The sunbeams over the white world shine, And we carry with us the purple wine. The sledge is yoked, and away we go, Beneath the firs, o'er the soundless snow.

She made them lonely, 'twas she flung the stain, I slew her while sleeping-I'd slay her again.

O sweet bird, that lovest in that old tree to sing,

Whose home is the free air, I envy thy wing, Yet where'er those wild wings my spirit might bear,

She still must be with me, the false and the fair.

DUNOLD MILL-HOLE,*

IN THE VILLAGE OF KELLET, ABOUT FIVE MILES FROM

LANCASTER.

I FLY from the face of my foe in his might, I ask from the sky but the shadow of night, I am lonely, yet dread lest the wandering wind Should bring me the step or the voice of my

kind.

I hear the soft voices that sing in the cave, When from the rent limestone out-gushes the

wave;

While the echoes that haunt the dim caverns repeat,

The music they make in repeating more sweet.

There are colours like rainbows spread over the wall,

For the damps treasure sunbeams wherever they fall;

In each little nook where the daylight finds room Wild flow'rets like fairy gifts burst into bloom.

The small lakes are mirrors, which give back

the sky,

The stars in their depths on a dark midnight lie,
I gaze not on heaven-I dare not look there,
But I watch the deep shadows, and know my de-
spair.

From the sparry roof falls a perpetual shower,
Doth nature then weep o'er some evil-starr'd hour,
While memory all that it mourns for endears,
Such sorrow is gentle, for blessed are tears.
I weep not, I sit in my silence alone,
My heart, like the rock that surrounds
stone,

RUINS ABOUT THE TAJ MAHAL.

AN arid plain leads to the luxuriant gardens which still adorn the mausoleum where Nour Jahan and the lovely partner of his throne "sleep the sleep that knows no

waking." Ponds of gold and silver fish are the common ornaments of a great man's grounds in India. They are covered after sunset with a gauze frame, to protect them from their various nightly enemies. Notwithstanding the care taken for their preservation, they often become the prey of the kingfisher. Tombs in India are palaces, vast and immutable as the slumbers which they cover. As if to add the contrast of natural fertility to human decay, the garden always surrounds the grave.

MOURNFULLY they pass away,
The dearest and the fairest;
Beauty, thou art common clay,
Common doom thou sharest.
Though the rose bestow its dyes
For a blush too tender;

Though the stars endow thine eyes
With their midnight splendour.

Though thy smiles around thee fling Atmosphere elysian;

Though thy presence seems to spring Like a poet's vision;

Though the full heart worship thee, Like a thing enchanted;

Though the cold earth common be,

When thy touch is wanted:

me,

is

Yet thou dost decay and die, And beside thee perish

Beside me forever a pale shadow stands, My hands clasp for prayer, but there's blood on those hands.

I rue not my anger-I rue but my shame: Let my old halls be lonely, and perish my name!

A rugged path leads to this beautiful and spacious cavern, which may well, in former days, have been the place of refuge supposed in the foregoing poem. The brook which runs through it is broken by the pointed rock into many waterfalls, and also feeds several small lakes; a spring trickles from the roof, and the sides are covered with a profusion of moss, and weeds, and wild flowers. Like most of these caverns, the walls are covered with sparry incrustations.

All that grew beneath thine eye,

All that we wont cherish,
Every gentle hope and thought
Which thou bearest hither;

Hues from thine own heaven brought,
Hues thou takest thither.

Fare thee well-thou soon art flown
From a world that loved thee;
Heaven, that claims thee for its own,
Soon from us removed thee.
Here thy shadows only come,
Fleeting, though divinest;
But in thine eternal home
Steadfastly thou shinest.

THE WIDOW'S MITE.

IT is the fruit of waking hours

When others are asleep,

When moaning round the low thatch'd roof The winds of winter creep.

It is the fruit of summer days

Past in a gloomy room, When others are abroad to taste The pleasant morning bloom.

'Tis given from a scanty store

And miss'd while it is given: "Tis given-for the claims of earth Are less than those of heaven.

Few save the poor feel for the poor, The rich know not how hard

It is to be of needful food

And needful rest debarr'd.

Their paths are paths of plenteousness;

They sleep on silk and down, And never think how heavily The weary head lies down.

They know not of the scanty meal
With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth,
When snow is on the ground.

They never by their window sit,
And see the gay pass by;
Yet take their weary work again,
Though with a mournful eye.

The rich, they give-they miss it not— A blessing cannot be

Like that which rests, thou widow'd one, Upon thy gift and thee!

SIR THOMAS HARDY,

GOVERNOR OF GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

SILENCE is now upon the seas,
The silent seas of yore;
The thunder of the cannonade

Awakes the wave no more.

The battle-flag droops o'er the mast,
There quiet let it sleep;

For it hath won in wilder hours
Its empire o'er the deep.

Now let it wave above their home,

Of those who fought afar;
The victors of the Baltic sea,
The brave of Trafalgar.

Upon a terrace by the Thames,
I saw the Admiral stand;
He who received the latest clasp*
Of Nelson's dying hand.

Age, toil, and care had somewhat bow'd
His bearing proud and high;
But yet resolve was on his lip,
And fire was in his eye.

I felt no wonder England holds
Dominion o'er the seas;
Still the red cross will face the world,
While she hath men like these.

And gather'd there beneath the sun
Were loitering veterans old;
As if of former victories

And former days they told.

No prouder trophy hath our isle,

Though proud her trophies be, Than that old palace where are housed The veterans of the sea.

Her other domes-her wealth, her pride, Her science may declare;

But Greenwich hath the noblest claim, Her gratitude is there.

ESKDALE, CUMBERLAND.†

O! No: I do not wish to see

The sunshine o'er these hills again;

Their quiet beauty wakes in me

A thousand wishes wild and vain.

I hear the skylark's matin songs
Breathe of the heaven he singeth near;
Ah! heaven, that to our earth belongs,
Why is thy hope so seldom here?

*His favourite captain;-Nelson died in Sir Thomas Hardy's arms. Too long for extract here, the account of that battle and death is at once the most exciting and yet touching record I know in English history.

+ In the midst of these secluded mountain districts, says Mr. Warren in his Northern Tour, lives one of the most independent, most moral, and most respectable characters existing, the estatesman, as he is called in the language of the country, whose hospitality to the wayfarer and traveller has been thus touchingly illustrated:-"Go," said an estatesman to a person whom he had entertained for some days at his house, "go to the vale on the other side of the mountain, to the house of , (naming the party,)

and tell him you came from me. I know him not, but he will receive you kindly, for our sheep mingle on the mountains."

The grass is fill'd with early flowers,
Whereon the dew is scarcely dry;
While singing to the silent hours,
The glittering waves are murmuring by.

And fancies from afar are brought

By magic lights and wandering wind; Such scene hath poet never sought,

But he hath left his heart behind.

It is too sad to feel how blest

In such a spot might be our home; And then to think with what unrest Throughout this weary world we roam.

SCENES IN LONDON:

THE CITY CHURCHYARD.

IF there be one object more material, more revolting, more gloomy than another, it is a crowded churchyard in a city. It has neither sympathy nor memory. The presseddown stones lie heavy upon the very heart. The sunshine cannot get at them for smoke. There is a crowd; and, like most crowds, there is no companionship. Sympathy is the softener of death, and memory of the loved and the lost is the earthly shadow of their immortality. But who turns aside amid those crowds that hurry through the thronged and noisy streets?-No one can love London better than I do; but never do I wish to be buried there. It is the best place in the world for a house, and the worst for a grave. An Irish patriot once candidly observed to me, "Give me London to live in; but let me die in green land:"-now, this is precisely my opinion.

Ire

Where shadows the sepulchral yew,

Where droops the willow tree; Where the long grass is fill'd with dewO! make such grave for me!

And passers-by, at evening's close,

Will pause beside the grave, And moralize o'er the repose

They fear, and yet they crave.

Perhaps some kindly hand may bring
Its offering to the tomb;
And say, as fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.

But here there is no kindly thought
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.

Here Poesy and Love come not

It is a world of stone;

The grave is bought-is closed-forgot! And then life hurries on.

Sorrow, and beauty-nature-love
Redeem man's common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above-
Give loveliness to death.

I PRAY thee lay me not to rest Among these mouldering bones, Too heavily the earth is prest

By all these crowded stones.

Life is too gay-life is too near-
With all its pomp and toil;

I pray thee, do not lay me here,
In such a world-struck soil.

The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake
The slumbers of the dead;

I cannot bear for life to make
Its pathway o'er my head.

The flags around are cold and drear,
They stand apart, alone;
And no one ever pauses here,
To sorrow for the gone.

No: lay me in the far green fields

The summer sunshine cheers;

And where the early wild flower yields The tribute of its tears;

BORRO BOEDOOR.*

AN ancient temple of an ancient faith, When man, to show the vanity of man, Was left to his own fantasies. All life Was conscious of a God;-the sun, the wind, The mighty ocean, and the distant stars, Become his prototypes. At length there came The great appointed hour; the Truth shone forth, The living waters of the Gospel flow'd, And earth drank life and hope. The work is still Gradual and incomplete ;-it is man's task, And more his glorious privilege, to aid. Our England is a living fountain now, Whence flow the waves of life,- eternal life.

O, what a power and duty is our own! "Tis ours to shed upon man's present day The blessing of the future and the past. How much of India yet in darkness lies! We must dethrone the idol, and dispel The shadows that but herald the true faith.

The temple of Borro Boedoor was in former days the most celebrated Budha temple in the Island of Java equally distinguished for its extent and its magnificence.

We must give peace, love, charity, to earth;

And from old superstitions, vain beliefs,

And false religions, realize the true :

There is fear in the eyes that are glaring around, As they pass like the spectres of death without sound:

DR. ADAM CLARKE AND THE TWO PRIESTS OF BUDHA.

I HAVE rarely been so interested as by the account Sir Alexander Johnstone gave me of the two young Priests, whose enterprise had as many difficulties, and a far higher object, than our forefathers' pilgrimages to the Holy Land. They waited on Sir Alexander, to consult him as to the means of reaching England. Lady Johnstone's health rendering an instant return imperative, he had fitted out a small vessel, whose accomodations were too limited to admit more than his own family and suite. In this ship, however, they worked their way as common sailors. Before we can appreciate this sacrifice, we must understand that they were of birth, education, and high standing in their own country. Let us for a moment suppose one of our prelates working before the mast on a mission of Christian faith; we shall then comprehend the depth and sincerity of the belief that urged the young Cingalese. Sir Alexander placed them under the care of Dr. Adam Clarke, of Liverpool, rightly judging that London, with its usual selfish and stimulating course of lionization, would defeat the high purposes of their visit. The progress of the strangers was so satisfactory, that at the end of two years Dr. Clarke publicly baptized them. They returned to Ceylon, where one is employed as a Missionary, and the other is an officer in the civil service. The benefit of their example and instruction may be more easily imagined than calculated.

THEY heard it in the rushing wind,

They read it in the sky;
They felt it in the thousand flowers
That by the river sigh;

That there must be some holier faith
Than they themselves had known,
Whose temple was within the heart,
And not of brick nor stone.

They saw this world was very fair,
And question'd of what hand,
That with the beautiful and good
Had gifted sea and land.

Their idols answer'd not--the mind
Ask'd something more divine
Than ever breathed from carved wood,
Or from the golden shrine.

They heard of more exalted hopes,
Revealing God above,

That spoke a universal creed,
Of universal love,

And look'd beyond the little space

That is appointed here,

And made of yonder glorious heaven
Men's own and native sphere.

They craved for knowledge, whose pure light

Might pierce the moral gloom; They left the temple of their race,

They left their father's tomb:

They left them for a distant isle,

Far o'er the distant main; But they were strong in faith, and felt It would not be in vain.

What high and holy thoughts sustain'd
Their progress o'er the sea,
They left their home, which never more
Again their home might be;

A power far mightier than their own
Was with them night and day;
They fear'd not, and they falter'd not
God kept them on their way.

At last they reach'd our English isle,
The glorious and the free:

O England, in thine hour of pride

How much is ask'd of thee?

Thy ships have master'd many a sea,
Thy victories many a land;
A power almost as strong as fate
Is in thy red right hand.

A nobler enterprise awaits

Thy triumph and thy toil; "Tis thine to sow the seeds of good In many a foreign soil.

Freedom, and knowledge, justice, truth,

Are gifts which should be thine; And, more than all, that purer faith Which maketh men divine.

Those strangers sought an English home,
And there they learnt to know
Those hopes which sweeten life and cheer,
Yet have no rest below.

They learnt to lisp in foreign words
The faith of foreign prayer,
Yet felt it a familiar faith,

That every one should share.

They bear it to their native land,
And labour to impart

The Christian knowledge that subdues
Yet elevates the heart.

O, noble enterprise! how much For man by man is won! Doth it not call on all mankind To see what two have done?

O, fair thou art, thou lovely isle,
The summer loves thine hours;
Thy waves are fill'd with warm white pearls,
Thy groves with spice and flowers.

But nature hath no gift assign'd,
Though prodigal she be,

Like that pure creed of Christian love
Thy sons have brought to thee.