He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRANGHISTAN; But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane, He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain.

They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake, As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break; "Let me pass from out my deserts, be't mine own choice where to go, I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show."

And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came, Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng; He knew them false and fickle--but a Prince's word is strong.

How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel's prow Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now? Not so: from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance, And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France!

Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave, Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave. O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning vain, The text writ by the BOURBON in the blurred black book of Spain?

They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by GUIZOT; Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show!

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

The noble King of Brentford Was old and very sick, He summon'd his physicians To wait upon him quick; They stepp'd into their coaches And brought their best physick.

They cramm'd their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drench'd him and they bled him; They could not cure his ill. "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer, I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. "What is't," says he, "your Majesty Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabor'd me With potion and with pill: My hours of life are counted, O man of tape and quill! Sit down and mend a pen or two, I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord, and eke of Kew: I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two.

Prince Thomas is my eldest son, A sober Prince is he, And from the day we breech'd him Till now, he's twenty-three, He never caused disquiet To his poor Mamma or me.

"At school they never flogg'd him, At college, though not fast, Yet his little-go and great-go He creditably pass'd, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling. Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head-- In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned most pass his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse: While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a DULLARD, And Ned a GENIUS?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits."

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will as Brentford spoke it Was writ and signed and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turn'd him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard The good old King reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief: Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He falter'd in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onwards he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford-- That gentle king and just-- With bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentleman," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him (I mean to tax your bill); And, as you signed and wrote it, I prithee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain."

"Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing, Steps gayly o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it He clears it with a bound; But dulness has stout legs, Tom,