III.

Despotic power, that mars a weak man’s wit,
  And makes a bad man—­absolutely bad,
Made Ali wicked—­to a fault:—­’tis fit
  Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had
No curb upon his will—­no, not a bit—­
  Wherefore he did not reign well—­and full glad
His slaves had been to hang him—­but they falter’d
And let him live unhang’d—­and still unalter’d,

IV.

Until he got a sage-bush of a beard,
  Wherein an Attic owl might roost—­a trail
Of bristly hair—­that, honor’d and unshear’d,
  Grew downward like old women and cow’s tail;
Being a sign of age—­some gray appear’d,
  Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale;
But yet, not so poetic as when Time
Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.

V.

Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex
  His royal bosom that he had no son,
No living child of the more noble sex,
  To stand in his Morocco shoes—­not one
To make a negro-pollard—­or tread necks
  When he was gone—­doom’d, when his days were done,
To leave the very city of his fame
  Without an Ali to keep up his name.

VI.

Therefore he chose a lady for his love,
  Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear;
So call’d, because her lustrous eyes, above
  All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear;
Then, through his Muftis piously he strove,
  And drumm’d with proxy-prayers Mohammed’s ear: 
Knowing a boy for certain must come of it,
Or else he was not praying to his Profit.

VII.

Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair
  Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame: 
Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir,
  Boy’d up his hopes, and even chose a name
Of mighty hero that his child should bear;
  He made so certain ere his chicken came:—­
But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,
Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth!

VIII.

To-morrow came, and with to-morrow’s sun
  A little daughter to this world of sins,—­
Miss-fortunes never come alone—­so one
  Brought on another, like a pair of twins: 
Twins! female twins!—­it was enough to stun
  Their little wits and scare them from their skins
To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear,
Pulling his beard because he had no heir.

IX.

Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down
  This his paternal rage, and thus addrest;
“Oh!  Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown,
  And box the compass of the royal chest?”
“Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own
  I love to gaze on!—­Pr’ythee, thou hadst best
Pocket thy fists.  Nay, love, if you so thin
Your beard, you’ll want a wig upon your chin!”