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I know a hundred Breton knights,

Might his grey father unto tears be moved,
All men of high degree,

Listening his grateful praise, - his tears were unAnd each his old and fair dornain

reproved. Would sell to make me free; There's not a woman at her wheel

Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love, Throughout this chivalrous land,

Told his young sister of his travel wide, That would not labour night and day

Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove,

And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride;
To free me from thy hand."
Prince Edward from the dais stepped down,

Of desert isles where savage tribes abide,
“Give me thy hand!" said he,

And glorious shores and regions of old fame : “Sir Knight, thou'rt brave as thou art proud,

Then were his trophies from all lands displayed,
And thou honourest chivalrie,

Belt, baracan, and bow of wondrous frame,
And therefore like thy chainless soul,

High, nodding crest, and deadly battle blade,
Unransomed, thou art free !"

And birds of curious note in glittering plumes arrayed.
Then burst forth plaudits long and loud,
And they sate till set of sun,

And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he, And the old knight said, as he poured the wine, Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come, “ 'T was a fair deed nobly done."

Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee,

And cast delight and interest round his home:
Next morning, on his gallant steed,

Gaily she told, how sitting in that room
With his own good sword and lance,

When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane,
Rode forward, from that castle-gate,

He should, himself, his marvellous tales relate.
The bravest man of France ;

- Alas! encircled by the Indian main, And the people, as he passed along,

That night beneath a tamarind tree he sate,
In the sunshine shouted free,

Heart-sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on “Du Guesclin hath great honour done

his fate.
To France and chivalrie!"

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
THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL.

of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry

From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by.'Twas when the harvest-moon came slowly up, And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, Broad, red and glorious o'er dark groves of pine ; Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain

In the hushed eve, when closed the flow'ret's cup, Rushed burning love, and sense of misery, And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain Forth from a porch where tendrilled plants entwine, Within his blessed home to be at rest again.

Weaving a shadowy hower of odorous things, Rich voices came, telling that there were met

Another year and the relentless wave Beauty and youth, and mirth whose buoyant wings Had washed away the white bones from the shore; Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret,

And mourning for his son, down to the grave Gave man release from care or lured him to forget.

Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar ;

The household festival was held no more ;And, as the moon rose higher in the sky,

And when the harvest-moon came forth again, Casting a mimic day on all around,

O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state, Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, Her light fell streaming through the window-pane That cast their chequered shadows on the ground; Of that old room, where his young sister sate Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound,

With her down-droopèd head, and heart all desolate
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 persumed

THE THREE AGES. air.

How beautiful are ye, Another hour,-and in a lighted room

Age, Youth, and Infancy! Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall,

She, with slowly tottering pace, They sate in social ease ;-no brow of gloom,

She, with light and youthful grace, No saddened, downcast eye, that might recall

And the child with clustering locks ; Sorrowful musing, dimmed the festival.

All, all are beautiful! It was in honour of a gallant youth

For in them I can see, Those friends were met, - the friends he dearest Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full loved,

Of the strong interests of humanity All wishing he were there - and well, in sooth, Childhood all sorrow mocks;

It dwells in pleasant places;
Sees ever-smiling faces !
Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks,
These are its teachers and its lesson-books!
If chance a cloud come over it to-day,
Before to-morrow it hath passed away.
It has no troubling dreams;
No cogitations dark, no wily schemes;
It counteth not the cost
Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble;
Knows not how days are lost -
How love is but a bubble ;
Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain;
Nor the heart sickening with a hopeless pain!
Oh, happy infancy!
Life's cares have small companionship with 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

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!

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 dreys

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!"

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 beautful 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,

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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!

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 ?

" Arise, put on the garments

Which the redeemed wore ! Now sorrow hath no part in thee,

Thou sanctified from sin! “Awake and breathe the living air

Of our celestial clime! Awake to love which knows no change,

Thou, who hast done with time! “ Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes,

See, all heaven's host appears; And be thou glad exceedingly,

Thou, who hast done with tears! “ Awake! ascend! Thou art not now

With those of mortal birth, -
The living God hath touch'd thy lips,

Thou who hast done with earth!"

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!

THE TEMPLE OF JUGGERNAUT.

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!

This is the most celebrated and sacred temple in Hindostan, and was built about the year 1198, by Rajah Anonda Bheem Deb, at a cost of 500.000 pounds sterling. The principal entrance is the Singha-Devar, or the “ Lion-Gate," immediately in front of which is a beautiful column dedicated to the 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.

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.

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 doveWhat is the Christian's creed? - Faith, Hope and

Love.

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.

THE MOSQUE OF SULTAN ACHMET

AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

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?
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2C

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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Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan him,

O'er the desert, the Mufti still placed in the van; And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him; And still every day by the prophet he swore, There is gold for his telling, there's pomp to beguile, That at Mecca the minarets only were four! And beauty that liveth alone in his smile.

At length the day came when the pilgrims should spy What aileth him then that he sitteth alone,

At distance the minarets piercing the sky; And breaketh the stillness of night with his groan?

The Mufti rode first on a fleet-footed steed, There is fear in his soul which no pride can gainsay; And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened There is blood on his hand which will not pass away!

speed. “I have sinned,” said young Achmet, “ but I will Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast !

What vision of terror before him hath passed! atone

He seeth the mosque-he hath counted them o'er — For my sin by erecting a temple of stone;

Allah Kerim! six minarets !-Once there were four!"
E'en the mosque of the Prophet at Mecca shall yield,
And Santa Sophia, to this I will build !
“ Four pillars gigantic the whole shall uphold,
With gates of brass, glorious and costly as gold;

TIIE SOURCE OF THE JUMNA.
And above shall domes, semidomes, cupolas rise,
With six slender minarets piercing the skies !"

"By dint of untiring perseverance, we had at last reached The Musii came up to young Achmet with speed, the confines of eternal snow. We found the river gliding unSaying, “Sultan, what is it that thou hast decreed ? der arches of ice. The most holy spot is upon the left bank, The mosque of the Prophet, thou know'sı, hath but live hot springs into the bed of the river, which boil and bub

where a mass of quartz and silicious schist rock sends forth four

ble at a furious rate. The height of the snow-bed at Jumno. Would'st thou raise on this temple two minarets tree, is about tea thousand feet."

more!" “Go, fetch in the Hadjee !" the Sultan Teplied,

Ou for some old mystery ! " Who came in from Mecca but last eventide!

Something that we could not knowNow tell us the minarets' number," said he,

Something that we could not fathom, “Of the great mosque at Mecca

twice two, or

As it was long time ago! twice three ?"

Marvels strange have ceased to be —

There is now no mystery!
The ladjee bowed low, and he said he could fix
Without question the number; the number was six; There were islands in the ocean,
He had counted them often, morn, noonday, and night, Once upon a glorious time,
Six tall, slender minareis piercing the light!

Fair, Hesperian islands blooming

In a golden clime! The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore

Rich and bright beyond compare, By his beard, that the minarets only were four:

'Mid the waves, we know not where! He had seen them himself; he had counted them oft; Four crescent-tipped minarets shooting aloft!

There were cyclops once, and giants;

There were unicorns of old; The young Sultan Achmet laughed loud, and replied,

There were magic carbuncles, "That a band of good pilgrims the truth should de

And cities paved with gold; cide;" And as they reported, so soothly should be

How the world has changed since then!

When will wonders coine again! His minarets' number -- twice two, or twice three !*

Once there was a mystery * The Sultan Achmet, during the time of the caravan's In a mighty river's springs; march, had obtained two new minarets to be added to the original four of the mosque at Mecca, so that he accomplished

Once, the cloudy tops of mountains his design of crowning his own erection with six minarets,

Veiled mysterious things! without offending the piety of the true Mursulmans. So eager Wondrous pleasant did it seem, was he in the building of his mosque, that for an hour every Of the vast and veiled to dream! Friday, after prayers, he laboured with his own hands, in order to stimulate the workmen by his own example. It is a

Once, together side by side remarkable fact, that the final extirpation of the janissaries, who had been the personal enemies of the Sultan Achmet,

Sat the father and the child, two centuries afterwards was effected in this mosque.

Telling by the glimmering firelight, The reforming Sultan Mahmoud, who had determined on Histories strange and wild ! counteracting the influence of the janissaries, had ordered the sandjak sherif, or sacred standard of the Prophet, an object

But philosophy and art exhibited only on the most solemn and important occasions,

Thrust the child and man apart. to be unfolded with great poinp in the mosque of Achmel. No true Mussulman, to whom this was told, dared to resist faith they owed the Prophet, to rally round the sacred standthe summons; thousands, and tens of thousands, rushed to ard. A deep murmur of ascent filled the dome, all fell prog. the ternple. The banner was displayed from the lofty pulpit trate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment of the Imaum, and the Sultan esborted the people, by the the cause of the janissaries became desperate.

Great Phicosopbv and Art!

This is now the wondrous pair
That have compassed earth and ocean,

That have travelled air
That with outstretched, pitiless arm
Have dispersed each fairy charm!

Have dissolved the carbuncle ;

Turned the cities' gold to dust; Slain the unicorns and giants;

Ta'en our ancient trust!
And that even now are gone
To the realms of Prester John!

They will ransack all the land;

Soar above, and peep below; They will rend the rocks asunder;

Melt the eternal snow; Not a stone unturn'd will leave Each old mystery to unweave! They have been where ne'er before

Human foot hath ever trod;
They have found the real cradle

Of the Hindoo's river-god!
Jumna's now and Ganges' springs
Are no longer sacred things!
Oh for some old mystery ;

Something that we could not know; Something that we could not fathom,

As it was long time ago!
Pray, ye disenchanting pair,
Some old pleasant mystery spare !

How is it, sweet Madeline,

That thou art so kind of cheer, That the lowliest in the house

Thinks of thee with love, not fear. Even the sour old gardener,

Through the winter's iciest hours, Works with cheerful-hearted will

If it be to tend thy flowers. As for me- Oh, Madeline,

Though thy brethren fierce and high Scarce would deign to speak my name,

"Twould, for thee, be heaven to die! Madeline, my love is madness!

How should I aspire unto thee; How should I, the lowly-born,

Find fit words to woo thee! Every goodly chamber beareth

Proudly on its pictured wall, Lords and ladies of renown,

Richly robed, and noble all. Not a daughter of thy house

But did mate in her degree; 'Twas for love I learned by rote,

Long years past, thy pedigree! And in those old chronicles,

Which the chaplain bade me read, Not a page, but of thy line

Telleth some heroic deed, And within the chancel aisle,

'Neath their banners once blood-dyed, Lie the noble of thy house,

In their marble, side by side. As for me — my father lieth

In the village churchyard-ground, And upon his lowly head-stone

Only may his name be found. What am I, that I should love

One like thee, high Madeline ! I, a nameless man and poor,

Sprung of kindred mean. Without houses, without lands,

Without bags of goodly gold; What have I to give pretence

To my wishes wild and bold! What have I? Oh, Madeline,

Small things to the poor are great; Mine own heart and soul have made

The wealth of mine estate. Walking 'neath the stars at even,

Walking 'neath the summer's noon; Spring's first leaves of tender green,

And fair flowers sweet and boon:

THE BARON'S DAUGHTER.

THE LAY OF A LANDLESS POET.

Lovely Lady Madeline !

High-born Lady Madeline, What a heavenly dream had I

Neath the moon but yester-e'en ! In thy gracious beauty bright,

In thy bower I saw thee stand, Looking from its casement oul,

With my verses in thy hand. Birds were singing all around thee,

Flowers were blooming 'neath the wall, And from out the garden alleys

Chimed the silvery fountain's fall. But thy thonghts were not of these;'

Loveliest Lady Madeline, Wonld that, in that blessed hour,

I the folded scroll had been!

Madeline, thy race is proud,

Fierce thy brethren, stern thy sire; And thy lady-mother's scorn

Withereth like consuming fire.

These, the common things of earth,

But, more, our human kind ; The silent suffering of the heart, The mystery of mind :

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