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Sir ROGER, planting himself at our historian's elbow, was very attentive to every thing he said, particularly to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the king of Morocco's head.
No azure-hued tahalia now Flutters about each warrior's brow; No crooked scimitars display Their gilded scabbards to the day. The Afric turbans, that of yore Were fashioned on Morocco's shore, To-day their tufted crown is bare; There are no fluttering feathers there.
I said nothing, for I had seen the latter part of Morocco's history working itself out, and knew that the improved relations between Great Britain and France had their foundation in the change of front that kept our Foreign Office from doing for Morocco what it has done for other states divided against themselves, and what it had promised Morocco, without words, very clearly.
Seven Moors in chains he led with him, And one arm's length aloof Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore In arms of double proof. His steed was swift, his countenance In a warlike scowl was set, And in his furious rage he cursed The beard of Mahomet! He shouted, as he galloped up: "Now halt thee, Christian hound; I see at the head of thy captive band My sire, in fetters bound.
"Let tyrants know, if ever I obtain The freedom lost by treason's wicked guile, False Afric's scourge I ever will remain, And turn to streaming blood Morocco's soil; That hateful Prince of Barbary shall rue The just reward which is his treason's due."
For the rank and file of us the Government roads and the harmless necessary soldier must suffice, until the Gordian knot of Morocco's future has been untied or cut.
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