Visions of beauty, green and cool-
The water-lily's shadowy pool;
The untrodden wood's sequestered shine,
Where hides the lustrous columbine,
And leaves astir for ever make
A breezy freshness through the brake.

I think of some old country hall,
With carved porch, and chimneys tall,
And pleasant windows many a one,
Set deep into the old, grey stone,
Hid among trees so large and green,
"T is only dimly to be seen.

I think of its dusk garden-bowers,
Its little plots of curious flowers,
Its casements wreathed with jessamine,
Flung wide to let all odours in,

And all sweet sounds of bird and bee,
And the cool fountain's melody.

I think of mountains still and grey,
Stretching in summer light away,
Where the blue, cloudless skies repose
Above the solitude of snows;
Of gleaming lakes, whose waters lie
In restless beauty sparklingly;
Of little island-nooks of rest

Where the grave heron makes her nest;
And wild cascades with hurrying roar,
Like the sweet tumult of Lodore
Lodore! - that name recalls to me
Visions of stern sublimity,

And pastoral vales, and lonely rills,

And shepherd people on the hills,-
And more,-old names of men unknown
Save on their mouldering church-yard stone,
Or to some mountain-chronicler

Who talketh of the days that were ;-
For, in gone years, they of my race
Had, 'mong the hills, their dwelling-place,
In an old mansion that doth stand

As in the heart of fairy land.

Then mountains, lakes, and glorious skies
Lived in their children's memories,
There tended they, in evening hours,
Their garden's antiquated flowers,
And, on the Skiddaw mountain grey
They gambolled through the sunny day,-
Blest summer revellers! and did float
On Keswick Lake their little boat!-

Let Mammon's sons with visage lean,
Restless and vigilant, and keen,
Whose thought is but to buy and sell,
In the hot, toiling city dwell;
Give me to walk on mountains bare,
Give me to breathe the open air,
To hear the village-children's mirth,
To see the beauty of the earth-
In wood and wild, by lake and sea
To dwell with foot and spirit free!

DU GUESCLIN'S RANSOM.

THE black Prince Edward sate at meat
Amid his chivalrie,

Two hundred knights at the board were set,
And the rosy wine ran free:

They were mailed men in merry cheer,

And the Prince sate on the dais,
And his laugh was loudest through the hall,
Upon that day of grace:

And some they told the jester's tale,
And some they gaily sang,

Till the hall of old Valenciennes

To the dusky rafters rang;

But 'mid the mirth and 'mid the wine
There sate an aged knight,
And heavy thoughts within his soul
Had dimmed his spirits light;
Quoth Edward, "By my faith, this man
Doth mar our heartsome cheer!

Sir knight, do battle with thy woe,

Or stay no longer here."

"My liege." said he, " my soul is dark
With pondering on the wrong,
Done to the bravest man of France,

Within a dungeon strong,
Where night and day he pineth sore
To hear the small birds' song,
And all afar through Christendom
Thou'rt blamed for his thrall,
Even by the knights at thy right hand,
And the fair dames in the hall!"
"He shall be free!" Prince Edward said,
"No longer on a name,

So fair and far renowned as mine

Shall rest unknightly shame!
Go fetch him from his dungeon deep,
Myself will do him right."
Eftsoons into that banquet room

Was brought the prisoned knight.
Quoth Edward, "Thou'rt a noble knight,
Name now thy ransom fee,
How small soe'er, by my good sword,
Thy ransom it shall be!"
Du Guesclin in his prison garb

Stood proudly in the ring,

And named such ransom as would free
From thrall a captive king;
Prince Edward's brow grew darkly red;
"Sir Knight, I say thee nay;
Such ransom as thou nam'st, by Heaven,
No Christian knight could pay!
Three paces stepped Du Guesclin on,
And haughtier grew his brow,
Quoth he, "Is knighthood thus esteemed
By such a man as thou!
The kings of France and fair Castile
The sum would not gainsay,
And if I lacked elsewhere the gold,
My ransom they would pay;

I know a hundred Breton knights,
All men of high degree,
And each his old and fair domain
Would sell to make me free;
There's not a woman at her wheel
Throughout this chivalrous land,
That would not labour night and day

To free me from thy hand." Prince Edward from the dais stepped down, "Give me thy hand!" said he,

"Sir Knight, thou'rt brave as thou art proud, And thou honourest chivalrie,

And therefore like thy chainless soul,

Unransomed, thou art free!"

Then burst forth plaudits long and loud,

And they sate till set of sun,

Might his grey father unto tears be moved, Listening his grateful praise,- his tears were unreproved.

Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love, Told his young sister of his travel wide,

Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove, And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride; Of desert isles where savage tribes abide,

And glorious shores and regions of old fame: Then were his trophies from all lands displayed, Belt, baracan, and bow of wondrous frame, High, nodding crest, and deadly battle blade, And birds of curious note in glittering plumes arrayed.

And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he,

""T was a fair deed nobly done."

Next morning, on his gallant steed,

With his own good sword and lance, Rode forward, from that castle-gate, The bravest man of France; And the people, as he passed along, In the sunshine shouted free, "Du Guesclin hath great honour done To France and chivalrie!"

THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL.

"T WAS when the harvest-moon came slowly up, Broad, red and glorious o'er dark groves of pine;

In the hushed eve, when closed the flow'ret's cup, And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, Forth from a porch where tendrilled plants entwine, Weaving a shadowy bower of odorous things, Rich voices came, telling that there were met Beauty and youth, and mirth whose buoyant wings Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret, Gave man release from care or lured him to forget.

And, as the moon rose higher in the sky, Casting a mimic day on all around,

Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, That cast their chequered shadows on the ground; Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound,

Like fairy revellers, in one place were seen; And gentle friends were slowly pacing where

The dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen; And merry children, like the moonlight fair,

With their wild, pealing laughter filled the perfumed air.

Another hour, and in a lighted room Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall, They sate in social ease;-no hrow of gloom, No saddened, downcast eye, that might recall Sorrowful musing, dimmed the festival.

It was in honour of a gallant youth

Those friends were met, the friends he dearest loved,

All wishing he were there - and well, in sooth,

Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee,
And cast delight and interest round his home:
Gaily she told, how sitting in that room

When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane,
He should, himself, his marvellous tales relate.
-Alas! encircled by the Indian main,
That night beneath a tamarind tree he sate,
Heart-sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on
his fate.

The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore, The dark, dark night had gathered in the sky, And from the desert mountains came the roar Of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by.And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain

Rushed burning love, and sense of misery, And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain Within his blessed home to be at rest again.

Another year-and the relentless wave Had washed away the white bones from the shore; And mourning for his son, down to the grave Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar;The household festival was held no more ;

And when the harvest-moon came forth again, O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state,

Her light fell streaming through the window-pane Of that old room, where his young sister sate With her down-droopèd head, and heart all desolate.

THE THREE AGES.

How beautiful are ye,
Age, Youth, and Infancy!
She, with slowly tottering pace,
She, with light and youthful grace,
And the child with clustering locks;
All, all are beautiful!
For in them I can see,

Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full
Of the strong interests of humanity.
Childhood all sorrow mocks;

A child no more! a maiden now,

A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow;
A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye;
And all hearts bless her, as she passes by!
Fair creature, in this morning of her youth,
She is all love, she is all truth!
She doubteth none; she doth believe
All true, for she can not deceive!
Dear maiden, thou must learn, ere long,
That hope has but a Syren's song;
That Love is not what he would swear;
That thou must look before, behind-
The gentlest need be most aware —
A serpent 'mong the flowers is twined!
I mourn, sweet maiden, thou must learn
Aught so ungracious, aught so stern!

Oh, youth! how fair, how dear thou art;
How fairer yet thy truth of heart!
That guileless innocence, that clings
Unto all pure, all gentle things!

Alas! that Time must take from thee

Thy beautiful simplicity!

Age, leaning on its staff, with feeble limb,
Grey hair, and vision dim,

Doth backward turn its eye,

And few and evil seem the days gone by!

Oh! venerable age! hast thou not proved all things, Love, Hope, and Promise fair,

And seen them vanish into air,

Like rainbows on a summer's eve!

Riches unto themselves have taken wings;
Love flattered to deceive;

And Hope has been a traitor unto thee!
And thou hast learned, by many a bitter tear,
By days of weary sorrow, nights of fear,
That all is vanity!

Yet, venerable age,

Full of experience sage,

Well may the good respect thee, and the wise! For thou hast living faith,

Triumphant over death,

Which makes the future lovely to thine eyes! Thou knowest that, ere long,

"T will be made known to thee,

Why virtue is so weak, why evil strong;
Why love is sorrow, joy a mockery.
And thus thou walkest on in cheerfulness,
And the fair maiden and the child dost bless!
Oh! beautiful are ye,

Age, Youth, and Infancy!

These are your names in Time,

When the eye darkens and the cheek grows pale; But in yon fairer clime,

Where Life is not a melancholy tale,

Where woe comes not, where never enters Death, Ye will have other names-Joy, Love, and Faith!

MOURNING ON EARTH. SHE lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow Fell trembling from her tongue. There were palace-houses round her; And pomp and pride swept by The walls of that poor chamber,

Where she lay down to die. Two were abiding with her,

The lowly of the earth,— Her feeble, weeping sister, And she who gave her birth. She lay down in her poverty,

Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow

Fell from her trembling tongue.
"Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness
About my soul are spread,
And the waters of affliction

Have gathered o'er my head!
"Yet what is life? A desert,
Whose cheering springs are dry,
A weary, barren wilderness!-
Still it is hard to die!

"For love, the clinging, deathless,
Is with my life entwined;
And the yearning spirit doth rebel

To leave the weak behind!

"Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs Of human woe and pain, In this, the fiercest trial-hour, My doubting soul sustain! "I sink, I sink! support me;

Deep waters round me roll! I fear! I faint! O Saviour, Sustain my sinking soul!"

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

"OH spirit, freed from bondage, Rejoice, thy work is done!

The weary world is 'neath thy feet, Thou brighter than the sun!

sun.

The chief idol, called Juggernaut, is a huge unsightly figure of wood, bearing some distant resemblance to the human form: it is painted black, with a red mouth, and large red and white circles for eyes.

The ceremony of drawing the car takes place in June, and it is calculated that about 200,000 pilgrims, three-fourths of them females, annually resort to this festival, of whom at least 50,000 perish by sickness, hunger, and fatigue, and by voluntarily throwing themselves under its ponderous wheels.

THE winds are stirred with tumult-on the air
Sound drum and trumpet, atabal and gong-
Strong voices loud uplift a barbarous song.
Vast is the gathering-while the priests declare
The seven-headed god is passing there.

On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll
From prostrate bodies crushes forth a soul;
Rejoicing such last agony to bear.

Such are thy creeds, O man! when thou art given To thy own fearful nature-false and stern!

What were we now, but that all-pitying Heaven Sent us a holier, purer faith to learn?

Type of its message came the white-winged dove-
What is the Christian's creed?-Faith, Hope and
Love.

Or are they daintiest meats
Sent up on silver fine?

Or golden, chased cups o'erbrimmed
With rich Falernian wine?
Or parchments setting forth

Broad lands our fathers held;
Parks for our deer; ponds for our fish ;
And woods that may be felled?

No, no, they are not these! or else,
God help the poor man's need!
Then, sitting 'mid his little ones,

He would be poor indeed!

They are not these! our household wealth
Belongs not to degree;

It is the love within our souls-
The children at our knee!

My heart is filled with gladness
When I behold how fair,

How bright, are rich men's children,
With their thick golden hair!
For I know 'mid countless treasure,
Gleaned from the east and west,
These living, loving human things,

Are still the rich man's best!

But my heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes,
And a prayer is on my tongue,
When I see the poor man's children,
The toiling, though the young,
Gathering with sunburnt hands
The dusty wayside flowers!
Alas! that pastime symbolleth
Life's after, darker hours.

My heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes,
When I see the poor man stand,
After his daily work is done,
With children by the hand-
And this, he kisses tenderly;

And that, sweet names doth callFor I know he has no treasure

Like those dear children small!

Oh, children young, I bless ye,
Ye keep such love alive!
And the home can ne'er be desolate,
Where love has room to thrive!
Oh, precious household treasures,
Life's sweetest, holiest claim-
The Saviour blessed ye while on earth,-
I bless ye in His name!

HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. WHAT are they? gold and silver, Or what such ore can buy ? The pride of silken luxury; Rich robes of Tyrian dye? Guests that come thronging in With lordly pomp and state? Or thankless, liveried serving-men, To stand about the gate?

THE MOSQUE OF SULTAN ACHMET.

AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

YOUNG Achmet the Sultan ariseth to-day,
The strength of his sickness hath passed away;
No longer he feareth the might of his foes,
Nor is there aught living to mar his repose.
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