I know a hundred Breton knights, Would sell to make me free; To free me from thy hand." Prince Edward from the dais stepped down, "Give me thy hand!" said he, "Sir Knight, thou'rt brave as thou art proud And thou honourest chivalrie, And therefore like thy chainless soul, Unransomed, thou art free!" Then burst forth plaudits long and loud, And they sate till set of sun, And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he, And the old knight said, as he poured the wine, Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come, THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL. "TWAS when the harvest-moon came slowly up, Broad, red and glorious o'er dark groves of pine; In the hushed eve, when closed the flow'ret's cup, And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, Forth from a porch where tendrilled plants entwine, Weaving a shadowy bower of odorous things, Rich voices came, telling that there were met Beauty and youth, and mirth whose buoyant wings Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret, Gave man release from care or lured him to forget. And, as the moon rose higher in the sky, Casting a mimic day on all around, Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, That cast their chequered shadows on the ground; Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound, Like fairy revellers, in one place were seen; And gentle friends were slowly pacing where The dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen; And merry children, like the moonlight fair, With their wild, pealing laughter filled the perfumed Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee, When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane, The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore, The dark, dark night had gathered in the sky, And from the desert mountains came the roar Of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by.And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain Rushed burning love, and sense of misery, And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain Within his blessed home to be at rest again. Another year-and the relentless wave Had washed away the white bones from the shore; And mourning for his son, down to the grave Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar;The household festival was held no more; And when the harvest-moon came forth again, O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state, Her light fell streaming through the window-pane Of that old room, where his young sister sate With her down-drooped head, and heart all desolate. THE THREE AGES. How beautiful are ye, Age, Youth, and Infancy! Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full It dwells in pleasant places; Sees ever-smiling faces! Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks, No cogitations dark, no wily schemes; Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble; Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain; Life's cares have small companionship with thee! A child no more! a maiden now, A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow; Oh, youth! how fair, how dear thou art; Alas! that Time must take from thee Thy beautiful simplicity! Age, leaning on its staff, with feeble limb, Doth backward turn its eye, And few and evil seem the days gone by! Oh! venerable age! hast thou not proved all things, Love, Hope, and Promise fair, And seen them vanish into air, Like rainbows on a summer's eve! Riches unto themselves have taken wings; And Hope has been a traitor unto thee! Yet, venerable age, Full of experience sage, Well may the good respect thee, and the wise! For thou hast living faith, Triumphant over death, Which makes the future lovely to thine eyes! Thou knowest that, ere long, "T will be made known to thee, Why virtue is so weak, why evil strong; Age, Youth, and Infancy! These are your names in Time, When the eye darkens and the cheek grows pale; But in yon fairer clime, Where Life is not a melancholy tale, Where woe comes not, where never enters Death. Ye will have other names-Joy, Love, and Faith MOURNING ON EARTH. SHE lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow Fell trembling from her tongue. There were palace-houses round her; And pomp and pride swept by The walls of that poor chamber, Where she lay down to die. Two were abiding with her, The lowly of the earth,Her feeble, weeping sister, And she who gave her birth. She lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; Fell from her trembling tongue. "For love, the clinging, deathless, To leave the weak behind! "Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs REJOICING IN HEAVEN. "OH spirit, freed from bondage, The chief idol, called Juggernaut, is a huge unsightly figure of wood, bearing some distant resemblance to the human form: it is painted black, with a red mouth, and large red and white circles for eyes. The ceremony of drawing the car takes place in June, and it is calculated that about 200,000 pilgrims, three-fourths of them females, annually resort to this festival, of whom at least 50,000 perish by sickness, hunger, and fatigue, and by voluntarily throwing themselves under its ponderous wheels. THE winds are stirred with tumult-on the air On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll Such are thy creeds, O man! when thou art given To thy own fearful nature-false and stern! What were we now, but that all-pitying Heaven Sent us a holier, purer faith to learn? Type of its message came the white-winged doveWhat is the Christian's creed?- Faith, Hope and Love. Or are they daintiest meats Sent up on silver fine? Broad lands our fathers held; No, no, they are not these! or else, He would be poor indeed! They are not these! our household wealth It is the love within our souls- My heart is filled with gladness How bright, are rich men's children, But my heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes, Life's after, darker hours. HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. WHAT are they? gold and silver, Or what such ore can buy ? The pride of silken luxury; Rich robes of Tyrian dye? Guests that come thronging in With lordly pomp and state? Or thankless, liveried serving-men, To stand about the gate? THE MOSQUE OF SULTAN ACHMET AT CONSTANTINOPLE. YOUNG Achmet the Sultan ariseth to-day, Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan him, And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him; What aileth him then that he sitteth alone, "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, "Four pillars gigantic the whole shall uphold, O'er the desert, the Mufti still placed in the van; And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened speed. Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast! He seeth the mosque-he hath counted them o'er- 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 b il and bubble at a furious rate. The height of the snow-bed at Juno Would'st thou raise on this temple two minarets tree, is about ten thousand feet." 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 The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore 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 *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 enemics 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 Oн for some old mystery! Something that we could not know- There were islands in the ocean, Once upon a glorious time, Rich and bright beyond compare, There were cyclops once, and giants; 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 pros trate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment the cause of the janissaries became desperate. Great Phuosophy and Art! This is now the wondrous pair Have dissolved the carbuncle ; They will ransack all the land; Not a stone unturn'd will leave They have been where ne'er before Of the Hindoo's river-god! 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, Thinks of thee with love, not fear. Even the sour old gardener, Through the winter's iciest hours, As for me- - Oh, Madeline, Though thy brethren fierce and high Scarce would deign to speak my name, "Twould, 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; "T was 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, These, the common things of earth, |