Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
Incurred the desperate displeasure
Of his serene and raging highness:
Whether he twitched his most revered
And sacred beard,
Or had intruded on the shyness
Of the seraglio, or let fly
An epigram at royalty,
None knows: his sin was an occult one,
But records tell us that the Sultan,
Meaning to terrify he knave,
Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath:
Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!
Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:
Silence, base rebel! no replying!
But such is my indulgence still,
That, of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying."
"Thy royal will be done--'tis just,"
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;
"Since my last moments to assuage,
Your majesty's humane decree
Has deigned to leave the choice to me,
I'll die, so please you, of old age!"
_Horace Smith_
* * * * *
THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.
In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen
With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green,
At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,
Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night.
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