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!"

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.

*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

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!"

THE SOURCE OF THE JUMNA.

By dint of untiring perseverance, we had at last reached the confines of eternal snow. We found the river gliding under arches of ice. The most holy spot is upon the left bank,

where a mass of quartz and silicious schist rock sends forth

five hot springs into the bed of the river, which boil and bubble at a furious rate. The height of the snow-bed at Jumno

OH for some old mystery!

Something that we could not knowSomething that we could not fathom, As it was long time ago! Marvels strange have ceased to be There is now no mystery!

There were islands in the ocean,
Once upon a glorious time,
Fair, Hesperian islands blooming

In a golden clime!

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.

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!

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.

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:

"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.

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.

castle of Louis IX., is without the town: the tall trees cast "The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be the 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 tho 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!

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!

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;

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.