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Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan him,

O'er the desert, the Mufu still placed in the van ; And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him; And still every day by the prophet he swore, There is gold for his telling, there's pomp to beguile, That at Mecca the minarets only were four! And beauty that liveth alone in bis smile.

At length the day came when the pilgrims should spy What aileth him then that he sitteth alone,

At distance the minarets piercing the sky; And breaketh the stillness of night with his groan?

The Mufti rode first on a fleet-footed steed, There is fear in his soul which no pride can gainsay; And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened There is blood on his hand which will not pass away!

speed. “I have sinned,” said young Achmet, “but I will Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast !

What vision of terror before bim hath passed! atone

He seeth the mosque-he hath counted them o'erFor my sin by erecting a temple of stone ;

Allah Kerim! six minarets !-Once there were four!"
E'en the mosque of the Prophet at Mecca shall yield,
And Santa Sophia, to this I will build!
“Four pillars gigantic the whole shall uphold,
With gates of brass, glorious and costly as gold;

And above shall domes, semidomes, cupolas rise,
With six slender minarets piercing the skies !"

By dint of untiring perseverance, we had at last reached The Mufti came up to young Achmet with speed, the confines of eternal snow. We found the river gliding ucSaying, “Sultan, what is it that thou hast decreed? der arches of ice. The most holy spot is upon the left bank. The mosque of the Prophet, thou know'st, hath but where a mass of quartz and silicious schist rock sends forth

five hot springs into the bed of the river, which bil and bubfour

ble at a furious rate. The height of the snow-bed at JamnoWould'st thou raise on this temple two minarets tree, is about ten thousand feet."

more!" “Go, fetch in the Hadjee!" the Sultan replied,

Oh for some old mystery! “Who came in from Mecca but last eventide!

Something that we could not knowNow tell us the minarets' number," said he,

Something that we could not fathom, “Of the great mosque at Mecca - twice two, or As it was long time ago! twice three ?"

Marvels strange have ceased to be –

There is now no mystery!
'The Hadjee bowed low, and he said he could fix
Without question the number; the number was six;

There were islands in the ocean,
He had counted them often, morn, noonday, and night, Once upon a glorious time,
Six tall, slender minarets piercing the light!

Fair, Hesperian islands blooming

In a golden clime ! The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore

Rich and bright beyond compare, By his beard, that the minarets only were four:

'Mid the waves, we know not where! He had seen them himself; he had counted them oft; Four crescent-lipped minarets shooting aloft!

There were cyclops once, and giants;

There were unicorns of old; The young Sultan Achmet laughed loud, and replied,

There were magic carbuncles, " That a band of good pilgrims the truth should de

And cities paved with gold; cide ;"

How the world has changed since then! And as they reported, so soothly should be

When will wonders come again! His minarets' number — twice two, or twice three !*

Once there was a mystery * The Sultan Achmet, during the time of the caravan's In a mighly river's springs; march, had obtained two new minarets to be added to the original four of the mosque at Mecca, so that he accomplished

Once, the cloudy tops of mountains his design of crowning his own erection with six minarets,

Veiled mysterious things! without offending the piety of the true Murgulmans. So eager Wondrous pleasant did it seem, was he in the building of bis mosque, that for an hour every of the vast and veiled to dream! Friday, after prayers, be laboured with his own hands, in order to stimulate the workmen by his own example. It is a

Once, together side by side remarkable fact, that the final extirpation of the janissaries, who had been the personal enemies of the Sultan Achmet,

Sat the father and the child, two centuries afterwards was effected in this mosque.

Telling by the glimmering firelight, The reforming Sultan Mahmoud, who had determined on Histories strange and wild ! counteracting the influence of the janissaries, had ordered the

But philosophy and art sandjak-sheriff, or sacred standard of the Prophet, an object exhibited only on the most solemn and important occasions,

Thrust the child and man apart. to be unfolded with great pomp in the mosque of Achmet. No true Mussulman, to whom this was told, dared to resist faith they owed the Prophet, to rally round the sacred standthe summons; thousands, and tens of thousands, rushed to ard. A deep murmur of assent filled the dome, all fell prosthe temple. The banner was displayed from the lofty pulpit trate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment of the Imaum, and the Sultan exhorted the people, by the the cause of the janissaries became desperate.

Great Philosophy and Art!

This is now the wondrous pair
That have compassed earth and ocean,

That have travelled air!
That with outstretched, pitiless arm
Have dispersed each fairy charm!

Have dissolved the carbuncle ;

Turned the cities' gold to dust; .
Slain the unicorns and giants;

Ta'en our ancient trust!
And that even now are gone
To the realms of Prester John!
They will ransack all the land;

Soar above, and peep below;
They will rend the rocks asunder;

Melt the eternal snow; Not a stone unturn'd will leave Each old mystery to unweave! They have been where ne'er before

Human foot hath ever trod;
They have found the real cradle

of the Hindoo's river-god!
Jumna's now and Ganges' springs
Are no longer sacred things !
Oh for some old mystery;

Something that we could not know; Something that we could not fathom,

As it was long time ago!
Pray, ye disenchanting pair,
Some old pleasant mystery spare !

How is it, sweet Madeline,

That thou art so kind of cheer, That the lowliest in the house

Thinks of thee with love, not fear. Even the sour old gardener,

Through the winter's iciest hours, Works with cheerful-hearted will

If it be to tend thy flowers. As for me - Oh, Madeline,

Though thy brethren fierce and high Scarce would deign to speak my name,

'Twould, for thee, be heaven to die! Madeline, my love is madness!

How should I aspire unto thee; How should I, the lowly-born,

Find fit words to woo thee! Every goodly chamber beareth

Proudly on its pictured wall, Lords and ladies of renown,

Richly robed, and noble all. Not a daughter of thy house

But did mate in her degree; "T was for love I learned by rote,

Long years past, thy pedigree! And in those old chronicles,

Which the chaplain bade me read, Not a page, but of thy line

Telleth some heroic deed.



Lovely Lady Madeline !

High-bom 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 oui,

With my verses in thy hand. Birds were singing all around thee,

Flowers were blooming 'neath the wall, And from out the garden alleys

Chimed the silvery fountain's fall.

And within the chancel aisle,

'Neath their banners once blood-dyed, Lie the noble of thy house,

In their marble, side by side. 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 ), 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,

But, more, our human kind; The silent suffering of the heart; The mystery of mind :

But thy thoughts were not of these;

Loveliest Lady Madeline, Would that, in that blessed hour,

I the folded scroll had been!

Madeline, thy race is proud,

Fierce thy brethren, stern thy sire; And thy lady-mother's scom

Withereth like consuming fire.

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THE offspring of a troubled time;
The appointed human instrument
Of mighty change; the agent sent

To work heaven's will, in whom even crime
Becomes to good subscrvient,
Such wert thou, Cromwell, in thy day,

The needful scourge, perhaps no less

The slave of thine own worldliness, But still a mightier, loftier sway Meted the work that on thee lay.

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Thou wert of those who, in the turn

Of a great nation's fate, arise, Her scorpion-whip, her teachers slem, From whom she hath, in blood, to learn,

Through suffering, to be wise ! 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 STREET in Smyrna! Let me think

of Smyrna nought I know, Except that Homer was a child

In Smyrna long ago!
I care not although seven towns

Contended for his birth,
Smyrna shall bear the palm away

From all the towns of earth!
And who shall say that when a boy

He played not in this street,
Or sat beside his mother's door

And sung his ballads sweet? Yes, it was in this very street,

Where stands that open door,
Critheis sat, and spun for bread -

The poet's mother poor.
And there her boy sat at her side;

“And tell me more," said he, “Sweet mother, of the wars of Troy

They please me mightily!
“And tell me of the godlike man,

Ulysses and his woes,
For I love the tale, and seem to be

With him where'er he goes !".
And so Critheis told the tale

Unto her sightless boy,
About Ulysses and his woes,

And of the wars of Troy.
There sat she all the day and spun;

And Phemius on his way,
Morning and night unto his school

Beheld them every day. The mother she was meek and young ;

The boy was blind; but ne'er
Had Phemis 'mid his scholars seen

A child so wondrous fair:
With such a glorious countenance ;

With such a thoughtful air.
And thus the mother and the boy,

Became a pleasant thought,
In the good heart of Phemius

The while his school he taught.

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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, Unto the Valley of Sweet Waters bound,
And half a million people with them met, Sails forth, brim-full of men, the smart caïque ;
Not girt with arms in slaughterous array,

And in their curtain'd chariots' depth profound With crimson banners torn, and swords blood-wet; The women go in crowds, mouth, brow, and cheek But each in his high place of honour set,

In muslin veil and shrouding yashmac wound : When all the bells of joyous London rung; 'Tis wonderful how they can breathe or speak! When window, balcon, roof, and parapet

But 't is the mode ; and forth the chariot goes, Were thronged with people, and with garlands Guarded by negroes, drawn by buffaloes.

hung, And one “God save the Queen!" pealed from the Although the cups of yaourt may be full, nation's tongue !

Although each soul for pleasure deeply delves,

A Turkish pic-nic must be rather dull; There met they; and like brethren, side by side, And these poor ladies, grouped in tens and twelves, Swelled the glad pomp of that great jubilee. Can only tiny sprigs of pleasure cull, -Oh proudest triumph of that day of pride, Muffled and cushioned, sitting by themselves, When met the nation's ancient chivalry,

Especially when just at hand they see
With ceremonial old, to reverence thee,

The men who might be talking pleasantly.
Thou young and favoured Queen of many lands-
That every neighbour-land and every sea

Well, Mahmoud Second loveth reformation,
With an according gladness clapped their hands,

He hath done mighty wonders in his day; And, that those mighty warriors met with sheathed He slew the standing army of his nation, brands!

He threw his soldiers' turbans all away;
Perchance he'll make another innovation -
The best of all!- and, if he like, he may

Ordain that henceforth, in the summer weather, THE VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS. Women and men may sit and talk together.

"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

THE BURIAL-GROUND AT SIDON. verdant, enammelled with flowers, and are places of resort, wbere gay and festive parties meet for recreation. At these pic-nics, even the members of a family never mix together.

“The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be the The onsocial jealousy of a Turk so separates the sexes, that castle of Louis IX., is without the town: the fall trees cast the father, husband, and brother are never seen in the same their shadow on the sepulchres, some fallen and ruined, others groups with their female relatives. The women assemble on newly whited and gilt, and covered with sentences in the one side round the fountain, and the men on the other.

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 envelAll cities have their outlets of delight;

oped them from head to foot: they mostly mourned in silence, We have our Greenwich, Richmond, Hampstead, and knelt on the steps of the tomb, or among the wild flowers Harrow,

which grew rank on the soil. The morning light fell partially

on the sepulchres, and on the broken towers of the ancient To appease the popular rural appetite,

castle ; but the greater part of the thickly-peopled cemetery For which the crowded city is too narrow;

was still in gloom-the gloom which the Orientals love. They Thither the people throng, in dust's despite,

do not like to come to the tombs in tbe glare of day: early of happiness to suck the very marrow;

morn and evening are the favourite seasons, especially tho

latter. This Burial-ground of Sidon is one of the most pictuThither throng rich and poor, the grave, the merry,

resque on the coast of Syria. The ruin, of Louis, tells, like lo steam-boat, omnibus, and cab, and wherry. 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 The streets are stilling, bustling, noisy, dry;

tombs beneath, and on the white figures that slowly move to Hot are the pavements as an oven-floor,

and fro, the scene is solemn, and cannot be forgotten." Dingy-red brick grows tiresome to the eye ; The bell, the knocker, and the green street-door

THE dead are everywhere! The weary senses quickly satisfy;

The mountain-side; the plain; the woods profound; And then we send our gadding fancy o'er

All the wide earth — the fertile and the fair, Rich golden meadow's deep in summer grass,

Is one vast burial-ground ! To leafy trees, and rivers smooth as glass.

Within the populous street ; And then we rush into the popular stream,

In solitary homes; in places high ; And find ourselves with very prompt good-will,

In pleasure-domes where pomp and luxury meet, Borne down the silvery Thames on wings of steam,

Men bow themselves to die.
Or dragged by horses up the Hampstead hill.
The Turkish people, solemn as they seem,

The old man at his door ; of the dense city likewise get their fill,

The unweaned child murmuring its wordless song; And sally forth, athirst for flowers and trees, The bondman and the free; the rich, the poor ; To drain the cup of pleasure to the lees.

All, all to death belong!

The sunlight gilds the walls
Of kingly sepulchres enwrought with brass ;
And the long shadow of the cypress falls

Athwart the common grass.

The living of gone time
Builded their glorious cities by the sea,
And awful in their greatness sat sublime,

As if no change could be.

There was the eloquent tongue;
The poet's beart; the sage's soul was there ;
And loving women with their children young,

The faithful and the fair.

They were, but they are not ;
Suns rose and set, and earth put on her bloom,
Whilst man, submitting to the common lot,

Went down into the tomb.

And still amid the wrecks Of mighty generations passed away, Earth's boonest growth, the fragrant wild-Power,

The tombs of yesterday.

And in the twilight deep,
Go veiled women forth, like her who went,
Sisters of Lazarus, to the grave to weep

To breathe the low lament.

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,
Shut up within its high park-wall !
And there, at least, was no despair
Our robes of price 100 good to wear.

No, what with Henry's friend Sir John,
And the young Lord of Erlington,
And Lady Peter's guests, and all
The people from Combe-Merival,
And Captain Matthews and his bride,
And all our London friends beside,
One ne'er pined for a human face,
Nor mourned o'er unsunned pearls and lace!

But I protest it was unkind, To bring Court-Aspley back to mind, With guests for ever on the floor, Even poor Miss Weld I now adore ! I can't think how they spend their lives These dull Scotch nobles and their wives The Macnamara and Mackay!

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 ?

You'll see the writer two hours hence!

Ah, by your blush I know ! - Sir John!

And with him comes -


Lord Erlington

CECILIA. 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.

SCENE.- A Castle in the Scolch Highlands.
Time five o'clock in the afternoon. - Louisa and
Cecilia in morning dresses.

Of what availeth blonde and lace
Here in this melancholy place!
My pearls have never seen the day;
Your emeralds they are stowed away ;
And my white satin! I declare, it
Will be quite passé ere I wear it!

I can't conceive whate'er possessed
Papa to take this eagle's nest,
Perched among mountains bleak and drear,
Without a decent neighbour near!
I wonder more what men can find
So vastly suited to their mind,
In riding o'er those moorlands dreary,
Through wild ravines so black and eerie ;
Past highland huts of turf and stone,
Whence peeps forth many a withered crone;
Through spongy bog, o'er mountains high,
To shoot at grouse that they might buy!

I'm sure our English country-seat
Was quite enough of a retreal;


You wear no ornaments to-night,
Not even a ring! — well, you are right,
You know his taste ; -- you can't do better
Than please a lover to the letter.

Lovers we satisfy with ease,
"T is husbands that are hard to please.
But truce to thought! You look your best,
Come when they will, you 're sweetly drest;
Marshall has used her utmost care ;
How well those pearls become your hair!
But let us to the turret-stair,
We get a glorious prospect there !

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