be sealed, but that he comes fortunately upon a something, that affords him a chance of escape:

Ha! yon object strange

A partial shelter may bestow,
And cheat their eyes' eluded range!
Forward he springs; not far aloof
A fabric rude and perch-like rose
High from the centre of the roof;
What may its farmost side disclose ?
'Tis hollow-happy chance, and lo!
A flight of steps conducts below.

Evelyn descends the steps; and the readers of romance will be less surprised than delighted to learn, that he soon finds himself in the presence of the beloved Zeila. A very tender scene then ensues; the lovers, surrounded as they are by danger, plight their troth to each other, and, in an agony of alarm on the one side, and of desperate but manly sorrow on the other, part, as the footsteps of Aminullah Khan are heard upon the stairs. Evelyn escapes through a secret door; and Zeila is left alone with her grief.

Evelyn makes his way through strange passages and dungeon vaults, until at last he emerges into the light of day, near the Chandoul gate, and finds the steed, which had been sent there by the faithful Zeila. Perceiving that it is the identical animal, that had rolled over with the fair maid, he mounts and gallops off

To safety and to Khan Sherin,

whom we are glad to see no longer classed among the rebels.

We are then again introduced to the conspirators assembled in Aminullah's halls; and somewhat surprised by the apparition of Akbar Khan, whom we did not expect to meet at so early a stage of the proceedings; as history asserts, with muchconfidence, that he did not reach Kabul, before the 25th of November. Aminullah is of course rejoiced to see him, and exclaims,

Allah! be praised! Oh! hour of pride,
Which views brave Akbar by my side.

Akbar, disclaiming all powers of eloquence, makes a long speech about patriotism; but the time for talking is at an end, and the conclave is soon broken up by the bombardment of the city :

Hark 'tis the boom of a heavy gun;
Full soon has the work of wrath begun;

A fearful crash! a well-aimed ball

Hath shattering rent the chamber wall;
Another boom. and the echoes tell

The rushing flight of the death-winged shell !
Up-spring the Khans-

and we are soon in the midst of the rebellion.

The events, which followed each other in such rapid succession through that perilous November, are but briefly recited by the poet. A hasty tribute, however, is paid to the memory of those who fell :

The martial spirits of after-days

Shall proudly re-echo their kindred praise;
Shall the wondering ear of their offspring court,
Mayhap with a faltering voice to teach,

How dauntless Raban o'er-crowned the breach,
In the storm of Sherif Mahommed's fort;
How there in his glory and youth he fell :
How fought-how died brave Mackerell,
Ere the Rickabashie's hold was lost,

To the murderous bands of the Yaghi's host-
How then the glorious Bird laid low
With his single arm, in tens, the foe;

How there, sword-gashed and pierced with shot,
Fell nobly the gallant Westmacott;
How Wyndham, Jenkins, King, to fame,
Bequeathed an undying and hero name;
How Leighton, Macbrea, Swayne, Robinson,

And Gordon, their heart's bright blood outpoured,
As their souls on warrior pinions soared

To the highest heaven, and glorious won

Their honour'd names from oblivion.

The passage, which follows this, though there be nothing very original in the conception, is among the best in the entire volume :

Midnight's silence dark and deep
Caressing laps the soldier's sleep,
Wearied, mid the morning's fray,
Or martial duties of the day;
Stretched upon the cold bare ground,
Rest at length his limbs have found.
Mayhap, mid his peaceful slumbers,
Foemen slain he boastful numbers;
Or, amid his dreamy trance,
Marks, with eye of proud disdain,
Fresh opposing foes advance

With flint of steel and quivering lance,
Ready to act on bloodless plain
Yestennom's fierce scenes again;
Or haply now his errant dreams,
O'er the severing ocean's foam
To the far off island roam,

Where the westering sunlight beams
On verdant meads and purling streams,
Round his merry childhood's home;
While above his joyous dreaming
Memory's blazoned wing is gleaming,
Each familiar voice recalling,
Each beloved familiar face,
Clothed in beauty's maiden grace,
Every joy ere while enthralling
Each emotion of his soul

With subtle art and love's controul.

Soldier! slumber on, nor wake,
Till the ruddy morning break:
Then thy weary couch forsake,
Martial trapping o'er thee cast,
For the trumpet's jarring blast
And the bugle's rousing note

Must o'er the camp's deep silence float;
Neigh of steed and tramp of men
Mingling with the turmoil then,

And the tone of high command
Coercing rank'd and filing band

Must, till the camp's awakened life,
Prepare it for the coming strife.

After a brief glimpse of the sorrowing Zeila, we come upon an account of the unfortunate affair of Behmaru :

Now fetterless incapacity

Lords it with mandate sternly high;
Inertness, culpably obtuse,

Has shorn each weapon of its use.

The poet does not attempt to veil the melancholy truth, but describes the rout of the British troops in a manner too humiliating for quotation.

The next canto brings us back again to the young lovers. In spite of war's alarms, they have contrived to meet at a convenient trysting place, and to snatch a brief rapture amidst the all-surrounding misery and strife. Evelyn is wounded at Behmaru; but he nevertheless carries his "cleft cheek" and "wounded hand" to the pressure of the fair Zeila, who tells him that Akbar Khan has determined to seize the person of the Envoy. On this Evelyn hurries off to McNaghten; but his warnings are disregarded. The conference takes place, and

the Envoy is murdered.

MacNaghten bleeds. That pistol shot
Hath reached his life's most vital spot.
He reels, he falls-the Ghazi throng
Rush round with yells of vengeance fierce :
They seize, they mutilate, they pierce ;
Adown the slope they drag along

The lifeless carcase; piecemeal hewn
At length around 'tis widely strewn.

The sixth and last canto is devoted to the retreat of the doomed force through the dreadful snow. Evelyn and Zeila have bidden adieu to each other, and the army has commenced its march. The sufferings of the unhappy troops and the more unhappy camp followers are traced from day to day with much painful minuteness. Evelyn toils and fights on through the cruel passes, but at last is stricken down and left upon a heap of slain. Here Zeila comes to seek him. Disguised as an Afghan youth, she has followed the remnant of the retreating army, and now seeks the body of her beloved ;

Slender of form, of youthful mien,
Around his brows a turban green;
The russet chogah, flowing wide.
May not the broidered nimchi hide ;
The kummerbund about him wound
Doth not, as wont, with arms abound;
An Afghan youth in peasant guise
Seems he, who thus all mournful plies,
Amid his slaughter'd enemies,
Some filial search of tears and woe ;
For mingling with the Kaffir foe,
Lie forms abundant weltering there,
Who Afghan form and features wear.

She succeeds at last in her melancholy search, and finds the bloody and seemingly stark corpse of her beloved; but, still not abandoning all hopes, tears the turban from her brow to bind his wounds, and then

the eager gusty wind

Doth now each raven tress unbind-
Scatters aloft with sudden whirl,
The beauty of each moon-lit curl,
And lo! reveals each softer trace,
That lines on gentle woman's face;
For 'tis a maiden's form, that bends
Above the dying soldier there;
It is a maiden's heart that rends,
Anguished and torn by deep despair;
A maiden's tear-flood, which descends
So affluent, and so scorching warm,
Upon that mutilated form.

It is, in fact, Zeila herself, who, faithful to the last, has come

to die with her Evelyn;—

Yes; yes, twas Zeila! Almighty pow'r !

Oh! comfort in this bitter hour!

Her Evelyn she had sought among
Those stiffening corpses strewn around;
At length that lov'd one she hath found,
In whom her last fond hope was bound,
Her heart's sole Lord, so dauntless, young,
To whom alone her being clung;
Oh! God, and thus to find him lying
Dead, oh! merciful Heav'n! quite dead;
Churl-churl! with utterance too all fled,
Nor yet one slenderest hope supplying!
Could but one tender accent fall
Upon her vainly listening ear,

Though worlds were all the risk-oh! all,
How proudly could she brave and bear.

In the agony of her grief she calls upon him to speak only one word to her; and, as she pours out her distracted sorrow, the body begins to move ;

It breathes-it palpitates-revives ;

Kind Heav'n! its death-hour still survives.

my

But the gleam of life is but momentary. The dying soldier opens his eyes, recognises his beloved, faintly murmurs own-own Zeila!" and expires. Upon which Zeila goes madand not improbably perishes in the snow, though the poet is silent on the subject.

We have now given some account of these three hundred and fifty pages of verse; and we turn, with something of a sensation of relief, to the notes which conclude the volumes. The most interesting of these are extracts from the author's "MS. Journal." Mr. Mackenzie has considerable descriptive powers, and he never appears to so much advantage, as when he is writing of what he has seen-jotting down the impressions of the moment. Then he is often picturesque, and minutely faithful in his details. The following is not a bad description of the Shor Bazar of Kabul:

The Shor Bazaar is the most beautiful and remarkable structure in Caubul. It was erected by the celebrated Ali Murdan Khan, some time Governor of Candahar, during the reign of Jehangir. He was a chief of great power and distinction, and possessed of such vast treasures as to have excited the cupidity of his master, the Shah of Persia, who endeavoured to obtain possession of his princely person, in order to divest it of its capital embellishment. To save his head and enormous riches from the cruelty and grasp of the rapacious Lion of the Sun, Ali Murdan yielded up Candahar to the Emperor Jehangir: and, being received with much kindness and distinction by that monarch, lived in ease and quietude for the remainder of a long and honourable life. His memory is perpetuated in the beauties of the Shor Bazaar of Caubul. It is a succession of four lofty arcades, two stories high, between fifty and sixty yards in length, and seven or eight in breadth, and separated by three open intervals, about sixteen or seventeen yards square; in the centre of each of these spaces is a small tank, or basin, coped with white marble, and supplied with a jet d'eau, for the refreshment and delectation of the frequenters and occupants of the