Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief resorts of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation of seven thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea,

and is situated on the southern face of the ridge called the Landour Range, and overlooking the village of that name, which has been chosen for the eatablishment of a military sanitarium, for those officers and privates belonging to the Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains.

Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, half

dying under the burning sun of India, than the being removed into the fine, bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. All round him are the most sublime natural objects-the most stupendous rivers and mountains of the world, but all subdued into a character of astonishing beauty; while the growth of the hills, and of the very ground under his feet, must transport bim back into his native Britain.

And that strong love which was his life, sprang everywhere for him.

We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to love beguiled,

Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of comfort speak:

set free!

THE ODALIQUE.

THE FAVOURITE OF THE HAREM.

LARGE the eye, and dark as night;
Smooth the skin, as ivory white;
Small the foot, and fair as snow;
Rich the voice, yet soft and low;
White the neck, and round the arm;
Small the hand, and soft and warm;
Red the lip, and fair the cheek
Of the favourite Odalique!

Let her robes be silks and gold,
Round her waist the cashmere fold;
Let her velvet boddice shine
. With the treasures of the mine;
Let her turban, pearl-inlaced,
On her queenly brow be placed;
And her ivory finger-tips
Be rosy as her rosebud lips.

In the harem's brightest room,
Hung with silks of Iran's loom,
Breathing odours rich as those
Of the summer's sunniest rose;
Silken carpets 'neath her tread,
Arabesques above her head,
One of four she lingers there,
Fairest far where all are fair.

Odalique, the years were few
Which thy blooming childhood knew
In the vales Circassian,

Ere thy troubled life began!

Scarcely wert thou ten years old
Ere to strangers thou wert sold;
Parted from thy willing mother,
Parted from thy shepherd brother,
Parted from thy sisters twain,
With no hope to meet again!

Months went on, and years came by,
And the tear had left thine eye;
Grief was gone, save what but lent
To thy beauty sentiment:
And thy laughter might be heard
Joyous as a singing-bird;
And thy rich voice keeping time
To the zebec's merry chime.

Wherefore this? for thou wert still Slave unto another's will, Chosen for eye, and lip, and cheek, Not the wife, but Odalique! Wherefore then the joyous measure Of thy heart's unceasing pleasure? Wherefore then the love that lies In thy bright but serious eyes? And the voice whose lightest word Is like soul-touched music heard! Wherefore this? thou art but still Slave unto a master's will!

This it is that maketh thee Beautiful exceedingly That thy woman's heart pines not With an unpartaken lot; That the one thy love doth bless Truly loveth thee no less! This it is that makes thy hours Like a sunny path of flowers! That in eye and brow doth speak, Thou beloved Odalique!

THE TOMB OF ST. GEORGE.

"This romantic spot is on the route from Beirout to Tripoli, in the bay of Kesrouan, the shores of which display an exquisite verdure, cultivation, and cheerfulness; the villages and convents, one situated above another up the declivities, have a most romantic appearance. This strange excavation ap pears to have been once a chapel, and is commonly called the Tomb of St. George, our tutelar saint, whose combat with the dragon is said to have taken place at no great distance. On the opposite side of the bay is a Roman arch, and a beautiful rocky promontory. This spot is between Nahr-el-kelb and Batroun. The villages on the hills are neatly built, all flat-roofed, with little latticed windows; two or three of the larger edifices are convents, with a pleasant aspect towards the sea, each having its garden and vineyard: the soil is very fruitful. In the hills in the interior of Asia Minor, the rocks are not unfrequently excavated into a kind of chambers, an ciently sepulchral, but now inhabited by peasants and shepherds, and which offer to the traveller a warmer shelter than a ruined khan; the woods supply a good fire, and neither wind nor rain find a passage. Many of these rocks, pierced with ancient catacombs, present, at a small distance, the exact appearance of towers and castles: the people, as in the time of Job, "embrace the caverns of the rock for shelter, and dwell in the cliffs of the valley, flecing into the wilderness desolate and waste."

THE wondrous days of old romance
Like summer flowers are fled;

• Their mighty men; their lovely dames; Their minstrels all are dead!

The ancient times are gone indeed;
And where their forests grew
The corn waves green, and busy towns
Are thronged with people new.

Tintagel is a heap of stone;
And where Caerleon lay
We know not, all beside its name
Hath passed from earth away.

Gone are the knights of Italy;

The paladins of Spain;

And brave king Arthur in the dust,
Lies low as Charlemagne.

Sir Bevis and Sir Lancelot,

In England or in France,

Would meet with no adventure now
Worth lifting of the lance.

Throughout the land of Libya
Were good St. George to speed,
No fair king's daughter would he find,
From dragons to be freed.

The Guys of Warwick all are dead,
Or if they linger still,

No brave achievements they perform,
No dire dun-cows they kill.

The breast-plates and the caps of steel,
'Mongst common things are laid;
Even Wallace's two-handed sword
Is now a rusty blade.

The earth is not what once it was;
Its caves and castles strong;
Its monsters and its mighty men
Live but in ancient song!

Oh! wondrous days of old romance,
How pleasant do ye seem;

For sunlit hours in summer bowers,

For winter-nights a theme!

How have I loved from childhood's years
To call to life again

Brave prince, and paladin, and peer,
And those Caerleon men!

To see the steeds whereon they rode,
It was a goodly sight;
Such horses are not now-a-days,
So coal-black and so white!

Oh, 't was a wondrous pleasant thing,
When I was but a child,

To live in those old times, to meet
Adventure strange and witd!

And even still the charm is strong;
But 'tis not now as then,

For I see the tombs wherein they lie,
And not the living men!

VESPERS IN THE CAPELLA REALE.
1282.

"Twas on the Easter Monday, in the evening,
After the Sabbath of the Saviour's rising
Twelve hundred years, and eighty years and two,
From this same Easter Monday-that at vespers,
The blessed Saviour, who had not ascended
Yet to the Father, walked upon the sea-shore.

There met he six of his forlorn disciples,

Who, spirit-crushed and heart-sore, had that even
Gone out a-fishing. With them went the Master.
-Oh, love surpassing human understanding!
Oh, Friend, Instructor, Comforter, and Saviour,
Thou didst that night, when heaven was opened for

thee,

When angels and archangels were awaiting
Thy coming to the Father, with thy children,
Thy mourning, desolate, heart-broken children,
Yet go a-fishing!

"Friends, as was the Lord then,

Full of sweet love and pity for the afflicted,
So is he still! He pitieth all our sorrows;
He knoweth all our inward tribulations!
Ye who have trouble, call upon the Saviour!
Ye who are hopeless, fearful, or afflicted
In mind or body, call upon the Saviour!
Oh, all of ye, and I, for we are sinners,
Let us bow down and call upon the Saviour!
Oh Guide, oh Friend, oh crucified Lord Jesus,
Be with us, all of us, now and for ever!"

Such, in the royal chapel of Palermo,
Such was the sermon on that Easter Monday
Whereon the bloody Pedro, thence the Cruel,
Ordained at the holy time of vespers
To slay eight thousand Christian worshippers!

Low bent the crowd within the royal chapel,
White-headed men, mothers, and little children,
To bless the Lord! Even then the armed ruffians
Entered the holy place, and the white marble
Ran down with streams of blood!

NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.

This town has the distinguished honour of being the birthplace of Lords Eldon and Stowell, who were also both educated at its grammar-school. The eighth anniversary of the British Association for the Advancement of Science was held here during the autumn of 1838. On that occasion Dr. Buckland, referring to the many noble literary and scientific institutions which now adorn the place, remarked, that "twentyfive years ago he was in Newcastle, and the Literary and Philosophical Society was the only institution of a literary or scientific character; but in subsequent years many other societies had sprung up. It was in the recollection of persons now living, that before any of these societies existed in Newcastle, cock-fighting, and bull and bear baiting, were the recreations of the inhabitants; but in this latter day, how great a change! In the former period, Newcastle was chiefly famous as the centre whence radiated physical heat, and for its transcendent grindstones, which were celebrated from China to Peru: but now it gave out to afar, mental light and heatand was an intellectual whetstone for the minds of men."

A City-Street.

I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams, The wild-flowers fresh and sweet,

And yet I love no less than these,

The crowded city-street;
For haunts of man, where'er they be,
Awake my deepest sympathy.

I see within the city-street

Life's most extreme estates,
The gorgeous domes of palaces;

The prison's doleful grates;

The hearths by household virtues blest,
The dens that are the serpent's nest.

I see the rich man, proudly sed
And richly clothed, pass by;
I see the shivering, homeless wretch,
With hunger in his eye;
For life's severest contrasts meet
For ever in the city-street!

And lofty, princely palaces -
What dreary deeds of woe,
What untold, mortal agonies
Their arras chambers know!
Yet is without all smooth and fair,
As heaven's blue dome of summer air!

And even the portliest citizen,
Within his doors doth hide
Some household grief, some secret care,
From all the world beside:

It ever was, it must be so,
For human heritage is woe!

Hence is it that a city-street
Can deepest thought impart,
For all its people, high and low,
Are kindred to my heart;
And with a yearning love I share
In all their joy, their pain, their care!

VIEW NEAR DEOBUN, AMONG THE HIMALAYAS.

A SUMMER DAY-DREAM.

I SIT 'mid flowery meadows,
I list the cuckoo's cry;
I see the oak-tree shadows
Athwart the green grass lie.

Hard by, a little river

Runs shimmering in the sheen;
And silvery aspens quiver
Along its margent green.

I hear the warbling linnet;
The wild bee humming round;
And every passing minute
Gives some sweet English sound.

I see in green nooks pleasant
Small children at their play;
And many a cheerful peasant
That toileth all the day.
'Tis English all! birds singing,
Cool shadows, flowers, and rills;
And the village-bells' low ringing
Among the sleeping hills!

The quiet cattle feeding

In meadows bright as gold,
In pastoral vales exceeding
Their Arcady of old, -

Are England's, and surround me;
But far-off regions gleam
In golden light around me,
And shapes as of a dream.

Old realms of Indian story,
By witchery of thought,
Wrapt in a hazy glory
Before my soul are brought!
The Himalaya mountains,
The heavenly lands below,
The Ganges' sacred fountains
Beneath the eternal snow!

I see them like the vision
That fills the poet's eye,
A cloudland-world elysian
Built in the sunset-sky.

I see them in far ages
In primal splendour shine,
Peopled by kings and sages,
Earth's oldest, proudest line.
With them the great World-Giver,
As they believed, abode,
And, symbolled in their River,
Diffusing blessing, flowed.
The cities which they builded
With gold were overlaid,
The sceptres which they wielded
To rule the world were made.

Earth kept no hidden treasure,
Gold, marble, or rich gem;
And the water without measure
Poured out its wealth for them.

Upon their silken raiment
Was set the diamond-stone;
And kingly-given payment
Was but in gold alone.

While England yet was forest,
And idol-gods adored;
While yet her wounds were sorest
Beneath the Roman sword;

These kingliest of earth's children
Sate on their ivory thrones,
Their golden sceptres wielding
O'er myriad-peopled zones.

But the glory hath departed!
Earth's oldest, proudest born,
Gold-robed, imperial-hearted,
Lie in their tombs forlorn!

And the great River's waters
Are swollen with blood, not rain!
And Brahma's sons and daughters
Cry from the earth in vain.

Oh, Himalaya mountains,
Still, still ye stand unshaken;
Nor have the river-fountains
Their ancient bed forsaken!
Thou wast no god, oh River,

Or thou hadst risen in power, Thy people to deliver,

The spoiler to devour!

But, than the mountains stronger, And greater than the River, Ariseth the avenger,

To smite, and to deliver!

The God of earth and heaven
Ariseth to set free!-
Oh, England, thou hast striven
Against him! woe to thee!

THE NEW PALACE OF MAHMOUD II. A MIGHTY spirit is abroad! The same That gave th' unknown to Galileo's ken; That guided Luther's world-awakening pen; Whence Milton, Hampden, Sidney, souls a-flame With liberty and light, drew strength and aim! The same that to the great-souled Genoese, Compass in hand, and dreaming of far seas, With glorious visions of the New World came! Oh, moral renovation, that dost shake,

And overturn; dost often bathe in blood The earth's most gracious bosom, yet dost make All change, all desolation bring forth good, Spirit of love, thou hast lit thy torch benign Within the city of the Constantine!

THE MONASTERY OF SANTA SABA.

"And I would see, before mine eyes grow dim, The mountains and the Dead Sea's desert shore; And I would hear the brethren's vesper-hymn Chime to the Kedron's melody once more!

"Oh friends, the Saviour in the desert-place, Sustained the fainting multitude with bread; And in my mountain-cavern, with his grace Have I, his humblest little one, been fed.

SAINT Saba's hours were drawing to their close;
And, "carry me, my pious friends," said he,
"Into the chapel of my last repose,
Nigh to the waters of the dark Dead Sea!

"There have I gathered for my latest need,
Many a sweet token of the faith we hold,
Let us depart! my spirit will be freed
From its clay prison ere the day be told!

"The voice of God, while I was yet a child,
Called me from man and from his works to part;
I left my father's house, and in the wild
Wandered three days with meek, submissive heart.

"Upon the fourth I found an ancient man
Stretched on the rock, as if in mortal pain;
Friends, I am old, but his life's lengthened span
One-half my years had numbered o'er again.

"At sight of me he slowly raised his head,
And gazed upon me with a kindling eye;
"Tis well; I knew that thou would'st come!" he said,
Now list my missioned words, and let me die!'

"Therewith he told a blessed history;
As how his father had the gardener been,
Who kept the garden where the Lord did lie,
And who the ascending from the tomb had seen.

"Of the Lord's friends on earth, how much he told,
For them he knew, or they who had them known;
Far more than any written book could hold,
That day to my enlarged mind was shown!

"And of the Lord such living form he brought,
It seemed that I beheld him in that place;
That there I saw the miracles he wrought;
That I had converse with him face to face!

"Oh, wondrous knowledge! and from that day forth
I have not ceased to preach the blessed word;
For fourscore years and upwards, through the earth
Have I proclaimed glad tidings of the Lord!

"But in the city, 'mid the crush of men,
I would not ye should dig my lowly grave,
But carry me unto the Kedron's glen,
And lay me in the mountain's chapelled cave!

"For there I laid the old man's bones in peace,
And there would I my earthly part should rest!
Carry me hence! for ere the daylight cease
I must be with the Lord, a marriage-guest!"

THE GIPSY MOTHER'S SONG.

THE merry miller's rosy dame
Hath not a wish her heart to tame;
The baron's lady, young and fair,
Hath gold to spend, and gold to wear;
The Queen of England, richer still,
Hath all the world to do her will!