Thy hand has checked the beggar bold, ne'er to return again
To Ithaca, for straight shall he be sped across the main,
Epirus-ward, to Echetus, the terror of all mankind,"

So spoke they, and the king received the omen, glad of mind.

THE WHITE LADY.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF FREILIGRATH.)

BY J. C. MANGAN.

ONCE more the Phantom Countess, attired in white appears, With mourning and with wailing, with tremors and with tears, Once more appears a-gliding forth from pictures and from walls, In Prussia's gorgeous palaces and old baronial halls—

And the guards that pace the ramparts and the terrace-walks by night,

Are stricken with a speechlessness and swooning at the sight. O pray for Lady Agnes!

Pray for the soul of Lady Agnes!

What bodes this resurrection upon our illumined stage?
Comes she perchance to warn and wake a ghostless, godless age?
Announces she the death of Kings and Kaisers as of yore-
A funeral and a crowning-a pageant, and no more?

I know not-but men whisper thro' the land, from south to north,
That a deeper grief, a wider woe, to-day has called her forth.
O pray for Lady Agnes!

Pray for the hapless Lady Agnes!

She nightly weeps-they say so !-o'er the beds of young and old, O'er the infant's crimson cradle-o'er the couch of silk and gold. For hours she stands, with clasped hands, lamenting by the side Of the sleeping Prince and Princess—of the Landgrave and his bride;

And at whiles along the corridors is heard her thrilling cry“Awake, awake, my kindred!—the Time of Times is nigh!" O pray for Lady Agnes!

Pray for the suffering Lady Agnes!

“Awake, awake, my kindred! O saw ye what I see, Sleep never more would seal your eyes this side eternity!

Thro' the hundred-vaulted cavern-crypts where I and mine abide,
Boom the thunders of the rising storm, the surgings of the tide-
You note them not: you blindly face the hosts of Hate and Fate!
Alas! your eyes will open soon-too soon, yet all too late!"
O pray for Lady Agnes!

Pray for the soul of Lady Agnes !

"Oh, God! Oh, God! the coming hour arouses even the Dead; Yet the Living thus can slumber on, like things of stone or lead. The dry bones rattle in their shrouds, but you, you make no sign! I dare not hope to pierce your souls by those weak words of mine, Else would I warn from night to morn, else cry, 'O Kings, be just!

Be just, be bold! Loose where you may bind only where you must!'"

"I, sinful one, in Orlamund I slew my children fair :
Thence evermore, till time be o'er, my dole and my despair,
Of that one crime in olden time was born my endless woe;
For that one crime I wander now in darkness to and fro.
Think ye of me, and what I dree, you whom no law controls,
Who slay your people's holiest hopes, their liberties, their souls!"
O pray for Lady Agnes!

Pray for the hapless Lady Agnes!

"Enough! I must not say Good night, or bid the doomed farewell!

Down to mine own dark home I go-my Hades' dungeon-cell. Above my head lie brightly spread the flowers that Summer gives, Free waters flow, fresh breezes blow, all nature laughs and lives: But where you tread the flowers drop dead, the grass grows pale

and sere,

And round you floats in clotted waves Hell's lurid atmosphere!" O pray for Lady Agnes!

Pray for the wandering Lady Agnes!

She lifts on high her pallid arins-she rises from the floor,
Turns round and round without a sound, then passes through the

door.

But through the open trellices the warden often sees

Her moon-pale drapery floating down the long dim galleries.

And the guards that pace the ramparts and the terrace-walks by
night
Are stricken with a speechlessness and swooning at the sight,
O pray for Lady Agnes!

And myriads more with Lady Agnes!

THE SONG OF THE COSSACK.

(FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.)

BY REV. F. MAHONY.

COME, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on! The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on "the Don."

Pillage and death have spread their wings!—'tis the hour to hie thee forth,

And with thy hoofs an echo make to the trumpets of the North!
Nor guns, nor gold, do men behold upon thy saddle-tree;
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee;
Then fiercely neigh, my charger grey!-oh, thy chest is proud
and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample.

Europe is weak-she hath grown old; her bulwarks are laid low; She is loath to hear the blast of war-she shrinketh from a foe! Come, in our turn, let us sojourn, in her goodly haunts of joyIn the pillar'd porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy! Proud as when first thou slak'dst thy thirst in the flow of cor quer'd Seine,

Aye, shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood-red flanks again. Then fiercely neigh, my gallant grey!h, thy chest is strong and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample.

Kings are beleaguer'd on their thrones by their own vassal crew; And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too; And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to keep their bonds

men down,

And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's crown!

The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crozier and the

cross,

All shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEPTRE toss!

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey !—oh, thy chest is broad and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

In a night of storm I have seen a form!—and the figure was a GIANT,

And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all defiant ;

Kingly his crest-and towards the West with his battle-axe he

pointed,

And the "form" I saw was ATTILA! of this earth the scourge anointed.

From the Cossacks' camp let the horseman's tramp the coming crash announce;

Let the vulture whet his beak sharp-set, on the carrion field to pounce !—

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey!-oh, thy chest is broad and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

What boots old Europe's boasted fame, on which she builds reliance,

When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science?

Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions?

And tower and arch crush'd in the march of our barbarous battalions?

Can we not wield our fathers' shield? the same war-hatchet handle? Do our blades want length, or the reapers' strength, for the harvest of the Vandal?

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey!-oh, thy chest is strong and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

THE WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE KHALENDEERS.

(FROM THE OTTOMAN.)

BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

LA' laha, il Allah!

*

Here we meet, we three, at length,
Amrah, Osman, Perizad:

Shorn of all our grace and strength,
Poor, and old, and very sad!
We have lived, but live no more;
Life has lost its gloss for us,
Since the days we spent of yore
Boating down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
Old Time brought home no loss for us.
We felt full of health and heart
Upon the foamy Bosphorus !

La' laha, il Allah!
Days indeed! A shepherd's tent
Served us then for house and fold;
All to whom we gave or lent,

Paid us back a thousand fold.
Troublous years by myriads wailed,
Rarely had a cross for us,
Never when we gaily sailed,
Singing down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
There never came a cross for us,

While we daily, gaily sailed,

Adown the meadowy Bosphorus.

La' laha, il Allah!

Blithe as birds we flew along,

Laughed and quaffed and stared about;

Wine and roses, mirth and song,

Were what most we cared about.

* God alone is all-merciful!