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of Ireland. The house had been uninhabited for some time, and was out of repair. Between nine and twelve at night, when the gentleman had retired to rest, he was alarmed by hearing a noise; he listened, the noise increased till the house rung with the repeated shocks; he hastily sprung out of bed, and imagining it was the Rebels, he rushed into the room where his servant slept; "Patrick, get up, the Rebels are breaking in," said he, "Don't you hear the noise?" "Lord bless yer honor's worship and glory, it's only the Daunder." "Daunder, sir, you rebel, the Daunder, what do you mean?" The servant explained that the knocking was regularly heard every night at the same time, and such was the case. Various parts of the wall were pulled down, and the house almost rebuilt, but to no purpose.
_Foley Place._ AN ANTIQUARY.
* * * * *
POEMS BY A KING OF PERSIA.
(_To the Editor._)
It is rather an unusual thing in the present age to hear of monarchs being authors, and much more so of being poets. It is true, there have been instances of this kind in former times; but perhaps none deserved more notice than Fath Ali Shah, the King of Persia. The author of a collection of elegies and sonnets, Mr. Scott Waring, in his "Tour to Sheeraz," has exhibited a specimen of the king's amatory productions. He also states that the government of Kashan, one of the chief cities in Persia, was the reward of the king to the person who excelled in poetical composition.
The four subjoined poems are the production of this celebrated monarch.
WILLIAM RUNTING.
I.
She who is the object of my love Has just declared she will not grant me Another kiss, but at the price of my existence: Ah! why have I not a thousand lives, That I might sacrifice them all on these conditions.
The flame which she has enkindled in my heart Is so bright, that it dazzles the universe: It is a torch enclosed within crystal. This heart is a Christian temple, Wherein Beauty has established her sanctuary; And the sighs which escape from it Are like the loud ringing bells.[5]
Ah! too fascinating object! how dangerous Are thy looks!--they wound indifferently The hearts of young and old: they are More to be dreaded than the fatal arrows of the mighty Toos.[6] Delight us with a glimpse of thy lovely form; Charm our senses by the elegance of thy attitudes; Our hearts are transported by thy glances. The proud peacock, covered with confusion, Dares not display before thee the rich And pompous variety of his plumage. Thy ebon ringlets are chains, which hold Monarchs in captivity, and make Them slaves to the power of thy charms.
The dust on which thou treadest becomes an ornament, Worthy of the imperial diadem of Caus.[7] Haughty kings now prostrate themselves Before Khacan,[8] since he has obtained A favourable look from the object of his love.
II.
That blessing which the fountain of life Bestowed in former ages on Khezr[9] Thy lips can communicate in a manner Infinitely more efficacious. Nature, confounded at the aspect of thy lovely mouth, Conceals her rubies within a rock;-- Our hearts, ensnared by those eyes which express All the softness of amorous intoxication, Are held captive in the dimples of thy chin.
Love has excited in my soul a fire Which cannot be extinguished;-- My bosom is become red with flames, Like a parterre of roses;-- This heart is no longer mine: It hangs suspended on the ringlets of thy hair-- And thou, cruel fair! thou piercest it With a glance of thy cold disdain. Ah! inquire not into the wretched. Khacan's fate: Thy waving locks have deprived him of reason; But how many thousand lovers, before him, Have fallen victims to the magic of thy beauty.
III.
My soul, captivated by thy charms, Wastes itself away in chains, and bends beneath The weight of oppression. Thou hast said "Love will bring thee to the tomb--arise, And leave his dominions" But, alas! I wish to expire at thy feet, rather than to abandon Altogether my hopes of possessing thee. I swear, by the two bows that send forth Irresistible arrows from thine eyes, That my days have lost their lustre: They are dark as the jet of thy waving ringlets; And the sweetness of thy lips far exceeds, In the opinion of Khacan, all that The richest sugar-cane has ever yielded.
IV.
The humid clouds of spring float over the enamelled meads, And, like my eyes, dissolve in tears. My fancy seeks thee in all places; and the beauties Of Nature retrace, at every moment, Thy enchanting image. But thou, O cruel fair one! Thou endeavourest to efface from thy memory The recollection of my ardent love--my tender constancy.
Thy charms eclipse the growing tulip-- Thy graceful stature puts