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one of the majestic elephants of Pegu or Ceylon, which Dara had been in the habit of mounting, pompously caparisoned, the harness gilt, and trappings decorated with figured work, and carrying a beautifully painted chair, inlaid with gold, and a magnificent canopy to shelter the prince from the sun; Dara was now seen seated on a miserable and worn-out animal, covered with filth; he no longer wore the necklace of large pearls which distinguished the princes of Hindostan, nor the rich turban and cabaïes, or embroidered vest; he and his son were now habited in dirty cloth of the coarsest texture, and his sorry turban was wrapped round with a scarf of Cashmere wool, resembling that worn by the meanest of the people.

Such was the appearance of Dara when led through the bazaars and every quarter of the city. I could not divest myself of the idea that some dreadful execution was about to take place, and felt surprised that government should have the hardihood to commit all these indignities upon a prince confessedly popular among the lower orders, especially as I saw scarcely any armed force. The people had for some time inveighed bitterly against the unnatural conduct of Aurengzebe: the imprisonment of his father, of his son, Sultan Mahmud, and of his brother, Morâd Bakche, filled every bosom with horror and disgust. The crowd assembled upon this disgraceful occasion was immense; and everywhere I observed the people weeping, and lamenting the fate of Dara in the most touching language. I took my station in one of the most conspicuous parts of the city, in the midst of the largest bazaar; was mounted on a good horse, and accompanied by two servants, and two intimate friends. From every quarter I heard piercing and distressing shrieks; men, women, and children, wailing as if some mighty calamity had happened to themselves. Jihon-Khan rode near the wretched Dara; and the abusive and indignant cries vociferated as the traitor moved along were absolutely deafening. I observed some Fakirs and several poor people throw stones at the infamous Patan; but not a single movement was made with a view of delivering the beloved and compassionated prince. When this disgraceful procession had passed through every part of Delhi, the poor prisoner was shut up in one of his own gardens, called Heider-Abad.

Aurengzebe was immediately made acquainted with the impression which this spectacle produced upon the public mind, the indignation manifested by the populace against Jihon-Khan, the threats held out to stone the perfidious man, and with the fears entertained of a general insurrection. A second council was consequently convened, and the question discussed, whether it were more expedient to conduct Dara to Gualior, agreeably to the original intention, or to put him to death without farther delay. By some it was maintained that there was no reason for proceeding to extremities, and that the prince might safely be taken to Gualior, provided he were attended with a strong escort: Danechmend-Khan, although he and Dara had long been on bad terms, enforced this opinion with all his powers of argument: but it was ultimately decided that Dara should die, and that Sipper-Shekô should be confined in Gualior. At this meeting Rochinara-Begum betrayed all her enmity against her hapless brother, combating the arguments of Danechmend, and exciting Aurengzebe to this foul and unnatural murder. Her efforts were but too successfully seconded by Calil-ullah Khan and Shaista Khan, both of them old enemies of Dara; and by Takarrub-Khan, a wretched parasite recently raised to the rank of omrah, and formerly a physician. He was originally distinguished by the appellation of Hakin-Davoud, and had been compelled to fly from Persia. This man rendered himself conspicuous in the council by his violent harrangue. "Dara ought not to live," he exclaimed, "the safety of the state depends upon his immediate execution; and I feel the less reluctant to recommend his being put to death, because he had abjured his religion, and avowed himself a kafir. If it be sinful to

shed the blood of such a person, may the sin be visited upon my own head!" an imprecation which was not allowed to pass unregarded; for divine justice overtook this man in his career of wickedness; he was soon disgraced, declared infamous, and sentenced to a miserable death.

The charge of this atrocious murder was intrusted to a slave of the name of Nazir, who had been educated by Shan Jehan, but experienced some ill-treatment from Dara. The prince, apprehensive that poison would be administered to him, was employed with Sipper-Shekô in boiling lentils, when Nazir and four other ruffians entered his apartment. "My dear son," he cried out, “these men are come to murder us!" He then seized a small kitchen knife, the only weapon in his possession. One of the murderers having secured Sipper-Shekô, the rest fell upon Dara, threw him down, and while three of the assassins held him Nazir decapitated his wretched victim. The head was instantly carried to Aurengzebe who commanded that it should be placed on a dish, and that water should be brought. The blood was then washed from the face, and when it could no longer be doubted that it was indeed the head of Dara, he shed tears, and said, "Ah, Bedbakt! unhappy man! let this shocking sight no more offend my eyes, but take away the head, and bury it in Humaioon's sepulchre."



[IN 1786 was published, 'An Ode to Superstition, with other Poems.' This was the first work of Samuel Rogers, one of our living authors. Mr. Rogers, himself a banker of the city of London, was the son of a city banker. He received a liberal education; his taste was assiduously cultivated. At a time which preceded the early days of Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Southey, and Campbell, Mr. Rogers produced 'The Pleasures of Memory,' which appeared in 1792. His other most considerable poem, Italy,' did not appear till 1890. There are few such examples of the imagination and the taste remaining unchanged for half a century. The 'Epistle to a Friend," which we give below, was printed in the same beauti ful illustrated volume with the 'Pleasures of Memory,' in 1834, but was originally published in 1798. In his preface to this charming poem Mr. Rogers says, "It is the design of this epistle to illustrate the virtue of True Taste; and to show how little she requires to secure, not only the comforts, but even the elegancies of life. True Taste is an excellent economist. She confines her choice to few objects, and delights in producing great effects by small means; while False Taste is for ever sighing after the new and the rare; and reminds us, in her works, of the scholar of Apelles, who, not being able to paint his Helen beautiful, determined to make her fine."]

When, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind
Has classed the insect-tribes of human-kind,

Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing,

Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting;

Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours,

Point out the green lane rough with fern and flowers;
The sheltered gate that opens to my field,

And the white front thro' mingling elms revealed.
In vain, alas, a village-friend invites

To simple comforts, and domestic rites,
When the gay months of carnival resume
Their annual round of glitter and perfume;
When London hails thee to its splendid mart,
Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art;
And, lo! majestic as thy manly song,
Flows the full tide of human life along.

Siill must my partial pencil love to dwell
On the home-prospects of my hermit-cell;
The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green,
Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen;
And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow,
Sinks, and is lost among the trees below.
Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive)
Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live.
Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass,
Browsing the hedge by fits, the panniered ass;
The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight,
Whistling his dog to mark the pebbles' flight;
And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid,
With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade.
Far to the south a mountain-vale retires,
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires;
Its upland-lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung,
Its wizard stream, nor nameless, nor unsung;
And through the various years, the various day,
What scenes of glory burst, and melt away!

When April verdure springs in Grosvenor Square,
And the furred beauty comes to winter there,
She bids old Nature mar the plan no more;

Yet still the seasons circle as before.

Ah! still as soon the young Aurora plays,

Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze;
As soon the sky-lark pours his matin song,
Tho' evening lingers at the mask so long.

There let her strike with momentary ray,
As tapers shine their little lives away;
There let her practise from herself to steal,
And look the happiness she does not feel;
The ready smile and bidden blush employ
At Faro-routs, that dazzle to destroy;
Fan with affected ease the essenced air,
And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare.
Be thine to meditate an humbler flight,
When morning fills the fields with rosy light;
Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim,
Repose with dignity, with Quiet fame.

Here no state-chambers in long line unfold,

Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold;

Yet modest ornament, with use combined,

Attracts the eye to exercise the mind.

Small change of scene, small space his home requires, Who leads a life of satisfied desires.

What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, From every point a ray of genius flows!

Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill,

That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will;

And cheaply circulates, through distant climes,
The fairest relics of the purest times.

Here from the mould to conscious being start
Those finer forms, the miracles of art;
Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine,
That slept for ages in a second mine;
And here the faithful graver dares to trace
A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace!
Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls;
And my low roof the Vatican recalls!

Soon as the morning dream my pillow flies,
To waking sense what brighter visions rise!
O mark! again the coursers of the sun,
At Guido's call, their round of glory run
Again the rosy Hours resume their flight,
Obscured and lost in floods of golden light!

But could thine erring friend so long forget
(Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret)
That here its warmest hues the pencil flings,
Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings;
And still the few best loved and most revered
Rise round the board their social smile endeared?
Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours
There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers!
There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams,
Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams;
And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there,
Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare.
-Ah! most that art my grateful rapture calls,
Which breathes a soul into the silent walls;
Which gathers round the wise of every tongue,
All on whose words departed nations hung;
Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet;
Guides in the world, companions in retreat!

Tho' my thatched bath no rich mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Emblem of life! which still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! The shadowy walls record, with Attic art, The strength and beauty which its waves impart. Here Thetis, bending with a mother's fears, Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears; There Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise, As her fair self, reflected, seems to rise!

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, And all the dull impertinence of life,

These eyelids open to the rising ray,

And close, when Nature bids, at close of day.

Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows;

There noon-day levees call from faint repose.

Here the flushed wave flings back the parting light;
There glimmering lamps anticipate the night.
When from his classic dreams the student steals,
Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels,

To muse unnoticed-while around him press
The meteor forms of equipage and dress;
Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand
A very stranger in his native land!

And (tho' perchance of current coin possest,
And modern phrase by living lips exprest)
Like those blest youths, forgive the fabling page,
Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age,
Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade
Unclosed the cavern, and the morning played.
Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild delight!
New arts of life, new manners meet their sight!
In a new world they wake, as from the dead;
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled!
O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth,
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health;
Long in this sheltered scene of lettered talk,
With sober step repeat the pensive walk;
Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please,
The cheap amusement of a mind at ease;
Here every care in sweet oblivion cast,
And many an idle hour-not idly passed.

No tuneful echoes, ambushed at my gate,
Catch the blest accents of the wise and great.
Vain of its various page, no album breathes
The sigh that friendship or the muse bequeaths.
Yet some good genii o'er my hearth preside,
Oft the far friend, with secret spell to guide;
And there I trace, when the gray evening lours,
A silent chronicle of happier hours!

When Christmas revels in a world of snow,
And bids her berries blush, her carols flow;
His spangling shower when frost the wizard flings;
Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings,
O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves,
And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves;
-Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues,
What time the sun the yellow crocus woos,
Screened from the arrowy north; and duly hies
To meet the morning rumour as it flies;

To range the murmuring market-place, and view
The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew.

When spring bursts forth in blossoms thro' the vale,
And her wild music triumphs on the gale,
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile;
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile,
Framing loose numbers, till declining day
Thro' the green trellis shoots a crimson ray;
Till the west wind leads on the twilight hours,
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers.

Nor boast, O Choisy, seat of soft delight, The secret charm of thy voluptuous night.

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