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One little glimpse sufficeth me,
I see the view I wish to see,
Two horsemen riding merrily!

"T is but my father and my brother!
Look sister, 't is indeed none other!

Now may your beauty fair befall!
Just look below the castle-wall;
Who rides bare-headed?


"Tis Sir John,

And by his side Lord Erlington!


And now I hear my father's laughter,
As he and Henry gallop after!




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-
ings tell,

My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst
love him well!"

“That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired


"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


"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


He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my

We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to
love beguiled,
Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite
drooping child.

"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


"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


To see the golden morning light array the peaks of snow!

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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!"



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.

Wherefore this? for thou wert still
Slave unto another's will,
Chosen for eye, and lip, and cheek,
Not the wife, 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!

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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!


"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;
And where their forests 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 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,
'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!


"Twas 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.

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!


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,
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.

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Oh, Himalaya mountains,
Still, still ye stand unshaken;
Nor have the river-fountains
Their ancient bed forsaken!

Thou wast no god, oh River,
Or thou hadst risen in power,
Thy people to deliver,

The spoiler to devour!

But, than the mountains stronger, And greater than the River, Ariseth the avenger,

To smite, and to deliver!

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"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,
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!

"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,
Sustained the fainting multitude with bread;
And in my mountain-cavern, with his grace
Have I, his humblest little one, been fed.

"The voice of God, while I was yet a child,
Called me from man and from his works to part;
I left my father's house, and in the wild
Wandered three days with meek, submissive heart.

"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;
As how his father had the gardener been,
Who kept the garden where the Lord did lie,
And who the ascending from the tomb had seen.

"Of the Lord's friends on earth, how much he told,
For them he knew, or they who had them known;
Far more than any written book could hold,
That day to my enlarged mind was shown!

"And of the Lord such living form he brought,
It seemed that I beheld him in that place;
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!

"But in the city, 'mid the crush of men,
I would not ye should dig my lowly grave,
But carry me unto the Kedron's glen,
And lay me in the mountain's chapelled cave!

"For there I laid the old man's bones in peace,
And there would I my earthly part should rest!
Carry me hence! for ere the daylight cease
I must be with the Lord, a marriage-guest!"


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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