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
The present deity!

Yet through the purple glow of eve
Shines dimly the white moon.

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;
The old man tranquilly
Up his curled pipe inhales
The tranquillizing herb.

So listen they the reed of Thalaba,
While his skilled fingers modulate
The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy

tones.

HOW THE WATER COMES

DOWN AT LODORE.
HERE it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling.
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along conflicting strong;
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting

Around and around;
Collecting, disjecting,

With endless rebound;

Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in,
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And brightening and whitening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and flittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,

And thundering and floundering,
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and
wrinkling,

And sounding and bounding and rounding,

And bubbling and troubling and
doubling,

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and
tumbling,

And clattering and battering and shat-
tering,

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,

her;

fixed the stake,

And piled the fuel round, which should

consume

The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed,

By God and
Bethlehemites
Beheld the scene, and when they saw the
maid

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

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN.

Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er
The morning hours of life?
Nay, William, nay, not so!

In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun
I do not wish again

The changeful April day.
Nay, William, nay, not so!
Safe havened from the sea
I would not tempt again
The uncertain ocean's wrath.

Praise be to him who made me what I am,

Other I would not be.

Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,

And tells how often in his wanderings
The thought of those far off
Has made his eyes o'erflow
With no unmanly tears;
Delighted, he recalls

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;
I would not be again

The slave of hope and fear;
I would not learn again

The wisdom by experience hardly taught
To me the past presents
No object for regret ;
To me the present gives

All cause for full content :-
The future, it is now the cheerful noon,
And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze
With eyes alive to joy;

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;
In the silence of the evening hour,
I heard thee, thou busy busy bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee!
Late and early at employ ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding

is spent,

What thy winter will never enjoy; Wise lesson this for me, thou busy busy