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But murmuring thus, I sin! Dear friend, forgive a One little glimpse sufficeth me,
mother's gries, I see the view I wish to see,
And tell me of my son; thy words will bring assured Two horsemen riding merrily!
Tell me of each minutest look — even of his suffer'Tis but my father and my brother!
ings tell, Look sister, 't is indeed none other !
My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst LOUISA.
love him well!" Now may your beauty fair befall!
"I loved him well, oh, passing well! all he had Just look below the castle-wall;
been to thee Who rides bare-headed ?
Friend, counsellor, the spirit's life- - so had he been CECILIA. 'Tis Sir John,
to me! And by his side Lord Erlington!
Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails
to show LOUISA. And now I hear my father's laughter,
The scope of that mysterious good whose base is
human woe! As he and Henry gallop after!
“ Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was
never dim, And that strong love which was his life, sprang
everywhere for him. AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE. We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to
Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief resorts of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation
drooping child. of seven thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea. “For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless and is situated on the southern face of the ridge called the Landour Range, and overlooking the village of that name,
wounds oppressed, which has been chosen for the eatablishment of a military We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land sanitarium, for those officers and privates belonging to the of rest. Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains.
Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, hall Oh, what a joy it was to him to feel the cool winds dying under the burning sun of India, than the being removed
blow, into the fino, bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. To see the golden morning light array the peaks of All round him are the most sublime natural objects--the most
snow! stupendous rivers and mountains of the world, but all subdued into a character of astonishing beauty ; while the growth of
“What joy to see familiar things where'er his foot. the hills, and of the very ground under his feet, must transport bim back into his native Britain.
steps trod; The oak-tree in the mountain-cleft; the daisy on the
sod; “Tell me about my son, dear friend, for I can bear The primrose and the violet; the green moss of the to know,
rill; Now that my heart is stayed by prayer, that history The crimson wild-briar rose, and the strawberry of of woe!
the hill! But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength and pride,
“How often these sweet living flowers were bathed
in blissful tears, This only one-the gentlest one-sorsook his mother's For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone side!
years ; “That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired And sitting 'mong those giant hills, his boyhood round word,
him lay – The poet's heart, all tenderness, even from his boy. That sunny time of careless peace, so long since past hood stirred;
away. Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father's “ He told me of his English home; I knew it well place;
before ; Who was a daughter unto me, who ne'er did one Mine eyes had seen its trees, or ere my shadow embrace.
crossed the door; " How was it that he only left his home, his native The very sun-dial on the green, I knew its face land,
again ; He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my
And this small summer parlour with its jasmine
wreathed pane. band? That be whom I had looked to close mine eyes — to “ And thou! all thou hadst been to him, he told me ; lay me low,
bade me seek Died first, and far away! Oh God, thy counsels who Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of shall know !
comfort speak :
Oh, mother of the blessed dead, weep not; sweet
thoughts of thee, Like ministering angels at the last, the joyous soul
set free! “Oh, mother of the dead, weep not as if that far-off
grave Possessed thy spirit's best beloved —thy beautiful,
thy brave;' The gifted, living soul lies not beneath that Eastern
sod, All thou hast cherished liveth still, and calleth thee
Wherefore this? for thou wert still Slave unto another's will, Chosen for eye, and lip, and cheek, Not the wise, 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 FAVOURITE OF THE HAREM.
THE TOMB OF ST. GEORGE.
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.
“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 aspeet towards the sea, each having its garden and vineyard : the soil is very fruitful. In the hiils in the interior of Asia Minor, the rocks are not unfrequently excavated into a kind of cbambers, aociently 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 oor 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, fleciog into the wilderness desolate and waste."
THE wondrous days of old romance
Like summer flowers are fled; • Their mighly men; their lovely dames;
Their minstrels all are dead!
And where their foresis grew
Are thronged with people new.
And where Caerleon lay
Gone are the knights of Italy;
The paladins of Spain;
Lies low as Charlemagne.
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,
From dragons to be freed.
Or if they linger still,
No dire dun-cows they kill.
There met he six of his forlorn disciples,
" Friends, as was the Lord then,
Such, in the royal chapel of Palermo,
Low bent the crowd within the royal chapel,
The breast-plates and the caps of steel,
'Mongst common things are laid; Even Wallace's two-handed sword
Is now a rusty blade.
Its caves and castles strong;
Live but in ancient song!
Oh! wondrous days of old romance,
How pleasant do ye seem;
For winter-nights a theme !
To call to life again
And those Caerleon men!
To see the steeds whereon they rode,
It was a goodly sight;
So coal-black and so white !
When I was but a child,
Adventure strange and witd!
But 't is not now as then,
And not the living men!
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 apniversary 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 wbich now adorn the place, remarked, that "twentyfive years ago he was in Newcastle, and the Literary and Philosophical Society was the only instilution 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 betore 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 radialed physical heat, and for its transcendent grindstones, which were celebrated from China to Peru : but now it gave out to afar, mental light and healand was an intellectual whetstone for the minds of men."
VESPERS IN THE CAPELLA REALE.
1282. • T was 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.
A City-Street. I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams,
The wild-flowers fresh and sweet,
The crowded city-street;
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 ;
With hunger in his eye;
And losty, 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!
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.
With gold were overlaid,
To rule the world were made.
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!
VIEW NEAR DEOBUN, AMONG THE
A SUMMER DAY-DREAM.
I sit 'mid flowery meadows,
I list the cuckoo's cry;
Athwart the green grass lie.
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!
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,
And I would see, before mine eyes grow dim, Still, still ye stand unshaken;
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 sed.
“ 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.
And gazed upon me with a kindling eye ;
Now list my missioned words, and let me die!' That gave th' unknown to Galileo's ken;
“Therewith he told a blessed history; That guided Luther's world-awakening pen; As how his father had the gardener been, Whence Milton, Hampden, Sidney, souls a-flame
Who kept the garden where the Lord did lie, With liberty and light, drew strength and aim!
And who the ascending from the tomb had seen. The same that to the great-souled Genoese,
Compass in hand, and dreaming of far seas, “Of the Lord's friends on earth, how much he told, With glorious visions of the New World came ! For them he knew, or they who had them known; Oh, moral renovation, that dost shake,
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, Spirit of love, thou hast lit thy torch benign
It seemed that I beheld him in that place;
That there I saw the miracles he wrought;
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 ! "The monastery of St. Saba is in the wilderness of Ziph, and a few hours' distance from Jerusalem. A more dreary
" But in the city, 'mid the crush of men, situation cannot be conceived ; its walls, towers, and terraces, I would not ye should dig my lowly grave, are on the brink of precipices ; but could the world afford a But carry me unto the Kedron's glen, more sublime or memorable home? We sat down and gazed And lay me in the mountain's chapelled cave ! on the deep glen of the Kedron far beneath--the wilderness on every side, where David fled from the pursuit of Saul; and the Dead Sea and its sublime shores full in front, illumined by “For there I laid the old man's bones in peace, the setting sun. It was founded by this saint in the middle of And there would I my earthly part should rest! the fourth century, and bas ever since been a religious retreat of great fame. St. Saba died when nearly a hundred years of Carry me hence! for ere the daylight cease age. Feeling his end approach, he implored to be carried to I must be with the Lord, a marriage-guest !" his beloved retreat, that his bones might rest there, and here they have been preserved to this day.'
THE GIPSY MOTHER'S SONG.
SAINT Saba's hours were drawing to their close ;
The merry miller's rosy dame