I know a hundred Breton knights,
All men of high degree,
And each his old and fair domain

Would sell to make me free;
There's not a woman at her wheel
Throughout this chivalrous land,
That would not labour night and day

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,

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,
And cast delight and interest round his home:
Gaily she told, how sitting in that room

When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane,
He should, himself, his marvellous tales relate.
-Alas! encircled by the Indian main,
That night beneath a tamarind tree he sate,
Heart-sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on
his fate.

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!
She, with slowly tottering pace,
She, with light and youthful grace,
And the child with clustering locks;
All, all are beautiful!
For in them I can see,

Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full
Of the strong interests of humanity.
Childhood all sorrow mocks;

It dwells in pleasant places; Sees ever-smiling faces!

Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks,
These are its teachers and its lesson-books!
If chance a cloud come over it to-day,
Before to-morrow it hath passed away.
It has no troubling dreams;

No cogitations dark, no wily schemes;
It counteth not the cost

Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble;
Knows not how days are lost-
How love is but a bubble;

Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain;
Nor the heart sickening with a hopeless pain!
Oh, happy infancy!

Life's cares have small companionship with thee!

A child no more! a maiden now,

A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow;
A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye;
And all hearts bless her, as she passes by!
Fair creature, in this morning of her youth,
She is all love, she is all truth!
She doubteth none; she doth believe
All true, for she can not deceive!
Dear maiden, thou must learn, ere long,
That hope has but a Syren's song;
That Love is not what he would swear;
That thou must look before, behind
The gentlest need be most aware-
A serpent 'mong the flowers is twined!
I mourn, sweet maiden, thou must learn
Aught so ungracious, aught so stern!

Oh, youth! how fair, how dear thou art;
How fairer yet thy truth of heart!
That guileless innocence, that clings
Unto all pure, all gentle things!

Alas! that Time must take from thee

Thy beautiful simplicity!

Age, leaning on its staff, with feeble limb,
Grey hair, and vision dim,

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;
Love flattered to deceive;

And Hope has been a traitor unto thee!
And thou hast learned, by many a bitter tear,
By days of weary sorrow, nights of fear,
That all is vanity!

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;
Why love is sorrow, joy a mockery.
And thus thou walkest on in cheerfulness,
And the fair maiden and the child dost bless!
Oh! beautiful are ye,

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;
And the words of human sorrow

Fell from her trembling tongue.
"Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness
About my soul are spread,
And the waters of affliction
Have gathered o'er my head!
"Yet what is life? A desert,
Whose cheering springs are dry,
A weary, barren wilderness! -
Still it is hard to die!

"For love, the clinging, deathless,
Is with my life entwined;
And the yearning spirit doth rebel

To leave the weak behind!

"Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs
Of human woe and pain,
In this, the fiercest trial-hour,
My doubting soul sustain!
"I sink, I sink! support me;
Deep waters round me roll!
I fear! I faint! O Saviour,
Sustain my sinking soul!"

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

"OH spirit, freed from bondage,
Rejoice, thy work is done!
The weary world is 'neath thy feet,
Thou brighter than the sun!

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
Sound drum and trumpet, atabal and gong-
Strong voices loud uplift a barbarous song.
Vast is the gathering-while the priests declare
The seven-headed god is passing there.

On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll
From prostrate bodies crushes forth a soul;
Rejoicing such last agony to bear.

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?
Or golden, chased cups o'erbrimmed
With rich Falernian wine?
Or parchments setting forth

Broad lands our fathers held;
Parks for our deer; ponds for our fish;
And woods that may be felled?

No, no, they are not these! or else,
God help the poor man's need!
Then, sitting 'mid his little ones,

He would be poor indeed!

They are not these! our household wealth
Belongs not to degree;

It is the love within our souls-
The children at our knee!

My heart is filled with gladness
When I behold how fair,

How bright, are rich men's children,
With their thick golden hair!
For I know 'mid countless treasure,
Gleaned from the east and west,
These living, loving human things,
Are still the rich man's best!

But my heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes,
And a prayer is on my tongue,
When I see the poor man's children,
The toiling, though the young,
Gathering with sunburnt hands
The dusty wayside flowers!
Alas! that pastime symbolleth

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,
The strength of his sickness hath passed away;
No longer he feareth the might of his foes,
Nor is there aught living to mar his repose.

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!"
The Mufti came up to young Achmet with speed,
Saying, "Sultan, what is it that thou hast decreed ?
The mosque of the Prophet, thou know'st, hath but
four

O'er the desert, the Mufti still placed in the van;
And still every day by the prophet he swore,
That at Mecca the minarets only were four!
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.

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.

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
Without question the number; the number was six;
He had counted them often, morn, noonday, and night,
Six tall, slender minarets piercing the light!

The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore
By his beard, that the minarets only were four:
He had seen them himself; he had counted them oft;
Four crescent-tipped minarets shooting aloft!

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
His minarets' number twice two, or twice three!*

*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-
Something 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 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
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.

How is it, sweet Madeline,
That thou art so kind of cheer,
That the lowliest in the house

Thinks of thee with love, not fear. Even the sour old gardener,

Through the winter's iciest hours,
Works with cheerful-hearted will
If it be to tend thy flowers.

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,
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: