What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, Its marble walls bedecked with flourished truth, Azure and gold adornment? sinks the word [voice, With deeper influence from the Imam's Where in the day of congregation, crowds Perform the duty-task? Their father is their priest, The stars of heaven their point of prayer, And the blue firmament The glorious temple, where they feel Yet through the purple glow of eve The slackened bow, the quiver, the long lance, Rest on the pillar of the tent. Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, The dark-eyed damsel sits; So listen they the reed of Thalaba, tones. HOW THE WATER COMES DOWN AT LODORE. It hastens along conflicting strong; Its caverns and rocks among Around and around; With endless rebound; Smiting and fighting, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Receding and speeding, And thundering and floundering, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and Dividing and gliding and sliding, And clattering and battering and shat- And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, L 2 THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES. THERE dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid, And Zillah was her name, so passing fair That all Judea spake the virgin's praise. He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance, How it revealed her soul, and what a soul Beamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him! For not in solitude, for not in crowds, Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid Her imaged form which followed everywhere, And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye. Alas for him! her bosom owned no love Save the strong ardour of religious zeal ; For Zillah upon heaven had centred all Her spirit's deep affections. So for he: Her tribe's men sighed in vain, yet reverenced The obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes. One man there was, a vain and wretched man, For Hamuel by his well-schemed villany Produced such semblances of guilt,-the maid Was to the fire condemned ! Without the walls There was a barren field; a place abhorred, For it was there where wretched criminals Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated Received their death! and there they her; fixed the stake, And piled the fuel round, which should consume The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed, By God and man. The assembled Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, They doubted of her guilt.-With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirred, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, anticipant of hell! The eye of Zillah as it glanced around Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there A moment like a dagger did it pierce, And struck into his soul a cureless wound. Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death Forsake the virtuous !-They draw near the stake They bring the torch!-hold, hold your erring hands! Yet quench the rising flames !—they rise, they spread! They reach the suffering maid! O God, protect The innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged;The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames, In one long lightning-flash concentrating, Darted and blasted Hamuel-him alone! Hark! what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake Branches and buds, and spreading its green leaves, Embowers and canopies the innocent maid Who there stands glorified; and roses, then First seen on earth since Paradise was lost, Profusely blossom round her, white and red, In all their rich variety of hues ; And fragrance such as our first parents breathed In Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to her A presage sure of Paradise regained. HISTORY. THOU chronicle of crimes! I read no more For I am one who willingly would love His fellow kind. O gentle poesy, Receive me from the court's polluted scenes, From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war, Receive me to your haunts,-that I may nurse My nature's better feelings, for my soul Sickens at man's misdeeds! I spake when lo! She stood before me in her majesty, Clio, the strong-eyed muse. Upon her brow Sate a calm anger. Go-young man, she cried, Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet, That love-sick maids may weep upon thy page In most delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame! Was it for this I wakened thy young mind? Was it for this I made thy swelling heart Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye So kindle when that glorious Spartan died? Boy! boy! deceive me not! what if the tale Of murdered millions strike a chilling No, William, no, I would not live again TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN. Do I regret the past? In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun The changeful April day. Praise be to him who made me what I am, Other I would not be. Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk And tells how often in his wanderings Through what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod. But ever when he tells of perils past, And troubles now no more, His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy Flows rapid to his heart. The morning hours of life; The slave of hope and fear; The wisdom by experience hardly taught All cause for full content :- When the dark night descends, My weary lids I willingly shall close, Again to wake in light. TO A BEE. THOU wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee ! As abroad I took my early way, Before the cow from her resting place Had risen up and left her trace On the meadow, with dew so gray, I saw thee, thou busy busy bee. Thou wert working late, thou busy busy bee ! After the fall of the cistus flower, When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst, I heard thee last, as I saw thee first; Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee! Still on thy golden stores intent, is spent, What thy winter will never enjoy; Wise lesson this for me, thou busy busy |