Those virgin lilies all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved sun's awake,-
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but (when the shadows flitting,
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-wing'd Sultana' sitting

Upon a column motionless,
And glittering like an idol bird!--

Who could have thought that there, even there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The demon of the plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape touch'd by his wing,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath pass'd,
At once falls black and withering!

The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again! And oh! to see the unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps--The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fierce hyæna stalks Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes

Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying spirit,
"Dearly ye pay for your primal fall;
Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the serpent is over them all!" She wept the air grew pure and clear

Around her, as the bright drops ran,
For there's a magic in each tear

Such kindly spirits weep for man!
Just then beneath some orange trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy-
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the lake she heard the moan
Of one who at this silent hour,

Had thither stolen to die alone

1 Sonnini describes this beautiful bird.

2 This circumstance has been introduced into poetry;

-by Vincentius Fabricius, by Darwin, and lately, with very powerful effect, by Mr. Wilson.

One who in life where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet, now, as though he ne'er were loved,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With even a sprinkle from that lake

Which shines so cool before his eyes,
No voice, well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard.
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in deathThat she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call'd his own, Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;Safe in her father's princely halls, Where the cool airs from fountain-falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see,-who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she-far off through moonlight dim
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!-
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. Ah! once how little did he think An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim !
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.
"O let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air that's breathed by thee,
And whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! There,-drink my tears, while yet they fall,Would that my bosom's blood were balm, And well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,

To give thy brow one minute's calm:

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Nay, turn not from me that dear faceAm I not thine-thy own loved brideThe one, the chosen one, whose place

In life or death is by thy side! Think'st thou that she, whose only light In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

That must be hers, when thou art gone? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself?—No, noWhen the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too. Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before like thee I fade and burn; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there." She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp In charnel airs or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes: One struggle, and his pain is past.— Her lover is no longer living! One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving.

"Sleep!" said the PERI, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast-
"Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,1
And in music and perfume dies away!"

Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
That like two lovely saints they seem'd
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;-
While that benevolent PERI beam'd
Like their good angel calmly keeping

Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the PERI soars above,
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.

High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smiled as she gave that offering in,

1"In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ-pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself."-Richardson.

And she already hears the trees
Of Eden with their crystal bells,
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of ALLA swells;
And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake
Upon whose banks admitted souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take!
But ah! even Peri's hopes are vain—
Again the fates forbade, again
The immortal barrier closed-"Not yet,"
The Angel said, as, with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory--
"True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er ALLA's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, PERI, see-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than even this sigh the boon must be
That opes the gates of Heaven for thee."

Now, upon SYRIA's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted LEBANON;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one who look'd from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls ;-
Gay lizards glittering on the walls2
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west,- -as if inlaid

With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span

The unclouded skies of PERISTAN!
And then the mingling sounds that come,

Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,
Banqueting through the flowery vales,—
And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless PERI;
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple once his own,3

2 Vide Bruce's Travels.

The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high Like dials, which the wizard, Time,

Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd

With the great name of SOLOMON,
Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean lies the boon,

The charm that can restore so soon,

An erring Spirit to the skies!

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither;--
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;-
When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies1
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-
And, near the boy, who, tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,—
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,

Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the PERI's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid-the shrine profaned-
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!-there written, all
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit), look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches that have burn'd all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

1 Vide Sonnini.

But hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From SYRIA's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,

Like a stray babe of paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again!

Oh 'twas a sight-that Heaven-that Child-
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh,

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said in mild
Heart-humbled tones-"thou blessed child!
When young and haply pure as thou,

I look'd and pray'd like thee-but now"-
He hung his head-each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!

Bless'd tears of soul-felt penitence,
In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

11

"There is a drop," said the PERI, "that down

from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon EGYPT's land, of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and skies!-
Oh! is it not thus, thou man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall!
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!"
And now-behold him kneeling there
By the child's side in humble prayer,
While the same sunbeam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven The triumph of a soul forgiven!

2 The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek:
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beain-
But well the enraptured PERI knew
"Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!

"Joy, joy for ever! my task is doneThe gates are pass'd, and heaven is won! Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—

To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM1 And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!

"Farewell, ye odours of earth, that die,
Passing away like a lover's sigh ;-
My feast is now of the Tooba tree,"
Whose scent is the breath of eternity!

"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone

In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,— Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown To the lote-tree, springing by ALLA's throne,3 Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf ! Joy, joy for ever! my task is doneThe gates are pass'd, and heaven is won!"

THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND AND CHILDREN.

[PROPERTIUS, the famous elegiac poet was born about B. c. 50, and died B. c. 15. His style, which was in part modelled on that of the Roman Callimachus, was somewhat burdened by his erudition. The following beautiful lines show a tender appreciation of wedded love:] Be careful if thou e'er for me shalt weep,

That they may never mark the tears thou shed: Let it suffice thyself to mourn in sleep

The wife whose spirit hovers o'er thy bed:

Or in thy chamber, if thou wilt, aloud
Address that wife as if she could reply:
Dim not our children's joys with sorrow's cloud,
But dry the tear, and check the rising sigh!
You, too, my children, at your father's side
In after years a step-dame if you see,
Let no rash word offend her jealous pride,
Nor indiscreetly wound by praising me.
Obey his will in all: and should he bear
In widowed solitude the ills of age,
Let it be yours to prop his steps with care,
And with your gentle love those woes assuage.

I lost no child; 'twas mine in death to see
Their faces clustered round: nor should I grieve
If but the span of life cut off from me
Could swell the years in store for those I leave.

GRAPES OR THORNS.

We must not hope to be mowers,
And to gather the ripe gold ears,
Until we have first been sowers,
And watered the furrows with tears;

It is not just as we take it

This mystical world of ours;
Life's field will yield, as we make it,
A harvest of thorns or flowers.

ALICE CARY.

1 The Country of Delight-the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

2 The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. See Sale's Prelim. Disc.-Touba, says D'Herbelot, signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness. 3 Mahomet is described, in the 53d Chapter of the Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel "by the lotetree, beyond which there is no passing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right

hand of the Throne of God.

LOVE'S DEVOTION.

[ALBIUS TIBULLUS, elegiac poet, born about B. c. 54, died B. c. 18. The elegiac style of poetry, introduced among the Romans by Catullus, received its perfection of finish at the hands of Tibullus, whose poems, the chronicle of his life, are almost equally divided between praise of the country, commemoration of festivals, and the praises and reproaches poured out to his mistresses. How sweet to lie and hear the wild winds roar, While to our breast the one beloved we strain; Or, when the cold South's sleety torrents pour, To sleep secure, lulled by the plashing rain! This lot be mine: let him be rich, 'tis fair, Who braves the wrathful sea and tempest drear; Oh, rather perish gold and gems, than e'er One fair one for my absence shed a tear!

Dauntless, Messala, scour the earth and main
To deck thy home with warfare spoils-'tis well;
Me here a lovely maiden's charms enchain,
At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.

Delia, I court not praise, if mine thou be;
Let men cry lout and clown-I'll bear the brand:
In my last moments let me gaze on thee,

And dying clasp thee with my faltering hand.

THE PRISON OF LA FORCE IN 1839.

[MARIE JOSEPH EUGENE SUE, born at Paris 1804, died 1857, is best known by his novels, "The Mysteries of Paris" and "The Wandering Jew." From the latter we extract.]

Let us enter La Force. There is nothing sombre or repulsive in the aspect of this house of incarceration in the Rue du Roi de Sicile. in the Marcus. In the centre of one of the firsf courts there are some clumps of trees, thickened with shrubs, at the roots of which there are already, here and there, the green, precocious shoots of primroses and snowdrops. A raised ascent, surmounted by a porch covered with trellis work, in which knotty stalks of the vine entwine, leads to one of the seven or eight walks assigned to the prisoners. The vast buildings which surround these courts very much resemble those of a barrack or manufactory kept with exceeding care. There are lofty facades of white stone pierced with high and large windows, which admit of the free circulation of pure air. The stones and pavement of the enclosures are kept excessively clean. On the ground floor, the large apartments, warmed during the winter, are kept well ventilated during the summer, and are used during the day as places of conversation, work, or for the meals of the prisoners. The upper stories are used as immense dormitories, ten or twelve feet high, with dry and shining floors; two rows of iron beds are there arranged and excellent bedding it is, consisting of a palliasse, a soft and thick mattress, a bolster, white linen sheets, and a warm woolen blanket. At the sight of these establishments, comprising all the requisites for comfort and health, we are much surprised in spite of ourselves, being accustomed to suppose that prisons are miserable, dirty, unwholesome, and dark. This is a mistake. It is such dog-holes as that occupied by Morel the lapidary, and in which so many poor and honest workmen languish in exhaustion, compelled to give up their truckle bed to a sick wife and to leave, with hopeless despair, their wretched, famishing children, shuddering with cold in their infected straw that is miserable, dark, dirty, and pestilent! The same contrast holds with regard to the physiognomy of the inhabitants of these two abodes. Incessantly occupied with the wants of their family, which they can scarcely supply from day to

13

day, seeing a destructive competition lessen their wages, the laborious artisans become dejected, dispirited: the hour of rest does not sound for them, and a kind of somnolent lassitude alone breaks in upon their over-tasked labour. Then, on awakening from this painful lethargy, they find themselves face to face with the same overwhelming thoughts of the present and the same uneasiness for the future. But the prisoner, indifferent to the past, happy with the life he leads, certain of the future (for he can assure it by an offence or a crime), regretting his liberty, doubtless, but finding much compensation in the actual enjoyment, certain of taking with him when he quits prison a considerable sum of money, gained by easy and moderate labour, esteemed, or rather dreaded by his companions, in proportion to his depravity and perversity, the prisoner, on the contrary, will always be gay and careless. Again we ask, what does he want? Does he not find in prison good shelter, good bed, good food, high wages, easy work, and, especially, society of his choice,—a society, we repeat, which measures his consideration by the magnitude of his crimes? A hardened convict knows neither misery, hunger, nor cold. What is to him the horror he inspires honest persons withal? He does not see, does not know them. His crimes make his glory, his influ ence his strength, with the ruffians in the midst of whom he will henceforward pass his life. Why should he fear shame? Instead of the serious and charitable remonstrances which might compel him to blush for and repent the past, he hears the ferocious applauses which encourage him to theft and murder. Scarcely imprisoned, he plans fresh crimes. What can be more logical, when he finds in the repose, the bodily supplies of a prison, and his joyous and daring associates in crime and debauchery, so many rewards of a vicious career? If his experience in crimes be less than that of others, does he not for that evince the less remorse? it follows that he is exposed to brutal scoffing, infernal taunts and horrible threats. And a thing so rare that it has become the exception to the rule-if the prisoner leave this pandemonium with the firm resolution to return to the paths of honesty by excessive labour, courage, patience and honesty, and has been able to conceal the infamy of his past career, the meeting with one of his old comrades in gaol is sufficient to overturn this