The Dutch came o'er the ocean, As if it were their home, With a slow and gliding motion The stately vessels come. The sky is blue above them, But ere an hour be past, The shadows of the battle Will over heaven be cast. They meet- it is in thunder, The thunder of the gun; Fire rends the smoke asunder The battle is begun. He stands amid his seamen, Our Admiral of the White, And guides the strife more calmly, Than of that strife I write. For over the salt water The grape-shot sweeps around; The decks are red with slaughter, The dead are falling round. But the bold flag of old England Flies bravely at the mast; The Dutch take down their colours, While the cannons fire their last. From that hour victorious Have we kept the seas, And our navy glorious, Queens it o'er the breeze. Long may we keep such empire, It is a noble debt We owe to those past triumphs, We never may forget. All generous feelings nursed the love But better had she shared the doom, Death has no bitterness like life, Proud-beautiful-she boweth down She will command herself, and bear All lofty thoughts and dreams; Why did she love? Alas, such choice Is not at woman's will; Once must she love, and on that cast Is set life's good or ill. Sorrows, and timid cares, and tears, The happiest entertain; CAFES IN DAMASCUS.* "And Mahomet turned aside, and would not enter the fair city: It is,' said he, 'too delicious.'" There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming O'er the inward world, While around the fragrant steaming Rising from the coffee berry, Cool'd by passing through the water, Scented by the Summer's daughter, By that Rose's spirit haunted Are the dreams that rise, Of far lands, and lives enchanted, Thus, with some sweet dream's assistance, SIR ROBERT PEEL. Deep in its inmost life hath the soul of love enshrined him, And passionate and general the pleasures which he gives. But dear-bought is the triumph, what dark fates are recorded Of those who held sweet mastery o'er the pulses of the lute, Mournfully and bitterly their toil has been rewarded, For them the tree of knowledge puts forth its harshest fruit. Glorious and stately the ever-growing laurel, Flinging back the summer sunshine, defying winter's snow; Yet its bright history has the darkly pointed moral, Deadly are the poisons that through its green leaves flow. And she, around whose couch the gentle day- Seems like all nature's loving, last farewell; How much of song's fever and sorrow could she tell. Yet upon her lip a languid smile is shining, Tokens of far-off sympathy have sooth'd that hour of pain; Its sympathy has warm'd the pallid cheek reclining Mrs. Hemans' last hours were cheered by the kindness On of Sir Robert Peel; and the letter promising an appointment to her eldest son, was one of the latest that she received. This fact is my excuse for having deviated from my general rule of leaving cotemporary portraits to speak the weary pillow whence it will not rise again. It is the far-off friend, the unknown she is blessing, for themselves. I frankly confess that I can never write The statesman who has paused upon toils' hurried way, till interested in my subjects. Now, a female writer cannot pretend to even an opinion on the political and public characters of the day. The above incident, on the con- To learn the deepest charm that power has in postrary, belongs to the many who look back with admiration and gratitude to the gifted and the gone. DIM through the curtains came the purple twilight slowly, Deepening like death's shadow around that silent room; There lay a head, a radiant head, but lowly, sessing, The power to scatter benefits and blessing round its sway. And the pale face like a statue shone out amid the THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS. gloom. Fair Morning! lend thy wings, and let me fly To thy eternal home, Where never shadows come, Where tears are wiped away from every eye. I'm weary, weary of this earth of ours; I'm sick with the heart's want; My fever'd spirits pant, To cling to things less transient than its flowers. I ask of the still night-it answers me, This earth is not my home: Great Father! let me come, A wanderer and a penitent, to Thee! Ye far, fair mountains, echo with my cry, CEMETERY OF THE SMOLENSKO CHURCH.* THEY gather, with the summer in their hands, The summer from their distant valleys bringing; They gather round the church in pious bands, With funeral array, and solemn singing. The dead are their companions; many days And in the hurry of life's crowded ways, But now the past comes back again, and death The mother kneeleth at a little tomb, Friend thinks on friend; and youth comes back again To that one moment of awaken'd feeling; The Cemetery of the Smolensko Church is situated about two versts from Petersburgh, on one of the islands on the mouth of the Neva, and less than quarter of a mile from the gulf of Finland. The curious ceremony alluded to, takes place yearly, when the Russians gather from all parts, to scatter flowers on the graves, and to mourn above the dead, and afterwards proceed to regale themselves with soup, fruit of all kinds, and wine; in many instances spreading their cloths on the very graves over which they had been bitterly mourning. It is a superstitious rite and old, Yet having with all higher things connexion; Prayers, tears, redeem a world so harsh and cold, The future has its hope, the past its deep affection. LINCOLN CATHEDRAL.* "TwAs the deep forest bodied forth that fane, So rose the arches of the old oak trees, So wreath'd the close set branches at their side, So through the open spaces gleam'd the sun; While like an anthem sang the morning birds. All nature teacheth worship unto man, And the first instinct of the heart is faith. Those carved aisles, so noble in their state, So graceful in each exquisite device, Are of the past; a rude and barbarous past, Flash'd in the sun, and with unholy flash Still sanctifies its merciful domain. THE SACRED SHRINES OF DWARKA. It is curious to observe how much the aspect of nature has in every country given its aspect to architecture. The colossal proportions of Indian scenery have not more given their likeness to the vast temples of the Hindoos, than our own northern forests have given their own character to the Gothic cathedral. The introduction of Christian missionaries was always advocated by Sir Alexander Johnston, while President of His Majesty's Council in Ceylon. A leading Brahmin mentioned, while in conversation with him, the following striking fact. "For our toleration," said he, "I refer to SONG OF THE SIRENS.* HITHER, famed Ulysses, steer, Pass not, pride of Greece, along To our haven come and hear, Come and hear the Sirens' song. Never did a sable bark Here the seamen, loath to part, Well we know each gallant deed the little Roman Catholic chapel of St. Francis, which had for the last three hundred years stood under a banyan tree, close by the great Hindoo temple. Not one of the innumerable devotees who resort thither on pilgrimages had ever molested the shrine of another faith." The original verses, eight in number, from which the above song is rather imitated than translated, are perfect models of harmony. They are generally supposed to give Homer's own idea of what an epic poem should be--bland and conciliatory in its opening, but at the same time expressing a thorough consciousness that the poet had the power of doing that which would make all ears listen. Ulysses wandering by, in his "winged pines," as Browne phrases it, is accosted in words of gentle accent, but the Sirens take care to tell him that, much praised and deservedly honoured as he is, he must listen to their song, for never yet had man heard them sing, without being subdued. The poet proceeds to promise, that sweetness of melody is to mark the flowing numbers of his lay, and that in the honied song are to be conveyed lessons of wisdom. The sailor, they say, dwells here delighted and filled with ampler knowledge. Such are the general promises, but as, after all, we must come to the particular incidents of human life-the soaring poem is to relate whatever is most spirit-stirring, most heart-moving, most thought-awakening in the doings of men. We must not hear of mere abstractions-we must have names and deeds interesting to every bosom; and we must be shown, too, that these deeds are regulated by powers above human control. The Sirens, therefore, announce that they shall sing of the most renowned event of their time, those wars and battles which took place before the wind swept towers of Ilion,"events to which he to whom they were sung had so mainly contributed, and which were done by the impulse of the gods. Such is the lay, continues the poet, I am about to pour into your ear; and that it may be done with every certainty of affecting all whose intellect or whose feeling can be approached in tone not to be resisted, I, the minstrel, (we, say the Sirens, but it is Homer, the one Homer, who speaks,) come to my task prepared with long-stored knowledge of all that can concern mankind. "We know all that is done upon the fertile bosom of earth." Such is the ancient interpretation of the song of the Sirens. It may, perhaps, be fanciful,-but those who consider the song with care will find that there is much in the comment, and will, at all events, agree that the poet who wrote the verses has fulfilled the conditions. Whatsoe'er beside is done In earth's confines know we well; Hither, famed Ulysses, steer, EXPECTATION. SHE look'd from out the window To the twilight's purple haze. Droopeth the dark hair, Heavy with the dews of evening, Till flung round her like a pall. When from the carved lattice Like some pleasant book; And her cheek is white, Human heart this history For what cometh not. What has been thy gain? Death and night are closing round, All that thou hast sought unfound. THE LAKE OF COMO. AGAIN I am beside the lake, The lonely lake which used to be The wide world of the beating heart, When I was, love, with thee. I see the quiet evening lights Amid the distant mountains shine; I hear the music of a lute, It used to come from thine. How can another sing the song, The sweet sad song that was thine own? It is alike, yet not the same, It has not caught thy tone. Ah, never other lip may catch The sweetness round thine own that clung; Thou loveliest lake, I sought thy shores, I find the folly of the search, Thou bringest but half the past again; Too real the memories that haunt The purple shadows round thy brink- I did not ask to think. False beauty haunting still my heart, Though long since from that heart removed; Fair lake, it is all vain to seek The influence of thy lovely shore I ask of thee for hope and love- THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. A FAIR young face o'er which is only cast Though round her is the presence of the past, A little while hast thou to be a child, Thy lot is all too high; Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild, Change is upon the world, it may be thine To make thy throne a beacon and a shrine |