Night knows not silence, for that living ocean 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, And fills with tender light, and melts with dew. What though it be but a delicious error, The influence that in thy beauty seems, mirror, For her own home is desolate and lonely, 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, 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? The founder, St. Ignatius, knew of life PRAYER on her lips-yet, while the maiden And the soul's instinct craved diviner rest. prayeth, A human sorrow deepens in her eyes; She leans beside the vault where sleeps her mother, Young, very young, she is, but wholly vanish'd All gayer and all careless thoughts are banish'd And yet that sweet face is not all of sorrow, 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- RUNJEET-SINGH, AND HIS SUWAR- THE hunters were up in the light of the morn, With housings that glitter'd in silver and gold. Proud at their head rode the chief of Lahore, 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 In vain from the chase of that gallant array 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 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; THE VILLAGE OF KURSALEE. HIGH in the azure heavens, ye ancient mountains, THE TOURNAMENT. His spur on his heel, his spear in its rest, 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 * 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; on. Love. On his lip is a song whose last murmur was heard When the castle's old ivy the summer wind stirr'd; The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters 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. FELICIA HEMAN S. No more, no more-O, never more returning, Thou art gone from us, and with thee departed, And feelings, teaching us our own were true. Thou hast been round us, like a viewless spirit, Known only by the music on the air; The leaf or flowers which thou hast named inherit A beauty known but from thy breathing there: For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion, The likeness from itself the fond heart gave; As planets from afar look down on ocean, And give their own sweet image to the wave. And thou didst bring from foreign lands their treasures, As floats thy various melody along; By its immortal verse is language known, In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee. In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are. Alas! the kingdom of the lute is lonelyCold is the worship coming from afar. Yet what is mind in woman but revealing Than those around, the cold and careless, know? What is to feed such feeling, but to culture A soil whence pain will never more depart? The fable of Prometheus and the vulture, Reveals the poet's and the woman's heart. Unkindly are they judged-unkindly treated— By careless tongues and by ungenerous words; While cruel sneer, and hard reproach, repeated, Jar the fine music of the spirit's chords. Wert thou not weary-thou whose soothing numbers Gave other lips the joy thine own had not? Didst thou not welcome thankfully the slumbers Which closed around thy mourning human lot? What on this earth could answer thy requiring, In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell! Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease. Fame's troubled hour has clear'd, and now replying, A thousand hearts their music ask of thine. Sleep with a light the lovely and undying Around thy grave-a grave which is a shrine. |