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Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan
And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him; There is gold for his telling, there's pomp to beguile, And beauty that liveth alone in his smile.
What aileth him then that he sitteth alone,
"I have sinned," said young Achmet, "but I will
For my sin by erecting a temple of stone;
E'en the mosque of the Prophet at Mecca shall yield,
"Four pillars gigantic the whole shall uphold,
Would'st thou raise on this temple two minarets more!"
"Go, fetch in the Hadjee!" the Sultan replied, "Who came in from Mecca but last eventide!Now tell us the minarets' number," said he, "Of the great mosque at Mecca - twice two, or twice three?"
The Hadjee bowed low, and he said he could fix
The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore
The young Sultan Achmet laughed loud, and replied, "That a band of good pilgrims the truth should decide;"
And as they reported, so soothly should be
His minarets' number twice two, or twice three!*
The Sultan Achmet, during the time of the caravan's march, had obtained two new minarets to be added to the original four of the mosque at Mecca, so that he accomplished his design of crowning his own erection with six minarets, without offending the piety of the true Mussulmans. So eager was he in the building of his mosque, that for an hour every Friday, after prayers, he laboured with his own hands, in order to stimulate the workmen by his own example. It is a remarkable fact, that the final extirpation of the janissaries, who had been the personal enemies of the Sultan Achmet, two centuries afterwards was effected in this mosque.
The reforming Sultan Mahmoud, who had determined on counteracting the influence of the janissaries, had ordered the sandjak-sheriff, or sacred standard of the Prophet, an object exhibited only on the most solemn and important occasions, to be unfolded with great pomp in the mosque of Achmet. No true Mussulman, to whom this was told, dared to resist the summons; thousands, and tens of thousands, rushed to the temple. The banner was displayed from the lofty pulpit of the Imaum, and the Sultan exhorted the people, by the
O'er the desert, the Mufti still placed in the van;
And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened speed.
Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast!
Rich and bright beyond compare,
There were cyclops once, and giants;
And cities paved with gold;
In a mighty river's springs;
Once, together side by side
Sat the father and the child,
Thrust the child and man apart.
faith they owed the Prophet, to rally round the sacred standard. A deep murmur of assent filled the dome, all fell prostrate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment the cause of the janissarics became desperate.
They will ransack all the land;
Soar above, and peep below;
Not a stone unturn'd will leave
They have been where ne'er before
Of the Hindoo's river-god!
Oh for some old mystery;
THE BARON'S DAUGHTER.
THE LAY OF A LANDLESS POET.
LOVELY Lady Madeline!
High-born Lady Madeline, What a heavenly dream had I 'Neath the moon but yester-e'en!
In thy gracious beauty bright,
In thy bower I saw thee stand, Looking from its casement out,
With my verses in thy hand.
Birds were singing all around thee,
Madeline, thy race is proud,
Fierce thy brethren, stern thy sire; And thy lady-mother's scorn Withereth like consuming fire.
How is it, sweet Madeline,
That thou art so kind of cheer,
Through the winter's iciest hours,
As for me- Oh, Madeline,
Though thy brethren fierce and high Scarce would deign to speak my name, "T would, for thee, be heaven to die! Madeline, my love is madness!
How should I aspire unto thee;
But did mate in her degree;
Which the chaplain bade me read, Not a page, but of thy line
Telleth some heroic deed.
And within the chancel aisle,
As for me my father lieth
In the village churchyard-ground, And upon his lowly head-stone Only may his name be found.
What am I, that I should love
One like thee, high Madeline! I, a nameless man and poor, Sprung of kindred mean. Without houses, without lands, Without bags of goodly gold; What have I to give pretence To my wishes wild and bold! What have I? Oh, Madeline,
Small things to the poor are great; Mine own heart and soul have made The wealth of mine estate.
Walking 'neath the stars at even,
Walking 'neath the summer's noon; Spring's first leaves of tender green, And fair flowers sweet and boon:
These, the common things of earth,
The lowly lot of peasant folk,
All circumstance of mortal life,
And pure thought garnered in the soul,
Have made me, high-born Madeline,
And even on his homeward way
Oh, city by the Lesbian sea,
Great glory 't is to know That Homer sang within thy street Some thousand years ago!
A STREET in Smyrna! Let me think-
In Smyrna long ago!
I care not although seven towns
From all the towns of earth!
And who shall say that when a boy
Yes, it was in this very street,
And there her boy sat at her side;
"And tell me more," said he, "Sweet mother, of the wars of TroyThey please me mightily!
"And tell me of the godlike man,
For I love the tale, and seem to be
And so Critheis told the tale
There sat she all the day and spun;
And Phemius on his way,
The mother she was meek and young;
And thus the mother and the boy,
The while his school he taught.
THE offspring of a troubled time;
To work heaven's will, in whom even crime Becomes to good subservient,
Such wert thou, Cromwell, in thy day,
The needful scourge, perhaps no less
Thou wert of those who, in the turn
Man of a million, not alone
For thine own will, thyself to please, Gave God unto thy hand the keys Of empire; made the ancient throne Of kings thy servile stepping-stone.
A higher power controlleth man
Than his own self; his direst deed
And Cromwell's spirit, like a spell,
O God, without their crime, those steadfast souls once more!
THE MEETING OF THE WARRIORS-SOULT AND
THEY met amid the bloody fields of Spain, When the swart peasant left his reaping-hook, And, heedless of the ripe ungarnered grain, A sharper weapon in his right-hand took, For other harvests; when the green hills shook With battle's thunder, and the carnage flood Swelled to a river many a mountain brook. There met they, and like gods of battle stood, Each girt with armed hosts, and all athirst for blood!
Again they met—'t was on a summer's day,
Were thronged with people, and with garlands hung,
And one "God save the Queen!" pealed from the nation's tongue!
There met they; and like brethren, side by side, Swelled the glad pomp of that great jubilee. -Oh proudest triumph of that day of pride, When met the nation's ancient chivalry, With ceremonial old, to reverence thee, Thou young and favoured Queen of many landsThat every neighbour-land and every sea With an according gladness clapped their hands, And, that those mighty warriors met with sheathed
THE VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS.
"Sweet Waters" does not imply that they are distinguished by any remarkable sweetness of taste, but simply that they are not salt. Two rivulets are so named by the Franks, one in Europe, and the other in Asia: their banks are rich and verdant, enammelled with flowers, and are places of resort, where gay and festive parties meet for recreation. At these pic-nics, even the members of a family never mix together. The unsocial jealousy of a Turk so separates the sexes, that the father, husband, and brother are never seen in the same groups with their female relatives. The women assemble on one side round the fountain, and the men on the other.
ALL cities have their outlets of delight;
To appease the popular rural appetite,
The streets are stifling, bustling, noisy, dry;
And then we rush into the popular stream,
Unto the Valley of Sweet Waters bound,
Although the cups of yaourt may be full,
Well, Mahmoud Second loveth reformation,
THE BURIAL-GROUND AT SIDON.
"The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be the castle of Louis IX., is without the town: the tall trees cast their shadow on the sepulchres, some fallen and ruined, others newly whited and gilt, and covered with sentences in the Turkish character, the head-stones usually presenting a turban on a pedestal. Several women had come to mourn over the graves of their relatives, in white cloaks and veils that enveloped them from head to foot: they mostly mourned in silence, and knelt on the steps of the tomb, or among the wild flowers which grew rank on the soil. The morning light fell partially on the sepulchres, and on the broken towers of the ancient castle; but the greater part of the thickly-peopled cemetery was still in gloom-the gloom which the Orientals love. They do not like to come to the tombs in the glare of day: early morn and evening are the favourite seasons, especially the latter. This Burial-ground of Sidon is one of the most picturesque on the coast of Syria. The ruin, of Louis, tells, like the sepulchres, that this life's hope and pride is as "a tale that is told." When the moon is on its towers, on the trees, and tombs beneath, and on the white figures that slowly move to and fro, the scene is solemn, and cannot be forgotten."
THE dead are everywhere!
The mountain-side; the plain; the woods profound;
Within the populous street;
In solitary homes; in places high;
In pleasure-domes where pomp and luxury meet,
The old man at his door;
The unweaned child murmuring its wordless song;
The sunlight gilds the walls
Of kingly sepulchres enwrought with brass;
The living of gone time
Builded their glorious cities by the sea,
There was the eloquent tongue;
They were, but they are not;
Suns rose and set, and earth put on her bloom,
And still amid the wrecks
Of mighty generations passed away,
Earth's boonest growth, the fragrant wild-flower, decks
The tombs of yesterday.
And in the twilight deep,
Go veiled women forth, like her who went,
The dead are everywhere!
Where'er is love, or tenderness, or faith;
Where'er is power, pomp, pleasure, pride; where'er Life is or was, is death!
A solitary grand old hall,
No, what with Henry's friend Sir John,
One ne'er pined for a human face,
Nor mourned o'er unsunned pearls and lace!
To bring Court-Aspley back to mind,
I can't think how they spend their lives —
Ah! I'd a dream at break of day, Nor hath the charm yet passed away! Why do you smile, sweet sister, say?
I too had dreams — but, what is better, I even now have had a letter!
A letter! and from whom and whence? CECILIA.
You'll see the writer two hours hence!
Ah, by your blush I know!-Sir John!
And with him comes
SCENE.-A Castle in the Scotch Highlands. Time five o'clock in the afternoon. - LOUISA and CECILIA in morning dresses.
Of what availeth blonde and lace
I can't conceive whate'er possessed
I'm sure our English country-seat Was quite enough of a retreat;
The very same!
Oh joyful day!
But let us dress; time wears away; In two hours' time, or even less, They will be here!
Ah, let us dress!
Two hours later-LOUISA and CECILIA dressed.
You wear no ornaments to-night,
Lovers we satisfy with ease,
"Tis husbands that are hard to please.
We get a glorious prospect there!