The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

117
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),
"It works upon the fibers and the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health restores,
And it must help us here.--Thou must endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.
Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man:
I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."
Such was the counsel from his mother came;--
I know not if she had some under-game,
As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother;
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)
That such was her advice--the Sultaun took it.
All are on board--the Sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plow the main.
The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?"
They paused--"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince,
"Was call'd The Happy many ages since--
For Mokha, Rais."--And they came safely thither.
But not in Araby, with all her balm,
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
Could there the step of Happiness be traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:
She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.
"Enough of turbans," said the weary King.
"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I
Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!"--The vessel cuts the sea,