"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 tears! "Awake! ascend! Thou art not now THE TEMPLE OF JUGGERNAUT. 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. THE winds are stirred with tumult-on the air On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll 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. Or are they daintiest meats Broad lands our fathers held; No, no, they are not these! or else, 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 How bright, are rich men's children, But my heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes, Life's after, darker hours. My heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes, And that, sweet names doth call For I know he has no treasure Like those dear children small! Oh, children young, I bless ye, Life's sweetest, holiest claim HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. Rich robes of Tyrian dye? THE MOSQUE OF SULTAN ACHMET AT CONSTANTINOPLE. YOUNG Achmet the Sultan ariseth to-day, him, And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him; There is gold for his telling, there's pomp to beguile, And beauty that liveth alone in his smile. Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan What aileth him then that he sitteth alone, "I have sinned," said young Achmet, "but I will ས atone For my sin by erecting a temple of stone; E'en the mosque of the Prophet at Mecca shall yield, "Four pillars gigantic the whole shall uphold, And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened speed. Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast ! He seeth the mosque-he hath counted them o'er- THE SOURCE OF THE JUMNA. "By dint of untiring perseverance, we had at last reached the confines of eternal snow. We found the river gliding under arches of ice. The most holy spot is upon the left bank, five hot springs into the bed of the river, which boil and bubwhere a mass of quartz and silicious schist rock sends forth 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 ten thousand feet." more!" Now tell us the minarets' number," said he, "Of the great mosque at Mecca- -twice two, or twice three?" The Hadjee bowed low, and he said he could fix The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore The young Sultan Achmet laughed loud, and replied, "That a band of good pilgrims the truth should decide;" And as they reported, so soothly should be His minarets' number- twice two, or twice three!* *The Sultan Achmet, during the time of the caravan's march, had obtained two new minarets to be added to the original four of the mosque at Mecca, so that he accomplished his design of crowning his own erection with six minarets, without offending the piety of the true Mussulmans. So eager was he in the building of his mosque, that for an hour every Friday, after prayers, he laboured with his own hands, in order to stimulate the workmen by his own example. It is a remarkable fact, that the final extirpation of the janissaries, who had been the personal enemies of the Sultan Achmet, two centuries afterwards was effected in this mosque. The reforming Sultan Mahmoud, who had determined on Counteracting the influence of the janissaries, had ordered the sandjak sheriff, or sacred standard of the Prophet, an object exhibited only on the most solemn and important occasions, to be unfolded with great pomp in the mosque of Achmet. No true Mussulman, to whom this was told, dared to resist the summons; thousands, and tens of thousands, rushed to the temple. The banner was displayed from the lofty pulpit of the Imaum, and the Sultan exhorted the people, by the On for some old mystery! Something that we could not know- There were islands in the ocean, Once upon a glorious time, Fair, Hesperian islands blooming In a golden clime! Rich and bright beyond compare, There were cyclops once, and giants; And cities paved with gold; In a mighty river's springs; Once, together side by side Sat the father and the child, Thrust the child and man apart. faith they owed the Prophet, to rally round the sacred standard. A deep murmur of assent filled the dome, all fell prostrate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment the cause of the janissaries became desperate. Great Phuosorby 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 ; They will ransack all the land; Soar above, and peep below; Not a stone unturn'd will leave They have been where ne'er before Of the Hindoo's river-god! Oh for some old mystery; 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, Birds were singing all around thee, Madeline, thy race is proud, Fierce thy brethren, stern thy sire; And thy lady-mother's scorn Withereth like consuming fire. 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; Not a daughter of thy house Which the chaplain bade me read, Not a page, but of thy line Telleth some heroic deed. And within the chancel aisle, 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, These, the common things of earth, The lowly lot of peasant folk, All circumstance of mortal life, And pure thought garnered in the soul, Have made me, high-born Madeline, And even on his homeward way Oh, city by the Lesbian sea, Great glory 't is to know That Homer sang within thy street Some thousand years ago! SMYRNA. A STREET in Smyrna! Let me think In Smyrna long ago! I care not although seven towns Contended for his birth, From all the towns of earth! And who shall say that when a boy And sung his ballads sweet? Where stands that open door, Critheis sat, and spun for bread The poet's mother poor. And there her boy sat at her side; "And tell me more," said he, "Sweet mother, of the wars of Troy They please me mightily! "And tell me of the godlike man, Ulysses and his woes, For I love the tale, and seem to be And so Critheis told the tale There sat she all the day and spun; And Phemius on his way, Morning and night unto his school 1 The mother she was meek and young; And thus the mother and the boy, The while his school he taught. OLIVER CROMWELL. THE offspring of a troubled time; To work heaven's will, in whom even crime Becomes to good subservient, Such wert thou, Cromwell, in thy day, The needful scourge, perhaps no less Thou wert of those who, in the turn Man of a million, not alone For thine own will, thyself to please, Gave God unto thy hand the keys Of empire; made the ancient throne Of kings thy servile stepping-stone. A higher power controlleth man Than his own self; his direst deed And Cromwell's spirit, like a spell, O God, without their crime, those steadfast sous once more! MARSHAL SOULT. THE MEETING OF THE WARRIORS-SOULT AND WELLINGTON. THEY met amid the bloody fields of Spain, When the swart peasant left his reaping-hook, And, heedless of the ripe ungarnered grain, A sharper weapon in his right-hand took, For other harvests; when the green hills shook With battle's thunder, and the carnage flood Swelled to a river many a mountain brook. There met they, and like gods of battle stood, Each girt with armed hosts, and all athirst for blood! Again they met - 't was on a summer's day, Were thronged with people, and with garlands hung, And one "God save the Queen!" pealed from the nation's tongue! There met they; and like brethren, side by side, Swelled the glad pomp of that great jubilee. -Oh proudest triumph of that day of pride, When met the nation's ancient chivalry, With ceremonial old, to reverence thee, Thou young and favoured Queen of many landsThat every neighbour-land and every sea With an according gladness clapped their hands, And, that those mighty warriors met with sheathed brands! THE VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS. "Sweet Waters" does not imply that they are distinguished by any remarkable sweetness of taste, but simply that they are not salt. Two rivulets are so named by the Franks, one in Europe, and the other in Asia: their banks are rich and verdant, enammelled with flowers, and are places of resort, where gay and festive parties meet for recreation. At these pic-nics, even the members of a family never mix together. The unsocial jealousy of a Turk so separates the sexes, that the father, husband, and brother are never seen in the same groups with their female relatives. The women assemble on one side round the fountain, and the men on the other. ALL cities have their outlets of delight; To appease the popular rural appetite, The streets are stifling, bustling, noisy, dry; And then we rush into the popular stream, Unto the Valley of Sweet Waters bound, Although the cups of yaourt may be full, Well, Mahmoud Second loveth reformation, THE BURIAL-GROUND AT SIDON. "The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be the castle of Louis IX., is without the town: the tall trees cast their shadow on the sepulchres, some fallen and ruined, others newly whited and gilt, and covered with sentences in the Turkish character, the head-stones usually presenting a turban on a pedestal. Several women had come to mourn over the graves of their relatives, in white cloaks and veils that enveloped them from head to foot: they mostly mourned in silence, and knelt on the steps of the tomb, or among the wild flowers which grew rank on the soil. The morning light fell partially on the sepulchres, and on the broken towers of the ancient castle; but the greater part of the thickly-peopled cemetery was still in gloom-the gloom which the Orientals love. They do not like to come to the tombs in the glare of day: early morn and evening are the favourite seasons, especially the latter. This Burial-ground of Sidon is one of the most picturesque on the coast of Syria. The ruin, of Louis, tells, like the sepulchres, that this life's hope and pride is as "a tale that is told." When the moon is on its towers, on the trees, and tombs beneath, and on the white figures that slowly move to and fro, the scene is solemn, and cannot be forgotten." THE dead are everywhere! The mountain-side; the plain; the woods profound ; Within the populous street; In solitary homes; in places high; In pleasure-domes where pomp and luxury meet, Men bow themselves to die. The old man at his door; The unweaned child murmuring its wordless song; 221 |