr. George T. Lanigan in America, and each of these distinguished versifiers celebrated the occasion in his own way. Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat? Does he sleep on a matress, a bed, or a mat, OR A COT, The Akond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his T's and finish his I's WITH A DOT, The Akond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear Without a speck or a smudge or a smear OR BLOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, OR PLOT, At the Akond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, OR SHOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people prig in the lanes or park? Or even at times when days are dark, GARROTTE! O the Akond of Swat! Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion To amuse his him The Akond of Swat? mind do the people show Pictures, or any one's last new poem, At night if he wakes, Do they bring cakes, suddenly screams and him only a few small OR A LOT, For the Akond of Swat? What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, For the Ahkoond I mourn,- He strove to disregard the message stern, Dead, dead, dead, Sorrow Swats! Shats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Shed tears like water: Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter! Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But laid mid worms to rot,His mortal part alone:-his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthy walls his frame surround, (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And skeptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies The azure skies that bend above his loved He sees with larger, other eyes Napoleon III., after his downfall at Sedan, was imprisoned for awhile at the Chateau of Wilhelmshöhe, near Cassel. He then joined the Empress at Chiselhurst in England, where he lived quietly until his death, Jan. 9, 1873. How long he sat-this Cæsar of the stage, This bold, pretending patron of the age! Muzzled the press, yet bade the peopie think; Knelt to the Pope, but gave the crowd a wink; Now capped a Cardinal, now endowed a school; Permitted suffrage, under iron rule; Gave wings to trade, but clogged all daring thought, Counting all counsel but his own as naught; Put new wine in old bottles, best in worst, And clamped them round with iron, lest they burst; Forced two extremes to marry, last with first; Wed light to darkness, and misnamed the brood Born of the union, France's highest good. Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength: Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned: The great Ahkoond of Swat -George T. Lanigan. ON LORD BACON'S BIRTHDAY. Francis Bacon was a celebrated philosopher, jurist, and statesman under Elizabeth and James I. He is generally, though erroneously, spoken of as Lord Bacon, his proper title being Baron Verulam and Viscount St. Albans. He was born Jan. 22, 1561. Hail, happy Genius of this ancient pile! How comes it all things so about thee smile? The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst Thou stand'st as if some mystery thou didst ! Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day For whose returns, and many, all these pray; And so do I. This is the sixtieth year, Since Bacon, and thy lord was born, and here; Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal, Fame and foundation of the English weal. What then his father was, that since is he, Now with a title more to the degree; England's high Chancellor: the destined heir, In his soft cradle, to his father's chair: Whose even thread the fates spin round and full, Out of their choicest and their whitest wool. 'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be known, For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine own. Give me a deep crowned bowl, that I may sing, In raising him, the wisdom of my king. -Ben Jonson. ON MY THIRTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY. (Lord Byron was born Jan. 22, 1788.) 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move; Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The fire that on my bosom preys The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here— |