him,

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,
And breaketh the stillness of night with his groan?
There is fear in his soul which no pride can gainsay;
There is blood on his hand which will not pass away!

"I have sinned," said young Achmet, "but I will

atone

For my sin by erecting a temple of stone;

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!"
The Mufti came up to young Achmet with speed,
Saying, "Sultan, what is it that thou hast decreed?
The mosque of the Prophet, thou know'st, hath but

four

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
Without question the number; the number was six;
He had counted them often, morn, noonday, and night,
Six tall, slender minarets piercing the light!

The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore
By his beard, that the minarets only were four:
He had seen them himself; he had counted them oft;
Four crescent-tipped minarets shooting aloft!

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 still every day by the prophet he swore,
That at Mecca the minarets only were four!
At length the day came when the pilgrims should spy
At distance the minarets piercing the sky;
The Mufti rode first on a fleet-footed steed,

And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened speed.

Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast!
What vision of terror before him hath passed!
He seeth the mosque-he hath counted them o'er-
Allah Kerim! six minarets!-Once there were four!"

Rich and bright beyond compare,
'Mid the waves, we know not where!

There were cyclops once, and giants;
There were unicorns of old;
There were magic carbuncles,

And cities paved with gold;
How the world has changed since then!
When will wonders come again!
Once there was a mystery

In a mighty river's springs;
Once, the cloudy tops of mountains
Veiled mysterious things!
Wondrous pleasant did it seem,
Of the vast and veiled to dream!

Once, together side by side

Sat the father and the child,
Telling by the glimmering firelight,
Histories strange and wild!
But philosophy and art

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;
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!

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,
Flowers were blooming 'neath the wall,
And from out the garden alleys
Chimed the silvery fountain's fall.
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 scorn Withereth like consuming fire.

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, "T would, 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;
"Twas 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.

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

The lowly lot of peasant folk,
Their humblest hopes and fears;
The pale cheek of a woman,
And even children's tears:

All circumstance of mortal life,
The lowly though it be;

And pure thought garnered in the soul,
The wealth of poesy -

Have made me, high-born Madeline,
Not quite unworthy thee!

And even on his homeward way
He stayed his willing feet,
To hear the boy a lesson say,
Or sing his ballads sweet.

Oh, city by the Lesbian sea,

Great glory 't is to know That Homer sang within thy street Some thousand years ago!

SMYRNA.

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 TroyThey 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.

OLIVER CROMWELL.

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 subservient,

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.

Thou wert of those who, in the turn
Of a great nation's fate, arise,
Her scorpion-whip, her teachers stern,
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 higher power controlleth man

Than his own self; his direst deed
Assisteth the benignant plan
Of the Supreme; his fiercest ban,
Of after-mercy is the seed!
We are not what we were before,
The melancholy monarch fell,

And Cromwell's spirit, like a spell,
Works at the nation's heart. Restore,

O God, without their crime, those steadfast souls once more!

MARSHAL SOULT.

THE MEETING OF THE WARRIORS-SOULT AND

WELLINGTON.

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,
And half a million people with them met,
Not girt with arms in slaughterous array,
With crimson banners torn, and swords blood-wet;
But each in his high place of honour set,
When all the bells of joyous London rung;
When window, balcon, roof, and parapet

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

brands!

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;
We have our Greenwich, Richmond, Hampstead,
Harrow,

To appease the popular rural appetite,
For which the crowded city is too narrow;
Thither the people throng, in dust's despite,
Of happiness to suck the very marrow;
Thither throng rich and poor, the grave, the merry,
In steam-boat, omnibus, and cab, and wherry.

The streets are stifling, bustling, noisy, dry;
Hot are the pavements as an oven-floor,
Dingy-red brick grows tiresome to the eye;
The bell, the knocker, and the green street-door
The weary senses quickly satisfy;
And then we send our gadding fancy o'er
Rich golden meadows deep in summer grass,
To leafy trees, and rivers smooth as glass.

And then we rush into the popular stream,
And find ourselves with very prompt good-will,
Borne down the silvery Thames on wings of steam,
Or dragged by horses up the Hampstead hill.
The Turkish people, solemn as they seem,
Of the dense city likewise get their fill,
And sally forth, athirst for flowers and trees,
To drain the cup of pleasure to the lees.

Unto the Valley of Sweet Waters bound,
Sails forth, brim-full of men, the smart caïque ;
And in their curtain'd chariots' depth profound
The women go in crowds, mouth, brow, and cheek
In muslin veil and shrouding yashmac wound :
"Tis wonderful how they can breathe or speak!
But 'tis the mode; and forth the chariot goes,
Guarded by negroes, drawn by buffaloes.

Although the cups of yaourt may be full,
Although each soul for pleasure deeply delves,
A Turkish pic-nic must be rather dull;
And these poor ladies, grouped in tens and twelves,
Can only tiny sprigs of pleasure cull,
Muffled and cushioned, sitting by themselves,
Especially when just at hand they see
The men who might be talking pleasantly.

Well, Mahmoud Second loveth reformation,
He hath done mighty wonders in his day;
He slew the standing army of his nation,
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,
Women and men may sit and talk together.

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;
All the wide earth the fertile and the fair,
Is one vast burial-ground!

Within the populous street;

In solitary homes; in places high;

In pleasure-domes where pomp and luxury meet,
Men bow themselves to die.

The old man at his door;

The unweaned child murmuring its wordless song;
The bondman and the free; the rich, the poor;
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 heart; 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-flower, decks

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 too good to wear.

LOUISA.

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?

CECILIA.

I too had dreams — but, what is better, I even now have had a letter!

LOUISA.

A letter! and from whom and whence? CECILIA.

You'll see the writer two hours hence!

LOUISA.

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

CECILIA.

And with him comes

THE ARRIVAL.

SCENE.-A Castle in the Scotch Highlands. Time five o'clock in the afternoon. - LOUISA and CECILIA in morning dresses.

LOUISA.

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!

CECILIA.

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

LOUISA.

Lord Erlington?

CECILIA.

The very same!

LOUISA.

Oh joyful day!

CECILIA.

But let us dress; time wears away; In two hours' time, or even less, They will be here!

LOUISA.

Ah, let us dress!

Two hours later-LOUISA and CECILIA dressed.

LOUISA.

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.

CECILIA.

Lovers we satisfy with ease,

"Tis 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!