LOUISA. One little glimpse sufficeth me, "T is but my father and my brother! Now may your beauty fair befall! CECILIA. "Tis Sir John, And by his side Lord Erlington! LOUISA. And now I hear my father's laughter, AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE. 44 66 But murmuring thus, I sin! Dear friend, forgive a mother's grief, dying under the burning sun of India, than the being removed into the fine, bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. All round him are the most sublime natural objects-the most stupendous rivers and mountains of the world, but all subdued into a character of astonishing beauty; while the growth of the hills, and of the very ground under his feet, must transport bim back into his native Britain. And tell me of my son; thy words will bring assured relief: -even of his suffer Tell me of each minutest look- My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst “That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired word, "I loved him well, oh, passing well! all he had been to thee Friend, counsellor, the spirit's life-so had he been to me! Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails to show The scope of that mysterious good whose base is human woe! Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief resorts of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation of seven thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea, and is situated on the southern face of the ridge called the Landour Range, and overlooking the village of that name, which has been chosen for the establishment of a military We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land sanitarium, for those officers and privates belonging to the Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains. Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, half The poet's heart, all tenderness, even from his boyhood stirred; Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father's place; Who was a daughter unto me, who ne'er did one embrace. "Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was never dim, And that strong love which was his life, sprang everywhere for him. How was it that he only left his home, his native land, He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to "What joy to see familiar things where'er his footsteps 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 the hill! of woe! But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength How often these sweet living flowers were bathed in blissful tears, and pride, This only one-the gentlest one-forsook his mother's For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone side! "For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless wounds oppressed, of rest. Oh, what a joy it was to him to feel the cool winds blow, To see the golden morning light array the peaks of snow! band? That be whom I had looked to close mine eyes-to lay me low, And thou! all thou hadst been to him, he told me ; bade me seek Died first, and far away! Oh God, thy counsels who Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of comfort speak: shall know! 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!" THE ODALIQUE. THE FAVOURITE OF THE HAREM. LARGE the eye, and dark as night; Let her robes be silks and gold, With the treasures of the mine; 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 Scarcely wert thou ten years old Months went on, and years came by, And thy laughter might be heard And thy rich voice keeping time Wherefore this? for thou wert still This it is that maketh thee That the one thy love doth bless THE TOMB OF ST. GEORGE. "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 appears 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 aspect towards the sea, each having its garden and vineyard: the soil is very fruitful. In the hills in the interior of Asia Minor, the rocks are not unfrequently excavated into a kind of chambers, anciently 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 nor 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 cliff's of the valley, fleeing into the wilderness desolate and waste." THE wondrous days of old romance Like summer flowers are fled; Their mighty men; their lovely dames; Their minstrels all are dead! The ancient times are gone indeed; The corn waves green, and busy towns Tintagel is a heap of stone; And where Caerleon lay We know not, all beside its name Hath 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. The breast-plates and the caps of steel, The earth is not what once it was; 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 Brave prince, and paladin, and peer, 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; VESPERS IN THE CAPELLA REALE. "Twas on the Easter Monday, in the evening, There met he six of his forlorn disciples, 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! NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 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 anniversary 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 which now adorn the place, remarked, that "twentyfive years ago he was in Newcastle, and the Literary and Philosophical Society was the only institution 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 before 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 radiated physical heat, and for its transcendent 'grindstones, which were celebrated from China to Peru: but now it gave out to afar, mental light and heatand was an intellectual whetstone for the minds of men." A City-Street. I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams, For haunts of man, where'er they be, Oh, Himalaya mountains, Thou wast no god, oh River, The spoiler to devour! But, than the mountains stronger, And greater than the River, Ariseth the avenger, To smite, and to deliver! "The monastery of St. Saba is in the wilderness of Ziph, and a few hours' distance from Jerusalem. A more dreary situation cannot be conceived; its walls, towers, and terraces, are on the brink of precipices; but could the world afford a more sublime or memorable home? We sat down and gazed 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 the setting sun. It was founded by this saint in the middle of the fourth century, and has ever since been a religious retreat of great fame. St. Saba died when nearly a hundred years of age. Feeling his end approach, he implored to be carried to 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, "And I would see, before mine eyes grow dim, 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, "The voice of God, while I was yet a child, "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. "At sight of me he slowly raised his head, And gazed upon me with a kindling eye; • "Tis well; I knew that thou would'st come!' he said, 'Now list my missioned words, and let me die!' "Therewith he told a blessed history; "Of the Lord's friends on earth, how much he told, "And of the Lord such living form he brought, 64 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! "But in the city, 'mid the crush of men, "For there I laid the old man's bones in peace, THE GIPSY MOTHER'S SONG. THE merry miller's rosy dame |