Is there a spot where Pity's foot, Where Hope was yet a recent guest, They gave my hand the pictured scroll, A parent's long and last despair ; Which waits the time appointed dead. I thought upon the lone fireside, Begirt with all familiar thought, The future, where a father's pride So much from present promise wrought; it to be thrown into a charger of water; and when he had wiped it with his handkerchief, he recognised the features of his brother. He is said to have exclaimed, "Alas, unfortunate man!" and then to have shed some tears. CORFU. Now, doth not summer's sunny smile Love mine! how sweet it were to leave This weary world of ours behind, And borrow from the blushing eve The wild wings of the wandering wind. Would we not flee away and find Some lonely cave beside the shore? One, where a Nereïd dwelt of yore, And shelter'd in its glistening bowers, A love almost as fond as ours? A diamond spar incrusts the walls, A rainbow light from crystal falls; And, musical amid the gloom, A fountain's silvery showers illume The further darkness, as with ray And song it finds its sparkling way. A natural lute and lamp-a tone, A light, to wilder waves unknown. The cave is curtain'd with the vine, And inside wandering branches twine, While from the large green leaves escape The blooming clusters of the grape ;— Fruit with such hyacinthine glow As southern sunbeams only know. We will not leave it, till the moon But midnight Love to wake with thee, Thy voice the only sound I hear, While midnight's moonlit mystery Seems the full heart's enchanted sphere. Then should thy own low whisper tell Those ancient songs thou lovest so well; Tales of old battles which are known To me but from thy lip alone; Dearer than if the bard again Could sound his own imperial strain. Ah, folly of such dreaming hours, That are not, that may not be ours. Farewell! thou far Ionian isle That lighted for my love awhile, A sweet enchantment form'd to fade, Of darker days my life is made; Embittering my reality With dreams of all that may not be. Such fairy fancies when they part, But leave behind a wither'd heart; Dreaming o'er all it hath not known; Alas! and is such heart mine own? MANCHESTER. Go back a century on the town, That o'er yon crowded plain, With wealth its dower, and art its crown, Extends its proud domain. Upon that plain a village stood, Lonely, obscure, and poor; The sullen stream roll'd its dull flood Amid a barren moor. Now, mark the hall, the church, the street, The buildings of to-day; Behold the thousands now that meet Upon the peopled way. Go, silent with the sense of power, And of the mighty mind Go through that city, and behold Those walls are fill'd with wealth, the spoil Of industry and thought, The mighty harvest which man's toil Science and labour here unite The thoughtful and the real, And here man's strength puts forth its might Here labour'd by the mind, The product of that city, now Far distant lands consume; The Indian wears around his brow The white webs of her loom. Her vessels sweep from East to West; Her merchants are like kings; While wonders in her walls attest The power that commerce brings. From wealth hath sprung up nobler fruit, And many an happy English home The toil of early days. Had I to guide a stranger's eye THE NIZAM'S DAUGHTER. SHE is as yet a child in years, Twelve springs are on her face, Yet in her slender form appears The woman's perfect grace. * "In a speech last year, at the British Association, Mr. Brand well advised the members to take the manufacturing districts of England on their way to the north, and to explore the wonders there accumulated. Manchester is the great miracle of modern progress. Science, devoted to utility and industry, have achieved the most wonderful results. Intellectual advancement denoted in a taste for literature and the fine arts,-employment for the highest as well as the lowest ;-public buildings, liberal institutions, and all that can mark wealth, and a knowledge of its best purposes;-all this is the growth of a single century." Her silken hair, that glossy black, But only to be found "Tis parted in two shining braids With silver and with gold, And one large pearl by contrast aids And, for she is so young, that flowers Seem natural to her now, There wreaths the champac's snowy showers Around her sculptured brow. Close to her throat the silvery vest By shining clasps is bound, Scarce may her graceful shape be guest, 'Mid drapery floating round. But the small curve of that vein'd throat, Upon the ankle and the wrist There is a band of gold, In the bright girdle round her waist, Her face is like the moonlight pale, Strangely and purely fair, For never summer sun nor gale Has touch'd the softness there. There are no colours of the rose, Alone the lip is red; No blush disturbs the sweet repose Which o'er that cheek is shed. And yet the large black eyes, like night, A world of sad and tender dreams Too still and sweet to weep. Of such seclusion know we naught; Yet surely woman here Grows shrouded from all common thought, More delicate and dear. And love, thus made a thing apart, Must seem the more divine, When the sweet temple of the heart Is a thrice veiled shrine. The kandjar is the small poniard worn by Hindoo princesses. (37) DURHAM CATHEDRAL. THOSE dark and silent aisles are fill'd with night, There breathes no murmur, and there shines no light; The graves beneath the pavement yield their gloom, "Till the cathedral seems one mighty tomb. The Cross invisible-the words unseen That tell where Faith and Hope in death have been. But day is breaking, and a rosy smile Of promise, precept, or belief divine : What is that temple but a type sublime! Such was the moral night of ancient time; Cold and obscure, in vain the king and sage Gave law and learning to the darken'd age. There was no present faith, no future hope, Earth bounded then the earth-drawn horoscope; Till to the east there came the promised starTill rose the Sun of Righteousness afarTill, on a world redeem'd, the Saviour shone, Earth for his footstool-Heaven for his throne. COTTAGE COURTSHIP. Now, out upon this smiling, No smile shall meet his sight; And a word of gay reviling Is all he'll hear to-night, For he'll hold my smiles too lightly, If he always sees me smile; He'll think they shine more brightly When I have frown'd awhile. "Tis not kindness keeps a lover, He must feel the chain he wears; All the sweet enchantment's over, When he has no anxious cares. The heart would seem too common, If he thought that heart his own; Ah! the empire of a woman Is still in the unknown. 2 b LONG years have past since last I stood With showers in every passing shade, I thought if yet my weary feet I dream'd those valleys would restore; I ask'd for childhood to return, Surely the scene itself is changed! There did not always rest as now That shadow in the valley's depth, That gloom upon the mountain's brow. Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt Like treasures in some fairy hold, And morning o'er the mountains shed Her kindling world of vapory gold. Another season of the year Is now upon the earth and me; I must recall the loved and lost, I've wander'd, but it was in vain In many a far and foreign clime Absence is not forgetfulness, And distance cannot vanquish time. SCENE IN BUNDELKHUND. SHE sat beneath the palm tree, as the night Her lip is white with pain, and, spectre-like, Makes death so horrible that she will buy Its absence, though with blood-that blood her own, Once dearer that it ran in other veins : DISTRESS IN BUNDELKHUND.-The Sumarchar Durpun, of Feb. 22, contains a description of the horrible state of the native population of Bundelkhund, in consequence of the famine which has prevailed there for some time past. The price and scarcity of grain have put it far beyond the ST. KNIGHTON'S KIEVE. SILENT and still was the haunted stream, Feeble and faint was the moon's pale beam, And the wind that whisper'd the waving bough Was like the sound of some godless vow. Far in the distance the waters fell But the place where we stood was a quiet nook, An old oak tree grows near to the spot, One alone stood beside me there, The dismal silence I could not bear; A mariner wild from beyond the sea: I wish that he had not been with me. Over the gloomy well we hung, And a long, long line with the lead we flung; And as the line and the hook we threw, Darker and darker the waters grew. With gibe and jest that mariner stood, Quoth he, "when the line brings its treasure up, "I only wish it were fill'd with wine, But the eyes I'll pledge will lend a glow, "Though those eyes light up a cloister now, Little she recks of the veil and the vow; And let but the well yield its gold to-night, And St. Valerie's nun will soon take flight." Black and more black the midnight grew, Black and more black was the water's hue; Then a ghastly sound on the silence broke, And I thought of the dead beneath the oak. reach of the poorer classes, more particularly as there ap pears to be great difficulty in the way of finding employ. ment. For some time they obtained a miserable subsistance on byers, a sort of astringent and acid berry; but even this wretched supply has now ceased. A most appalling and pitiable condition of human misery is the consequence. Mothers have been seen to devour the dead bodies of their own children! "Thank God, thank God for light below, "Tis the charm'd cup that is flashing now;" "No thanks to God," my comrade cries, ""Tis our own good skill that has won the prize." There came a flash of terrible light, And I saw that my comrade's face was white; Then all was night-and I may not tell Years have past, yet that sinful man, "Twas the fairies carved that cup's bright mould, WINDLESHAW ABBEY. MARK you not yon sad procession, See the velvet pall hangs over Death itself is lovely-wearing But decay-the pulses tremble Is it not a ghastly ending For the body's godlike form, Thus to the damp earth descending, Food and triumph to the worm? I am indebted to a communication from Mr. Clarke for this legend. He has not stated the attempt to gain the golden cup, hidden in the well, to be an act so reprehensible as I have made it. However, I only follow common custom, in putting upon any act the worst possible construction. |