Night knows not silence, for that living ocean
Pants night and day with its perpetual flow,
Stirring the unquiet air with restless motion,

From that vast human tide which rolls below.

Trouble and discontent, and hours whose dial

Is in the feverish heart which knows not rest; These give the midnight's sinking sleep denial, These leave the midnight's dreaming couch

unprest.

But thou, sweet Star, amid the harsh and real, The cares that harass night with thoughts of day,

Dost bring the beautiful and the ideal,

Till the freed spirit wanders far away.

Then come the lofty hope the fond remembrance,
All dreams that in the heart its youth renew,
Till it doth take, fair planet, thy resemblance,

And fills with tender light, and melts with dew.

What though it be but a delicious error,

The influence that in thy beauty seems,
Still let love-song-and hope—make thee their

mirror,

For her own home is desolate and lonely,
Hers is the only seat beside the hearth,
Sad in its summer garden, as she only

Were the last wanderer on this weary earth.

But in that ancient church her heart grows stronger

With prayers that raise their earnest eyes above; And in the presence of her God, no longer

Feels like an outcast from all hope and love.

Glorious the mighty anthem round her swelling,
Fills the rapt spirit, sacred and sublime;
Soon will for her unfold th' immortal dwelling-
She waiteth patient, God's appointed time.

JESUITS IN PROCESSION:

VALETTA, MALTA.

WHENCE rose the sect that 'neath yon azure dome, Hath had such wide domain o'er courts and kings,

And the wild forest where the condor springs, O, life and earth, what were ye without Darkening the lonely vale which has his homedreams!

THE DEVOTEE.

Whence did that sect with all its power come?
From the dim shadows of the sick man's room!

The founder, St. Ignatius, knew of life
Whatever of that life might seem the best:
The glorious fever of the battle strife,
The pleasure that in court or bower is guest;
But in all things were care and sorrow rife,

PRAYER on her lips-yet, while the maiden And the soul's instinct craved diviner rest.

prayeth,

A human sorrow deepens in her eyes;
For e'en the very words of prayer she sayeth,
A sad and lingering memory supplies.

She leans beside the vault where sleeps her mother,
The tablet has her name upon the wall-
Her only parent, for she knew no other;
In losing whom, the orphan lost her all.

Young, very young, she is, but wholly vanish'd
Youth's morning colours from her cheek are
gone;

All gayer and all careless thoughts are banish'd
By the perpetual presence of but one.

And yet that sweet face is not all of sorrow,
It wears a softer and a higher mood;
And seemeth from the world within to borrow
A holy and a constant fortitude.

Early with every sabbath-morn returning,

You hear her light step up the chancel come, She looketh all the week with tender yearning

To that old church which is to her a home.

Then to his hopes a holier aim was given-
He made of earth the stepping-stone to heaven!

RUNJEET-SINGH, AND HIS SUWAR-
REE OF SEIKS.

THE hunters were up in the light of the morn,
High on the clear air their banners were borne ;
And the steeds that they mounted were bright to
behold,

With housings that glitter'd in silver and gold.

Proud at their head rode the chief of Lahore,
A dagger that shone with the ruby he wore;
And Inde, and Bokhara, and Iran supplied
The dogs, staunch and gallant, that coursed at his
side.

He wears the green robe of the Prophet's high line,

He is sprung from the chieftain of Mecca's far shrine;

His horse, on whose bridle the white pearls are "Tis strange how much of this wide world is

His falconers are round him, a bird on each hand

lonely,

Earth hath its trackless forests dark and green,

And its wild deserts of the sand, where only

The wind, a weary wanderer, hath been.

No Norman from Norway ere brought such a The desert and the forest, lone and solemn,

band,

So strong is each wing, so dark is each eye
That flings back the light it has learnt in the sky.

In vain from the chase of that gallant array
The wild boar will hide in the forest to-day;
In vain will the tiger spring forth from its gloom,
He springs on the sabre that beareth his doom.

May know in time the work of mortal hand; There may arise the temple, tower and column, Where only waved the tree, or swept the sand.

But on the ocean never track remaining
Attests the progress of the human race;
The ship will pass without a wave retaining
The lovely likeness mirror'd on its face.

On, on through the greenwoods that girdle the And thus, O Time, that hast our world in

keeping,

So dost thou roll the current of thy years;
Away, away, in thy dark waters sweeping,
All mortal cares and sorrows, hopes and fears.

THE VILLAGE OF KURSALEE.

HIGH in the azure heavens, ye ancient mountains,
Do ye uplift your old ancestral snows,
Gathering amid the clouds those icy fountains,

THE TOURNAMENT.

His spur on his heel, his spear in its rest,
The wild wind just waving the plumes on his
crest;

Whence many a sunny stream through India The young knight rides forward-his armour is

bright

As that which it mirrors, the morning's clear light.

His steed it is black as the raven that flies
'Mid the tempest that darkens its way through the

* Mr. Burnes gives a most splendid description of the sport hunting cavalcades in Lahore. Part, however, of the was cruel. The captured hogs were fastened to a stake, and baited with dogs, and their spirit renewed, when it failed, by cold water dashed over them. At length Runjeet gave orders that they should be liberated, in order, as he said, that "they might praise his humanity." This latter consideration seems to have arrived somewhat late.-The horses sent from England attracted great admiration; but that was nothing compared to the praise bestowed on their On his shoulder the cross, by his helmet a glove, shoes. The letter of thanks from Runjeet to our king Tell he serveth his God, and his King, and his says, "On beholding the shoes, the new moon turned pale,

and nearly disappeared from the sky."

The belt of a knight was in Palestine won;
By the hand of King Richard the belt was bound

on.

Love.

The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters
Paused in the pine woods words of thine to
hear;

Low and love-touch'd the words, that are never so And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters

But their glory is gather'd—their honours are However mournful words may be, they show not toldThe whole extent of wretchedness and wrong.

Let the race of to-day match the good knights of They cannot paint the long sad hours, pass'd only old.