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I shall not comment on this, as it evidently
appears a wild legend, on which we can found nothing.
There is another tale which I shall recount here, since I can vouch for
its authenticity.
During the Irish Rebellion of 1798, a gentleman went to take
possession of a house in a lone district 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