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Gone are the knights of Italy;

The paladins of Spain;
And brave king Arthur in the dust,

Lies low as Charlemagne.
Sir Bevis and Sir Lancelot,

In England or in France, Would meet with no adventure now

Worth lifting of the lance. Throughout the land of Libya

Were good St. George to speed,
No fair king's daughter would he find,

From dragons to be freed.
The Guys of Warwick all are dead,

Or if they linger still,
No brave achievements they perform,

No dire dun-cows they kill.

There met he six of his forlorn disciples,
Who, spirit-crushed and heart-sore, had that even
Gone out a-fishing. With them went the Master.
-Oh, love surpassing human understanding !
Oh, Friend, Instructor, Comforter, and Saviour,
Thou didst that night, when heaven was opened for

When angels and archangels were awaiting
Thy coming to the Father,-with thy children,
Thy mourning, desolate, heart-broken children,
Yet go a-fishing!

“Friends, as was the Lord then,
Full of sweet love and pity for the afflicted,
So is he still! He pitieth all our sorrows;
He knoweth all our inward tribulations!
Ye who have trouble, call upon the Saviour!
Ye who are hopeless, fearful, or afficted
In mind or body, call upon

the Saviour!
Oh, all of ye, and I, for we are sinners,
Let us bow down and call upon the Saviour!
Oh Guide, oh Friend, oh crucified Lord Jesus,
Be with us, all of us, now and for ever!"

Such, in the royal chapel of Palermo,
Such was the sermon on that Easter Monday
Whereon the bloody Pedro, thence the Cruel,
Ordained at the holy time of vespers
To slay eight thousand Christian worshippers !

Low bent the crowd within the royal chapel,
White-headed men, mothers, and little children,
To bless the Lord! Even then the armed ruffians
Entered the holy place, and the white marble
Ran down with streams of blood !

The breast-plates and the caps of steel,

'Mongst common things are laid; Even Wallace's two-handed sword

Is now a rusty blade.
The earth is not what once it was;

Its caves and castles strong;
Its monsters and its mighty men

Live but in ancient song!

Oh! wondrous days of old romance,

How pleasant do ye seem;
For sunlit hours in summer bowers,

For winter-nights a theme !
How have I loved from childhood's years

To call to life again
Brave prince, and paladin, and peer,

And those Caerleon men!


To see the steeds whereon they rode,

It was a goodly sight;
Such horses are not now-a-days,

So coal-black and so white !

Oh, 't was a wondrous pleasant thing,

When I was but a child, To live in those old times, to meet

Adventure strange and wild!

And even still the charm is strong ;

But it is not now as then, For I see the tombs wherein they lie,

And not the living men!

This town has the distinguished honour of being the birthplace of Lords Eldon and Stowell, who were also both educated at its grammar-school. The eighth anniversary of the British Association for the Advancement of Science was held here during the autumn of 1838. On that occasion Dr. Buckland, referring to the many noble literary and scientific institutions which now adorn the place, remarked, that "twenty. five years ago he was in Newcastle, and the Literary and Philosophical Society was the only institution of a literary or scientific character ; but in subsequent years many other societies had sprung up. It was in the recollection of persons now living, that before any of these societies existed in Newcastle, cock-fighting, and bull and bear baiting, were the recreations of the inhabitants; but in this latter day, how great a change! In the former period, Newcastle was chiefly famous as the centre whence radiated physical heat, and for its transcendent grindstones, which were celebrated from China to Peru: but now it gave out to afar, mental light and heatand was an intellectual whetstone for the minds of men."


1282 “ T was on the Easter Monday, in the evening, After the Sabbath of the Saviour's rising Twelve hundred years, and eighty years and two, From this same Easter Monday—that at vespers, The blessed Saviour, who had not ascended Yet to the Father, walked upon the sea-shore.

A Cily-Street. I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams,

The wild-flowers fresh and sweet,
And yet I love no less than these,

The crowded city-street;
For haunts of man, where'er they be
Awake my deepest sympathy.

I see within the city-street

Life's most extreme estates, The gorgeous domes of palaces;

The prison's doleful grates; The hearths by household virtues blest, The dens that are the serpent's nest.

I see the rich man, proudly fed

And richly clothed, pass by;
I see the shivering, homeless wretch,

With hunger in his eye;
For life's severest contrasts meet
For ever in the city-street !
And lofty, princely palaces —

What dreary deeds of woe,
What untold, mortal agonies

Their arras chambers know! Yet is without all smooth and fair, As heaven's blue dome of summer air!

And even the portliest citizen,

Within his doors doth hide Some household grief, some secret care,

From all the world beside : It ever was, it must be so, For human heritage is woe!

Hence is it that a city-street

Can deepest thought impart, For all its people, high and low,

Are kindred to my heart; And with a yearning love I share In all their joy, their pain, their care!

The quiet cattle feeding

In meadows bright as gold, In pastoral vales exceeding

Their Arcady of old, Are England's, and surround me;

But far-off regions gleam In golden light around me,

And shapes as of a dream. Old realms of Indian story,

By witchery of thought, Wrapt in a hazy glory

Before my soul are brought! The Himalaya mountains,

The heavenly lands below, The Ganges' sacred fountains

Beneath the eternal snow! I see them like the vision

That fills the poet's eye, A cloudland-world elysian

Built in the sunset-sky. I see them in far ages

In primal splendour shine, Peopled by kings and sages,

Earth's oldest, proudest line. With them the great World-Giver,

As they believed, abode, And, symbolled in their River,

Diffusing blessing, flowed. The cities which they builded

With gold were overlaid, The sceptres which they wielded

To rule the world were made. Earth kept no hidden treasure,

Gold, marble, or rich gem; And the water without measure

Poured out its wealth for them. Upon their silken raiment

Was set the diamond-stone; And kingly-given payment

Was but in gold alone. While England yet was forest,

And idol-gods adored ; While yet her wounds were sorest

Beneath the Roman sword; These kingliest of earth's children

Sate on their ivory thrones, Their golden sceptres wielding

O'er myriad-peopled zones. But the glory hath departed !

Earth's oldest, proudest born, Gold-robed, imperial-hearted,

Lie in their tombs forlorn! And the great River's waters

Are swollen with blood, not rain And Brahma's sons and daughters Cry from the earth in vain.




I sit 'mid flowery meadows,

I list the cuckoo's cry;
I see the oak-tree shadows

Athwart the green grass lie.
Hard by, a little river

Runs shimmering in the sheen; And silvery aspens quiver

Along its margent green. I hear the warbling linnet;

The wild bee humming round; And every passing minute

Gives some sweet English sound. I see in green nooks pleasant

Small children at their play; And many a cheerful peasant

That toileth all the day. "Tis English all! birds singing,

Cool shadows, flowers, and rills; And the village-bells' low ringing

Among the sleeping hills!

Oh, Himalaya mountains,

" And I would see, before mine eyes grow dim, Still, still ye stand unshaken;

The mountains and the Dead Sea's desert shore; Nor have the river-fountains

And I would hear the brethren's vesper-hymn
Their ancient bed forsaken!

Chime to the Kedron's melody once more !
Thou wast no god, oh River,

“Oh friends, the Saviour in the desert-place,
Or thou hadst risen in power,

Sustained the fainting multitude with bread;
Thy people to deliver,

And in my mountain-cavern, with his grace
The spoiler to devour!

Have I, his humblest little one, been sed.
But, than the mountains stronger,

“ The voice of God, while I was yet a child,
And greater than the River,

Called me from man and from his works to part;
Ariseth the avenger,

I left my father's house, and in the wild
To smite, and to deliver !

Wandered three days with meek, submissive heart.
The God of earth and heaven
Ariseth to set free!

“Upon the fourth I found an ancient man
Oh, England, thou hast striven

Stretched on the rock, as if in mortal pain;

Friends, I am old, but his life's lengthened span
Against him! woe to thee!

One-half my years had numbered o'er again.
" At sight of me he slowly raised his head,

And gazed upon me with a kindling eye ;
THE NEW PALACE OF MAHMOUD II. • 'Tis well; I knew that thou would'st come!' he said,
A MIGHTY spirit is abroad! The same

“Now list my missioned words, and let me die! That gave th' unknown to Galileo's ken; * Therewith he told a blessed history;

That guided Luther's world-awakening pen; As how his father had the gardener been,
Whence Milton, Hampden, Sidney, souls a-flame

Who kept the garden where the Lord did lie,
With liberty and light, drew strength and aim!

And who the ascending from the tomb had seen. The same that to the great-souled Genoese,

Compass in hand, and dreaming of far seas, “Of the Lord's friends on earth, how much he told, With glorious visions of the New World came! For them he knew, or they who had them known; Oh, moral renovation, that dost shake,

Far more than any written book could hold,
And overturn; dost often bathe in blood

That day to my enlarged mind was shown !
The earth's most gracious bosom, yet dost make
All change, all desolation bring forth good,

“And of the Lord such living form he brought, Spirit of love, thou hast lit thy torch benign

It seemed that I beheld him in that place;
Within the city of the Constantine !

That there I saw the miracles he wrought;
That I had converse with him face to face!
"Oh, wondrous knowledge ! and from that day forth

I have not ceased to preach the blessed word;

For fourscore years and upwards, through the earth

Have I proclaimed glad tidings of the Lord! "The monastery of St. Saba is in the wilderness of Ziph, and a few hours' distance from Jerusalem. A more dreary

“But in the city, 'mid the crush of men, situation cannot be conceived; its walls, towers, and terraces, I would not ye should dig my lowly grave, are on the brink of precipices; but could the world afford a But carry me unto the Kedron's glen, mure sublime or memorable home? We sat down and gazed on the deep glen of the Kedron far beneath--the wilderness And lay me in the mountain's chapelled cave! on vary side, where David Bed from the pursuit of Saul; and the Dead Sea and its sublime shores full in front, illumined by “ For there I laid the old man's bones in peace, the setting sun. It was founded by this saior in the middle of And there would I my earthly part should resi! the fourth century, and has ever since been a religious retreat of great f me. St. Saba died when nearly a hundred years of Carry me hence! for ere the daylight cease aze. Freling his end approach, he implored to be carried 10 I must be with the Lord, a marriage-guest !" his beloved retreat, that his bones might test there ; and here they have been preserved to this day."


SAINT Saba's hours were drawing to their close ;
And, “ carry me, my pious friends," said he,
• Into the chapel of my last repose.
Nigh to the waters of the dark Dead Sea!
- There have I gathered for my latest need,
Many a sweet token of the faith we hold,
Let us depart! my spirit will be freed
From its clay prison ere the day be told!

THE merry miller's rosy dame
Hath not a wish her heart to tame;
The baron's lady, young and fair,
Hath gold to spend, and gold to wear:
The Queen of England, richer still,
Hath all the world to do her will!

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Perhaps I might, my love; but now sit down, "On occasion of these practices upon the credulity of the

And take your work, your drawing, or your books, ignorant, the face of the corpse was bared, as well as the

And if you mean to wed a poor man, Lucy, breast and arms; the body was wrapped in a winding-sheet Learn to be an economist of time. of the whitest linen, so that if blood should flow, it would be

- So, daughter Alvarez, wbat I have heard instantly observed. After a mass peculiarly adapted to the ordeal, the most suspected, calling down the signal vengeance

Is really true; this match meets not your wishes. of heaven if they spoke faleely, successively approached the

MRS. ALVA. bier, and mude the sign of the cross upon the dead man's My wishes! Is't not natural for a mother breast."

To wish her only child the fairest fortune!

MRS. ASH, “Stand back! and let me pass

No doubt on 't, daughter Alvarez; but still
On to the holy place!

What is that fairest fortune, is the question.
Stand back, my friend, if such thou be; -

MRS. ALVA. Stand back, my slanderous enemy;

There is no question here! I'm not a child,
Impede me none! and let me see

To form imperfect judgments!
The dead man face to face!


No, my daughter; “Oh body stiff and stark,

But let me hear your reasons 'gainst this match: If I have done thee ill,

The world speaks well of Westwood. Let every cruel wound of thine

MRS. ALYA. Pour to the earth the sanguine sign!

As a man Hide not the guilt if it is mine,

I can say nought against him — but as husband Oh, body stark and still!

For Lucy Alvarez — for your granddaughter,

He is unmeet indeed! “I that have been thy friend,

And with thee counsel ta'en,

Is he well-bredi
To whom thy secret thoughts were shown ;
Whose soul was precious as mine own-

Oh, perfectly-or we should ne'er have known him Oh! if this deed were mine, make known

By blood outpoured like rain!

Handsome and clever, is he?



“Here, on thy stony brow,

My bared right-hand I lay;
Here, on thy loving, wounded breast,
Into thy wounds my hand is prest!
Oh, body, by black wrong distrest,

If I am guilty, say!

So he's thought,
But to my taste is neither ; scarce above
The middle stature, and too grave by far;
And as for cleverness, all men are taught
To make some show of learning.


“My hand hath not a stain!

The death-robe yet is white!
Now slanderer, come forth, an thou dare,
And here upon this altar-sinir,
Stand, with firm foot, and right-hand bare !

So heaven attest the right!

Is he moral ?
A good son, and a generous landlord, is he?

Oh, most absurd! Landlord! He has no tenants !
Why, the poor Westwoods is a county proverb:
The father wasted all his patrimony;
He sold and mortgaged his broad, ancient manors,
And by illegal means despoiled the heir,
Till, at his death, the very furniture --
Costly as that of any ducal mansion -
Was sold to pay his debts. Landlord indeed !
Why, the old house and grounds alone remain,
And how they 're kept up is a miracle!
i It makes one melancholy but to drive

"I challenge thee to proof!

I know the secret wood,
Where thou and thine accomplice ran!
Here lieth he, thy murdered man!
Now, touch that body stark and wan,

And dare the accusing blood !"




Past those old gates, where never carriage enters- Did grant your judgment right, although you fled, Which only will be opened for the hearse!

As Lucy shall not

- like a guilty thing

So may you, in this matter of her wooing, But said you not he had a mother living ?

Find that our little Lucy chooseth well,

Despite her mother's judgment.
Oh yes! she was a Cavendish, and brought

Ah, my Lucy,

You knew not, did you, A noble fortune.

your mother's marriago

Was one of stealth ? - that she was wooed

Like Juliet, in the play?
True — poor Margaret Cavendish!
We were at school together; a fine creature,

Oh, yes; for many a year A generous-hearted, noble-minded girl

I've had a guess at some such sweet romance ! Was Margaret Cavendish!

There was a famous painter made a picture,

And that same picture from my earliest childhood
But now none see her; Fixed my regard; 't is in the drawing-room,
She keeps no company; she has no carriage,- Hung just above the Indian cabinet,
Has lived so long out of society,

And it is called “The Andalusian Lover;" That no one misses her.

I thought it was the portrait of my mother;

And that the lover bore a strong resemblance "Tis the world's way!

Unto the miniature my mother wears,
Well, but her son, I hope, is dutiful.

I understand it now!

But, mother dear,
No doubt on 't-I ne'er heard a word against him; Have I said aught to grieve you ?—Oh, forgive me'
But with a ruined name and broken fortune

MRS. ALVA. (Kissing her.) He is no match for Lucy Alvarez!

No, my dear girl! But had you known your father, - Why does he enter not the church or army, You could not laughingly have spoken of him! And get preferment there !- 't were nobler far"T were manlier far, than being a fortune-hunter!

My Alice, let these memories of the past

Bring blessings to your daughter! Good Don Pedro Now, daughter Alvarez, one little word:

Was worthy of your never-dying love; And Lucy, you may lay your book aside

And Arthur Westwood-nay, I'll have my willBut small attention have you given your book - Is not less worthy Lucy's. And take this footstool. Now recall your youth,

Come, this day Dear daughter Alvarez!

I'll visit my old friend who hath been schooled

By hard adversity, good Margaret Cavendish;
There are not many

And you shall go with me!
Would bid me call again what is scarce past.






I am no flatterer, but your matron years
Become your brow like youth; and now, my Alice,
Cast back your memory twenty living years,
And what is present with you ?


Ah, I see
You would entrap me! But the case is not
A parallel. Don Pedro Alvarez
Was more than of a noble stock — was rich,
And I was thought to be the dowerless child
Of a poor Englishman.


But, dearest Alice,
Did you not suffer him to woo you, spite
Your father's wishes and your mother's prayers -
Nay, chide me not with looks - our gentle Lucy
Shall not be disobedient in her love!

But time proved I was right. Poor Alvarez!
Throughout all Andalusia was there none
To equal him! You loved him like a son!

'Twas morning, and the city was astir,
As if some new joy were awaiting her.
Doors were thrown wide, and all adown the street
The pavement answered to the tread of feet;
And everywhere some eager-spoken word
About the expected Bishop might be heard.
And then 'twas told, how, while the people slept.
Ere the first streaks of day, the church was swept ;
How holy water all about was spilled;
How every censer was with incense filled;
And furthermore, that even now might they
Expect the Bishop on his onward way,
For they who rode to meet him had been gone
Three hours at least. They must be here anon.

Anon the throng returned; the cavalcade
Along the street their easy progress made;
And all admired the horses' stately tread,
And the mixed rider's vestments, blue and red
But chiefly all regards to him were given,
Who came the anointed delegate of heaven,


So might you love young Westwood !
And even as I, my Alice, and your father,

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