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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!

relief: CECILIA.

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

love beguiled,

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

to God!"

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!




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!
The ancient times are gone indeed;

And where their foresis 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
Haih 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.

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

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 !

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 't is not now as then,
For I see the tombs wherein they lie,

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."


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,
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 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.
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!




I sit 'mid flowery meadows,

I list the cuckoo's cry;
I see the oak-tree shadows

Athwart the green grass lie.
Hard hy, 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!

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;
Nor have the river-fountains

And I would hear the brethren's vesper-hymn
Their ancient bed forsaken!

Chime to the Kedron's melody once more !
Thou wast no god, oh River,

“Oh friends, the Saviour in the desert-place,
Or thou hadst risen in power,

Sustained the fainting multitude with bread;
Thy people to deliver,

And in my mountain-cavern, with his grace
The spoiler to devour!

Have I, his humblest little one, been sed.
But, than the mountains stronger,

“ The voice of God, while I was yet a child,
And greater than the River,

Called me from man and from his works to part;
Ariseth the avenger,

I left my father's house, and in the wild
To smite, and to deliver !

Wandered three days with meek, submissive heart.
The God of earth and heaven
Ariseth to set free!

“Upon the fourth I found an ancient man
Oh, England, thou hast striven

Stretched on the rock, as if in mortal pain;

Friends, I am old, but his life's lengthened span
Against him! woe to thee!

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 ;
THE NEW PALACE OF MAHMOUD II. • 'Tis well; I knew that thou would'st come!' he said,
A MIGHTY spirit is abroad! The same

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,
And overturn; dost often bathe in blood

That day to my enlarged mind was shown!
The earth's most gracious bosom, yet dost make
All change, all desolation bring forth good,

“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;
Within the city of the Constantine !

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 ! "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.'



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 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!

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