Imágenes de páginas

Lieutenant General the Baron de Barthezene, Count deLoverdo,and the Duke d'Escars; the Chief Engineer was General Valaze' and the artillery was directed by Count de la Hitte. The number of ships of war was one hundred and three, including eleven of the line, twenty-three frigates and seven steam ships; they were manned by twenty-seven thousand seamen, and carried more than three thousand guns. They were arranged in three squadrons; the Squadron of Battle commanded by Admiral Duperr6, who conducted the naval operations of the expedition; the Squadron of Diumkarkation by Admiral Rosamel, and the Squadron of Rome by Captain Lemoine. Between four and five hundred merchant vessels were engaged for the transportation of horses, provisions and materials, and many others were allowed to accompany the fleet, laden with various articles which might be needed. Of the equipments and accompaniments of this force, it would be difficult to convey an adequate idea, without entering into details which might not prove generally interesting; suffice it to say that no expense was spared to render them complete, and that nothing was neglected, which could contribute to the. attainment of the end proposed. Upon the whole, the armament was superior to any other which in modern times has crossed a sea; those led by Charles the Fifth against Tunis and Algiers, the famed Spanish Armada sent by Philip the Second for the invasion of England, and even the mighty expedition conducted by Napoleon to Egypt being each inferior to it in appointments, in naval force, and in the numerical amount of the persons engaged.

M things being in readiness the embarkation of the troops was commenced on the 11th of May, and having been conducted with the utmost order and precision, it was terminated in a week. On the 25th the wind being firorable the first squadron sailed out of the harbor; the second followed on the 26lh, and the third on the 27th. They directed their course for Algiers; it was however arranged that in case of separation by storm or other unexpected occurrence, the place of rendezvous would be Palma the capital of the Island of Majorca.

Scarcely had the first squadron quitted Toulon, ere it was met by a Turkish frigate escorted by one of the ships of the squadron which was blockading Algiers. The Turkish frigate bore no less a personage than Tahir Pasha the Capudan Pasha or High Admiral of Turkey, who had been sent by the Sultan with full powers to arrange the differences between France and the Dey. He had sailed first to Algiers, where he intended to command Hussein to accept the terms required by the French, and in case of refusal to depose him and take possession of the place in the name of the Sultan; but the commander of the blockading squadron off that place had received orders to suffer no ship to enter the harbor, and Tahir finding it impossible to land, hastened to Toulon in hopes that his representations might prevent the sailing of the expedition. Well was it for the Pasha, that he was not permitted to enter Algiers, for Hussein who knew of his approach and of the objects of his visit, had prepared to have him strangled as soon as he landed.

The Turkish Ambassador on meeting the French fleet, boarded the Admiral's ship, and had a conference with Bouraiont which of course proved ineffectual; he then continued his voyage to Toulon, where he

was placed in quarantine immediately on his arrival. Thence he attempted to transmit his communications to the Government, but great care had been taken to prevent them from reaching their destination. The British Ambassador asked explanations from the French Minister as to the objects of his visit, and endeavored to procure a hearing for him; but Prince Polignac adroitly evaded the questions, by confessing with the greatest apparent frankness, that he was entirely ignorant for what purpose the Turkish Ambassador was sent Tahir at length seeing that it was useless to remain longer, and have "his beard thus laughed at," went back to Constantinople.

Before the scene of the history is changed to Africa, it may be stated, that on the 15th of May, while all France was intent upon the preparations for the departure of the expedition, an ordinance appeared in the Moniteur dissolving the Chamber of Deputies. A few days after a partial change was made in the Ministerial Body by the introduction of persons still more opposed to liberal institutions than those whom they replaced, and still more odious to the nation at large. The French Ministry subsisted as thus organized until the 28th of July, when Charles the Tenth ceased to reign.



'Twas nightfall—and the stars their pale light threw Upon the Counties, and her joyous crew, Propitious heaven a friendly cool wind gave, That fanned them gently o'er the silvery wave: Upon the deck, mingled the gay and young, In giddy motion—while the pleasant sound, The lively note of merry music rung In lightsome echoes, on the water round. Oh! it is glorious, when on ocean far, A prosperous crew their jovial revels keep, Gazing on Beauty 'neath the midnight star, And dancing on the bosom of the deep.

Amid his mates, thick gather'd round the mast,
The laughing sailor whistles loud, and sings
Of storm, and shipwreck, and strange dangers past,
Of sharks, and crocodile, and all such things
As cat men up at sea—and then anon,
Of Heathen temples, and of Christian domes,
Of Greenland Beauties, in a freezing zone,
And dark-ey'd Donnas, in their sunny homes.

Far from the rest—pensive, and silently,
Mute as a statue, Sobieski stood,
A banish'd Pole—a gallant soldier he,
Of noble aspect, and of noble blood.
It wanted not the aid of tongue to speak,
All Sobieski had been—or was now:
The silent tear, upon his manly cheek,
The thick, deep furrows of his lofty brow,—
His faded lip, his melancholy gaze,
Told the sad history of gone-by days.
And closely by his side a frail girl clung,
The proud Pole's daughter: with a tearless eye,
And pensive smile—upon his arm she hung,
Like some pale being from the distant sky.

A breeze arose—it was a joyous breeze—
And as they hurry through the parting seas,
From highest mast the anxious tars look out:
"Land, land ahead!" the hopeful sailors shout.
It blew a gale—it blew a heavy gale—
With dexterous hand they furl the rattling sail.
A tempest came—against a frightful rock
The Carlies struck—hearts quivered with the shock.
"Down with the life-boat,"—'twas a fearful cry;
And oaths, and prayers, went mingling through the sky.
By raging winds and furious breakers lash'd,
'Gainst the tall cliffs again the Cortees dash'd—
On the white waves a scatter'd wreck she lay,
And the wild billows roll'd her mast away.

Slowly, but safe, the crowded life-boat bore
Its precious burden, to the nearing shore—
And as with breathless haste the thankful crew
Leapt on the land, all hands were safe but two;
But two were'wanting, two, and two alone,
The Polish Maiden! and the exiled one!

They two had linger'd on the Cortees, till
The hardy Captain, seeing all must fly,
Tore down a light boat; with a dismal cry,
And frantic rush, the slender bark they fill.
For life—for life—the weary sailors row'd.
For life—for life—Oh! 'twas a vain endeavor;
The little skiff o'erburden'd with its load,
Was slowly sinking in the waves forever—
Ah! which of them, with land in sight, could bear
To meet Death thus? Hope makes a coward brave,
And they who might have shudder'd in despair,
Kept fearlessly above the billowy wave—
The dexterous swimmers, reach'd the life-boat's crew,
And Sobieski could have reached it too;
But in one arm his terror'd child he bore,
And with the other battled with the sea:
Bravely he toil'd to gain the distant shore;
The rest were there already—only he,
And his wan daughter, with exhausted breath,
Were flying from the watery jaws of Death.
At length, the frenzied Pole beheld the land,
And eoger( with a Father's tender hand,
Fondly, he raised Pascobi's drooping head;
She trembled not—her terror all had fled—
The Polish maid was with the fearless dead!

The distant thunder murmur'd through the air,
The lightning gleam'd amid the clouds afar,
The hollow wind went whistling—low, away
On unknown journies. Light, and lovely day
Were brightly dawning on that lonely spot,
Where lay the victim of the direful storm,
So still—so pale—so beautiful—with not
An eye to weep for her. In holy calm,
And silent grief, her sire was kneeling by—
Pascobi slept, as free.from care as pain—
And 'twere a sin that e'en a father's sigh
Should wake that daughter into life again.

Once, Sobieski under Poland's sun
Had proudly lorded over lands his own—
And now, his Spirit could not stoop to ask
A Stranger to bestow on him a grave—
He took his pale child, 'twas a bitter task,
And buried her beneath the quiet wave.


Far 'neath the dim mountains

The daylight dies—
And Heaven is opening

Her starry eyes;
The Moon o'er the tree-tops

Looks down on the stream, Where the castle's broad shadow

Sleeps—dark as a dream.

From the Oriel-lattice

A bright Lady gazed—
Her eyes—sad—though tearless,

To heaven upraised.
Her brow was all paleness—

Yet beauty dwelt there—
A picture of sorrow

With raven dark hair.

She marked not the softness

Of dim vale and stream— The mist on the mountain—

The lake's distant gleam— She saw not the mimic

Dew-star in the grass, Nor the pale damp that hung o'er

The haunted morass.

She heard not the owlet's

Sad song from the wood— Nor the rush of his wings as

He sailed o'er the flood— Nor rapid hoofs ringing,

And neigh echoed shrill, As the hurrying horseman

Spurred over the hill.

Oh! her thoughts were far distant

Far—far—in the land, Where her gallant crusader

Held knightly command.
She prays for his safety,

Who sleeps in his gore
By the crimson-dyed sands of

Far Galilee's shore.

The dark waving cypress

O'ershadows his grave— A cross tells the pilgrim

Where sleepeth the brave— And the horseman who knocks at

The castle-gate,
Hath a tale for its Lady,

A seal for her fate.


The gourd mentioned in Jonah as springing up in one night, is in the Hebrew 'Kikajon.' St. Jerom and many others call it ivy. St. Jerom, however, acknowledges ivy to be an improper translation. The Kikajon, according to Galmet, is a non-parasitical shrub found in the sandy places of Palestine. It grows with rapidity, and has thick leaves resembling those of a


[From the French.]

There was found, under the Restoration, a man who was rammed The Cousin of the Married, and who merited the appellation by a course of industry and ingenuity truly singular. He repaired every morning to the office of the Mayor of the twelve districts of Paris, and stationed himself before the little grate, where are endorsed notices of all marriages about to take place. He read attentively the names of the affianced persons, learned their qualities, and informed himself of their fortune. When he obtained all this information, the ingenious Cousin made his choice, always deciding, however, in favor of that marriage which was expected to attract the greatest number of guests, and which promised the most sumptuous dinner. He would then buy an enormous bouquet, put on his fine black coat, a pair of open-work stockings and light pumps, and then take from his bandbox his new hat; so attired he would proceed cautiously among the carriages, with a buoyant step, to the church where the marriage ceremony was to be performed, join the crowd of attendants, and officiously offer to hold the nuptial veil. When the benediction was pronounced, he created himself Master of Ceremonies, leading the way to the carriages, giving his hand to the ladies, carefully lifting their dresses to prevent them from coming in contact with the coach wheels, shutting the coach doors and bidding the drivers proceed to the appointed hotel. For himself he was no less careful, as he always contrived to secure a place for himself in one of the carriages, so as to arrive with the rest of the company. It was then that he was brilliant, and then that his liveliness and gaiety served to beguile, with the company, the tedious hour before dinner. He had for all some remark to excite laughter— he rtpeated a pleasant little story, adapted to the time and circumstance of the assembly—he hastened the preparations for the repast—humorously recommended the guests to be patient, and to prepare their appetites for eating, and when all was ready he would announce the fact himself. He was the Major Domo of the house— the man indispensable—the commissary of the feast. Every voice was in his praise—"that gentleman is very amiable"—and if any one indiscreetly inquired his name, it was answered that he was presumed to be the parent or friend of the bride, or a cousin or an intimate friend of the groom.

But it was at the table, that his efforts to please were particularly conspicuous. He would post himself in the place of honor—seize the great carving-knife—cut up the meats with admirable promptness and dexterity, and carefully and politely wait upon every guest. He directed the servants, overlooked the courses, and tasted the wines. Then when the dessert was brought, he would take from his pocket a piece of pink paper, mysteriously unfold it, and sing from it a stanza in honor of the newly married couple, composed by himself expressly for the occasion. The good fellow knew but one little story and but one stanza, but he served them up every morning in a new edition.

Unfortunately this witty sharper was one day detected in his career of imposition. Seduced by the attraction of great names, he went to the marriage festival

of a rich nobleman of the Fauborg St. Germain. He had assisted at the mass—returned in an elegant barouche to the hotel—had glided unobserved into the parlor, and stood waiting for a suitable opportunity to rehearse his amusing little story, and to commence his impromptu remarks, so often before repeated. All at once he became the object of general attention; all at once he found all eyes fixed upon him. The mistress of the.feast had counted her plates and her guests, and had ascertained that of the latter there was one too many. She was astonished to find on inquiring the name of the Cousin, that no one knew him, and that no one recognized him as R friend. For the first time the Cousin of the Married lost his self-possession and his assurance. How was he to escape the gaze of the eyes fixed upon him? How was he to answer the questions which might be addressed to him? Presently, a gentleman advances towards him and asks —"By which of the married couple were you invited—on which side are you?"

"On which side?" said the Cousin of the Married, taking his hat, " on the side of the door;" and so saying, he quickly descended the stairs and left the house. Since that day no one has heard tell of him.

But if we have no longer the Cousin of the Married, we have now the Cousin of the Dead, an expression equally as significant as the first.

Ruined by the Revolution of 1793, the Count of V***, was obliged to accept of a very modest employment. In consequence of a change in the Ministry, the old clerk was compelled to leave his office, with no other resource to sustain life, than a miserable incomo of 400 francs per annum. He was old, and alone in the world. His strength did not permit him to labor, and by constantly dwelling on his poverty, he became melancholy, and subsequently fell dangerously sick. By carefully attending to the advice of a physician, who generously refused to accept the small sum the old man offered to give for his services, he became, in time, somewhat restored. This physician prescribed for his patient, on pain of a relapse, frequent exercise and a daily ride. You may judge of the poor man's embarrassment! How could he ride every day in the carriage, when his little income was scarcely sufficient to procure the essentials of life? The smallest excursion in a cabriolet cost twenty-five sous—one excursion per day would be four hundred and fifty franc3 per annum, and his whole yearly income amounted to only four hundred. At that time omnibusscs were not invented.

He was beginning to despond when the heavens sent him succor. In passing near St. Rock, he observed that the gate of the church was hung in black, and that a long line of vehicles were in waiting to conduct a funeral procession to Port La clue. The coachmen were on their seats, and their strong and beautiful horses, covered with the trappings of mourning, were awaiting with impatience, the moment of departure. The advice of the physician recurred with great force to the mind of poorV***—a feeling of jealousy glided into his inoffensive heart. He envied the fortune of those who could thus ride gratis—he envied, for one instant, the happy destiny of the deceased, in being conveyed to his last earthly home,in a splendid hearse, drawn by four magnificent horses. Fooling a curiosity to know the name and history of one upon whom fortune had so lavished Vol. II.—20

her favors, he entered the church and piously knelt down among tlie mourners. V*** had on his only black coat, and he was immediately taken for one of the friends of the deceased, and after the ceremonies in the church, was offered a place in one of the funeral carriages. The occasion was too opportune to be neglected, and he gladly jumped into the wished-for carriage.

On the way, a thousand ideas passed through his imagination. He thanked heaven for having furnished him with the means to fulfil, in so economical a manner, the recommendation of his physician. He accompanied the corpse to the grave—saw the coffin laid in the tomb, and on leaving the churchyard, he found the coach in waiting, and the coachman ready to convey him home.

Since that event V**+ has become the willing assistant of all public interments; and what was, at first, only useful as a means of exercise, has become for him a pleasure and a delight. He goes to a funeral as others go to the theatre, to a ball, or to a festival. He daily reads the lists of deaths in the city, and these lists are to him a journal, and the only one for which he conceives there is any use. Still more, he has taken lodgings opposite the dwelling of the undertaker, and every morning he crosses the street to converse with the undertaker, and inform himself of the burials of the day. He puts on his blue surtout or his black dress, according to the rank and fortune of the deceased, the expenses of the funeral, &c, and for all grand ceremonies he wears crape on his arm. V*** is now generally known by die title of the Cousin of the Dead. For fifteen years he has not missed a single funeral. His views are too liberal to adopt party feelings; he has assisted to inter Bellart and Manuel, Talma and the Bishop of Beauvais, a female follower of St. Simon and the lady Superior of the Convent of Minimcs, and he hopes to live to inter many other characters equally distinguished. He once presented to the Chamber of Deputies, a petition for a law interdicting the embalming of infants, by which the number of funeral processions is materially lessened.

The Cousin of the Dead possesses a remarkably expansive sensibility, and an extraordinary quantity of sympathy for the afflictions of others. He feels the grief of a bereaved mother, the despair of a heart-broken widow, the sorrow of a childless father, with the poignancy of truth. Many a legator, in noticing his sorrow at the grave, has taken him for a disinherited relative; many a mother has been gratified to see him shed tears over her favorite son, and many an husband, on losing a beloved wife, has been astonished at his grief over her remains. He composes funeral orations for all illustrious persons; the burial place is his life and his world. At times, struck with the appearance of grief depicted on his countenance, the friends of the dead have desired him to be the principal mourner.

One day.during the burial of a personage of considerable importance, the Cousin of the Dead was observed to shed an abundance of tears. One of the mourners approached him and desired that he would make a few appropriate remarks—jeler quelques flews sur le cereueil —on the individual whose remains (hey had just deposited in the cold grave. The procession closed around him as he prepared to speak.

"The tomb," said he, "is again about to enclose the remains of a distinguished citizen." He stopped for a

moment, and inquired, in a low voice, the name of the deceased. He was answered, "Auguslin Leger."

"Augustin Leger," he resumed, "was a man, grave and austere. His long life was but a continued series of virtuous and benevolent acts. He was entirely devoted to the holy, the legitimate cause of"

He was a regicide!

"The rights of the sovereign people. His disinterestedness"

He teas a usurer.'

"His laudable economy, his aversion to luxury, his unassuming and modest deportment, had gained for him universal esteem. But still more worthy of admiration were his virtues in private life—his patience, his humility, and his devoted and unchangeable attachment to the wife of his bosom, the lady of his choice."

He had been divorced!

"For his children he cherished the most affectionate and tender regard."

He had driven them from his house!

"Virtuous friend! May the earth rest lightly on thy coffin!"



And stepped at once into a cooler clime.


Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of The Andromache ?* Ignoble souls!—De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en est breve—assist me Spirit of Apicius!

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the Chausste D'Jtntin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Due De L'Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was "All for Love."

That night the Due was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau, he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadet.

He buries his face in the pillow—the clock strikes! Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of

the Due? "Horreur !—cAien.'—Bapliste !—/'oisfcn.'

ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tit as deshalilK de ses plumes, et que h< as servi sans papier.'" It is superfluous lo say more—the Due expired in a paroxysm of disgust.


"Ha! ha! ha!"—said his Grace on the third day after his decease.

"He! he! he !"—replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur.

"Why, surely you are not serious"—retorted De L'Omelette. "I have sinned—e'est vrai—but, my good

• Montfleury. The author of the Parnatse Rtfermf mikes him thus express himself in the shades. "The man then who would know of what I died, let him not ask if it were of the fever, the dropsy, or the gout; but let him know that it was of The Andromache."

Bt, consider!—you have no actual intention of putting such— such—barbarous threats into execution." "No tckst 7"—said His Majesty—" come sir, strip!" "Strip indeed!—very pretty i' faith!—no, sir, I shall net strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Due De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the' Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy, should direst myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre erer pot together by Rombert—to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?"

"Who am I ?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee just now from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no scanty dimensions."

"Sir!" replied the Due, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! In the meantime o« revoir!—and the Due was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in 'siting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes,yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelettc pronounced it Wen eomme tifaut. It was not very long, nor wry broad,—but its height—ah, that was appalling! There was no ceiling—certainly none—but a dense, whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like C , parmi les nues. From its nether extremity hung a large cresset. The Due knew it to be a ruby—but from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never dreamed of such when drugged with opium he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God Apollo! The Due muttered a slight oath decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were filled with statues of gigantic proportions, Their beauty was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their tout ensemble French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled—it was not colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'OmeleUe laid his hand upon his heart, closed his. eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in ablush.

But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth !—a thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here; for did he not paint the ~— f and was he not consequently damned? The paintings!—the paintings! O Luxury! OLove!—who gazing on those forbidden beauties shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames that lie imbedded and asleep against those swellings walls of eider down?

Bat the Due's heart is fainting within him. He is

not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de turtles ces clwses il a pinsi beaucoup—mais! The Due De L'Omelette is terrorstricken; for through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all fires!

he Pauvre Due! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted window panes, were the wailings and the bowlings of the hopeless and the damned! And there too—there—upon that ottoman !—who could he be?—he, the petit-mailre —no, the Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with his pale countenance, si amerement. *****

Mais il faut agir— that is to say a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L'Omelette is himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points also. The Due had studied

under B , il avail liti ses six hommes. Now then il

peul s'eehapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable,offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not fence!

Mais iljoue !—what a happy thought! But his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable" of the AbM Gualtier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas refuser unjeu d'Ecarli."

But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but not more desperate than the Due. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he not skimmed overPere Le Brun? was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un? "SiJt perds," said he, "Je serai deux fois perdu," I shall be doubly damned—voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders) Si Je gagne Je serai libre,que les cartes soient preparers!


His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence. A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought of his game. His Majesty did not think—he shuffled. The Due coupa.

The cards are dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king! No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart.

They play. The Due counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Due slips a card.

"C'est a vous a /aire"—said his Majesty cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the table en presenlant le Roi.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had the drunkard not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the Due assured his Majesty in taking leave "gues'u'n'efaii pas De L'Omelette tin''aurail point d'objection d'etre le Diable."

THE ILIAD. Mr. H. N. Coleridge says there would be no difficulty in composing a complete epic poem with as much symmetry of parts as is seen in the Iliad, from the English ballads on Robin Hood.

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