Cold the morning light has shone, Lonely stands young Raymond there. Hath a dream that will not part From that beating heart's recess; What that dream that lover's guess. Yet another year hath flown In a stately hall alone, And whose colour'd radiance throws Sits the fairy ladye there, First she sees her palace gate, With its steps of marble state; Where two kneeling forms seem weeping Of a gloomy forest close: A young and anxious palmer wait; For a year and for a day, Weary, weary had the hours Of our happy solitude, Link'd with every thing we love, As she heard her lover's tale, "Yes, if my true heart may be Worthy, Christian knight, of thee, By the love that makes thee mine I am deeply, dearly thine. But a spell is on me thrown, Hidden from each mortal eye Thou on those dark hours wilt pry, Gazing on one worshipp'd brow, As the bride that Raymond brought O, sweet love, could thy first prime Linger on the steps of time, Man would dream the unkind skies Soon a dark inquiring thought "Tis again the fatal day, He hath follow'd-wo, for both, Dark and still like some vast grave, Dimly doth the distant day While strange shapes and ghastly eyes 'Mid the spectral darkness rise. But he hurries on, and near He sees a sudden light appear, Wan and cold like that strange lamp Of the corpse and of the tomb. Close beside, with wild flowers laid, He will kiss away her tears. And to see him is to part And the shriek rings through the cell, Years have past since this wild tale- THE HINDOO MOTHER. SHE leaves it to the sacred stream, She used to sit beneath the palm, Her boy upon her knee; And dreaming of the future years, That were his own to be: She saw him with a stately steed, She saw him with his father's smile, Raymond, first Lord of Lusignan, died as a hermit, at Monserrat. Melusina's was a yet harsher doom: fated to flit over the earth, in pain and sorrow, as a spectre. Only when one of the race of Lusignan were about to die, does she become visible,-and wanders wailing around the Castle. Tradition also represents her shadow as hovering over the Fountain of Thirst.-Thom's Lays and Legends. The light has vanish'd from her day, No more his sunny smile will make Her heart and home are desolate, But for one dearest tie; She would lay down and die. The tide rolls on beneath the moon, IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO WIDOW. Shining afar. Shed fragrant oils upon her fragrant bosom, Until the breathing air around grows sweet; Scatter the languid jasmine's yellow blossom Beneath her feet. *Of the custom alluded to above, Mrs. Belnos gives the following interesting description:-" Hindoos of high caste burn their dead; but if unable to do so from poverty, are forced to throw them into the Ganges, after having performed the ceremony of burning the mouth with a wisp of straw. The expenses attending the burning of the dead are too great for any but the rich. When the infant of a poor Hindoo dies, the wretched mother takes it up in her arms, and carries it to the river, on the bank of which she lays it for some time on a piece of mat, or on the sands; she stands weeping over the body a little while, then retires a few paces back, where she sits down watching for the return of the tide to wash away the body, and to prevent the birds of prey and Pariah dogs from approaching it; at intervals she breaks forth in loud lamentations (something resembling a chant, which is often heard at a great distance) in the following words:-'O! my child! who has taken thee, my child! I nourished thee and reared thee, and now where art thou gone! take me with thee, O! my child, my child! thou play'dst around me like a gold top, my child! the like of thy face I have never seen, my child! let fire devour the eyes of men, my child. The infant continually called me mah, mah,(mother, mother ;) the infant used to say mah, let me sit upon thy lap! my child his father never stayed at home since he was born, my child! my child! but bore him continually in his arms for men to admire. What has become now of that admiration! Evil befall the eyes of men! O! my life, say mah again, my child! my child! My arms and my lap feel empty, who will fill them again? O, my sweet burden, my eyesight has become darkened, now that thou hast vanished from before it !" Those small white feet are bare-too soft are they | Thy mask to the many was worn not for me; To tread on aught but flowers; and there is roll'd I saw thee-can any seem like unto thee? Round the slight ankle, meet for such display, The band of gold. No other can know thee as I, love, have known; Chains and bright stones are on her arms and That love was no passion that walketh by day, i A fancy-a fashion that flitteth away. neck; What pleasant vanities are link'd with them, "Twas life's whole emotion-a storm in its might— She comes! So comes the Moon, when has she The heart had no powers from passion to spare. Like others in seeming, we'll walk through life's part, Cold, careless, and dreaming,-with death in the heart, Too dear are the fetters which wind round my No hope-no repentence; the spring of life o'er ; heart. Thy words were enchanted-and ruled me at will; I deem'd that I knew thee as none ever knew; true. I deem'd to my keeping thy memory had brought The depths that were sleeping of innermost thought. The bitter concealings life's treacheries teach, reach All died with that sentence-I love thee no more ! SCENES IN LONDON:-PICCADILLY. THE sun is on the crowded street, Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct, So stands it when the morning light It stands with darkness round it cast, Touch'd by the first cold shine; Vast, vague, and mighty as the past Of which it is the shrine. 'Tis lovely when the moonlight falls Around the sculptured stone, Giving a softness to the walls, Like love that mourns the gone. Then comes the gentlest influence The smoke, the noise, the dust of day, Sad shining on her lonely path, The moon's calm smile above, Seems as it lull'd life's toil and wrath With universal love. Past that still hour, and its pale moon, It is the busy hour of noon, The pressure of our actual life Is on the waking brow; Labour and care, endurance, strife, These are around him now. How wonderful the common street, How strongly is the present felt, All sounds in one vast murmur melt All hurry on--none pause to look None read, yet all must trace. The poor man hurries on his race, The rich man has yet wearier chase, All hurry, though it is to pass What doth the present but amass, The wealth that makes the past. The past is round us-those old spires But for the past, the present's powers WARKWORTH HERMITAGE.* THE lonely cavern, like a chapel carved, The scutcheon, cross, and altar hewn in rock; In marble there a lovely lady lies; An angel, with a welcome at her side, A welcome to the soul be beareth heaven. And near a warrior stands-the desolate! The wide earth only holds one tomb for him. Such must have been his history, who first Cut this sad hermitage within the rock: Some spirit-broken and world-weary man, * Warkworth Hermitage is situated about half a mile above Warkworth castle, on the brink of the Coquet river. This venerable retreat is probably the best preserved and the most entire work of its kind now remaining in the kingdom. It contains three apartments, all of them formed by excavation of the solid rock, and impends over the river clothed in a rich mantle of ancient trees, remains of the venerable woods which in olden times sheltered the inmates of this romantic solitude. Mr. Grose, in his Antiquities, "ventures to call the three apartments, by way of distinction, the chapel, the sacristy, and antechapel." The chapel is eighteen feet in length, by about seven and a half in width and height; and is beautifully modelled in the Gothic style of architecture. The sides are adorned with neat octagon pillars, branching off to the ceiling, and terminating in small pointed arches at the groins. At the east end is a plain altar, ascended by two steps; and behind is a little niche, in which was probably placed the crucifix. The sacristy is a plain oblong apartment, running parallel with the chapel. The remains of an altar may still be seen at the east end, at which mass was occasion. ally performed. Between this room and the chapel is a small opening, whence the hermit might make confession, and behold the elevation of the host. Near this opening is a door leading into the chapel, and over it a small escutcheon with all the emblems of the passion-the cross -the crown of thorns-the nails-the spear-and the sponge. On the south side of the altar is a cenotaph supporting three figures; the principal one being that of a female, over whom an angel is hovering; the remaining figure is a warrior, in an erect position, at the lady's feet. The beautiful ballad by Bishop Percy, in which he has recorded the traditional history of this hermitage, is familiar to the readers of English poetry. |